Chapter XV

SOME ten days or so after the events recorded in the last chapter, a stout woman past the middle age sat by a large four-posted bed in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom. The eider-down coverlet of the bed, its damask hangings, the prie-dieu by its side, the rich covering of the walls, the silken curtaining of the windows, the full pile of the carpets, the costly paintings on the walls indicated the abode of wealth and refinement. The woman by the bedside, on whom fell the genial rays of a bright-burning fire, was plainly but neatly dressed. The anxious glances she cast upon the figure stretched upon the bed seemed to bespeak a greater, a tenderer concern than that of the ordinary professional nurse. There was no sound in the room save the ticking of the massive marble clock upon the mantel, and the regular breathing of the patient. The nurse turned the pages of a ponderous family Bible, but as her attention was confined to the highly coloured illustrations it is probable the printed page was a dead letter to her eyes.

So absorbed was she in the contemplation of the ornate plate depicting the sale of Joseph by his brethren that she almost dropped the heavy book from her knees as a faint voice issued from between the curtain folds.

"Has th' buzzer gone, Hannah?"

"Sakes, alive! If he isn't wakken," the nurse exclaimed, drawing back the curtain. "Eh! Tom, lad, it's fain aw am to yer thi voice. But tha munnot talk nor fash thisen."

"Has th' buzzer gone?" the invalid asked again. Then his eyes wandered slowly and somewhat vacantly about the room.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Aye, tha may weel ax, lad. Thou'rt at Mester Willie Brooke's at Northgate House i' Honley, an' here tha's been awmost ivver sin they sammed thi up i'th churchyard all swoonded away