A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 90, 11 July 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

j (All Rights Reserved.) THE DESIRE OE I’HEIII HEARTS. L BY J. S. FLETCHER. Author of "Daniel Quayne,” “The Threihing Floor,” “ The Harvest Moon,” " Tho Golden Hope,” “Bonds i of Steel,” 4c. PART 11. „ /The small manufacturer gave the big .one a queer look. “Ah!” he said, (drily, and at the same time a little 'bitterly. “It would be a good thing, iMr. Moore, if we were all as fortunate fas you, in more ways than one. Your bouse is safe enough, sir, and so’s jyour mill, for they stand high enough in the valley to be out of danger, both ;of ’em; but my bit of a house, and my {old mill, too, are each on the level, or nearly, and if that dam were to give fway, with its eight hundred million gallons of water behind it ” i Moore interrupted him impatiently. #< Nonsense —nonsense!’’ he said. “I "tell you the dam is safe—as safe as the ißank of England. I wonder if you remember how much was spent on it?” ‘‘Yes, sir; and I remember of hearing of other dams on which more was spent and that gave way at times like this,” replied Lennard. “This is no Ordinary storm, Mr. Moore, and they say that up there, at the head of the dale, it’s like a tornado. And, as I say, with all that weight of water behind it, if there’s a crack in the dam. it’ll widen before this storm, and then—”

• “W*ll, if you’re afraid, you’d better take precautions by moving your people out of the way,” said Moore, still crusty and impatient of what he thought to be a trifle. “I’m not afraid. I saw that dam built, and I believe it’ll last my lifetime and a good many lifetimes after mine.”

And with that, and without as much as a good-morning, he went out to his carriage, leaving the little manufacturer and the stationmaster to say some sharp things about the callousness and selfishness of riefi men who, having made themselves safe, care nothing for the safety of others. “Ay,” said the manufacturer, nodding his head, “it’s all very well for Martin Renshaw and Dick Moore there! It wouldn’t hurt them so much if a flood came, even if it did come high enough to catch their mills. But as for me and the folks living down at the bottom of the dale ” He broke off abruptly and lifted his Sands, and the stationmaster nodded sympathetically. t “Ah!” he said. “That would be a 'different tale. However, Mr. Lennard, we must hope for the best. After all, Mr. Moore ought to know what he’s talking about. I believe he’d a great deal to do with the construction of that dam. I’ve often seen him up there with the engineers and contractors when it was being- made.” •. “Well, he needn’t speak so hardly to poorer men than himself,” said the other. “He’s a callous man.” If Lennard had but known it, the richer man was neither hard nor callous at ordinary times he was a kind-hearted man, willing to listen to any tale of trouble that was put before him, and always ready to help in cases of distress. But he was just then in a sore frame of mind, and he had such confidence in the strength of the dam that it seemed to him a waste of time to discuss its stability. ; Moore’s coachman, knowing that his master usually went straight to the mill after his return from the city, drove In that direction. But when he had reached a certain pojnt on the road at the other side of tire dale Moore gave him fresh orders. t “Go up to the Friar’s Gate and stop there,” he said. \ The Friar’s gate was a well-known spot on the higher road, into which the carriage was now turned. From it there was a magnificent view of the Priory, of the winding dale, and the brown, swirling river, and it was much sought after by tourists, photographers and at quiet times by lovers. Moore got out of his brougham at this gate, and passing within the belt of trees to which it afforded an entrance gazed long and earnestly at the old place 'which he coveted. The sight of it pleased him more than ever, he was firmly resolved that it should be his at whatever cost; he drove home schem* ing and plotting and cursing himself for not having been first in the field, f; Moore kept out of everybody’s way all the rest of the day, and at night he could not sleep, but lay awake tossing and turning, angry with his old friend, angry with everything. . [• And in the middle of the night, with the sucldenness of a thunderclap, there burst upon his startled ears a vast and stupendous roar, the sound of which sent him leaping out of bed and rushing to the windows of his room, which overlooked tha valley. He drew the curtains and stared out on the stormy night, lighted Wy a troubled moon.

i, Mocre stood gazing l with straining eyes, which scarcely comprehended the horror of the situation. The thing seemed to him impossible. A picture of the great engineering work at the head of the valley rose up before his mental vision—its vastness, its massiveness ; it had always looked to be as firmly placed, as immovable, as the hills which ran across the moors behind it. Had he not scouted the very idea of its destruction only that morning? , !And no®—it bad go«ei

Of that last awful fact he could have no doubt. As he stood there watching he saw a great, white-topped, foaming mass sweep forward down the dale with ■ the force of art avalanche; it seemed to him that above its roar he could hea: the crying of human voices. Beneath his own vantage ground-—for hi? house stood high up on the hillside—were the roofs and gables of a little village. He saw them for a moment; the next they had been swept away, like a house of cards built by a boy and destroyed with a flick of its fingers. Strong man that he was, Moore could have burst into weeping at the sight and the knowledge of what the sight meant; as it was lie groaned aloud a* he turned from the window. But that was a time for action, and he hurried into his clothes, roused his household, and with some of his menservants ran out into the wild November night, making for the village which Moore had seen destroyed. It was not long before they reached the edge of the devastating flood; it had by that time subsided irom (he height of its first wild lush, but the great body of water was still seething and boiling over the spot where once village and bridge and mill had stood before the avalanche had swept over them. And ■•s lie stood gazing at the scene in the rapidly-increasing morning light, Lennard, the small manufacturer whom he had cut short so impatiently the day before, came up to him. Moore gripped his arm. “Your wife and family?” he shouted through the wind. “Where arc they, man? Are they safe?” Lennard nodded his head. When he spoke his voice shook. “I moved them higher up the hillside last night,” he answered. “I was sure the dam would go. But” —and he pointed to the scene of desolation before them with an eloquent gesture— ; “my house and mill are both gone. I’m a ruined man!”

“No, no!” said Moore, pressing his arm. “There’ll be compensation paid, of course. And there’ll be a relief fund, too; I’ll start that myself. Heavens! what a calamity!” They went further along the road which overlooked the valley, gazing with horror-stricken eyes at the scene of destruction. Mills and houses had been bodily swept away or reduced to grotesque ruins; wreckage of all descriptions was floating on the surface of the flood. And over the greater part of the destroyed area there was a terrible silence; it was only here and there that human voices were calling for help from the upper storeys of houses and cottages which stood higher up the sides of the dales than those wherein the flood had wrought such havoc. Moore and his party walked up until they came to a point near that part of the valley where Martin Renshaw lived; And there they found Renshaw, wh'fl was making hurried preparations for getting some pleasure-boats out of his own garden, in order to send help to the imprisoned people. The two men, who had been such life-long friends until that morning, and had then parted from each other under such terms of enmity and anger, sank their feelings in face of this great disaster. They began to discuss the exigencies of the situation with some of those around them, and while they talked a man from the upper reaches of the valley came galloping down the road. They stopped him to new3 of the places further up. He shook his head, and spoke excitedly. “It’s awful —awful up there!” he exclaimed, shaking with horror, as at a dreadful memory. “You can’t think what’s its like; you see, they got the full force there. Burford has clean gone—church and all; and Ashley’s no* much better. The dam burst in two; it went all of a sudden, like an explosion.” He stopped, and wiped the sweat from his forehead and closed his eyes, as if to shut out the sight he had seen. “And the old Priory’s gone,” he continued. It looks as if there wasn’t one stone left on another. Of course, the flood burst right on it, situated as it was. However, it’s gone—cleaD gone.” When the man had ridden forward Moore and Renshaw looked at each other. And without a word they walked up the road until they came to an eminence from which each had often looked down on the desire of their hearts—the ancient Priory. And the Priory had gone—towers and gables had fallen before that mad rush of waters, and it was a mass of ruin. Moore and Renshaw looked at it, and then at each other, and then they took a hearty grip of each other’s hands. And without as much as another glance at the Priory they turned away to join in the work of rescue which lay waiting behind them. (The End.)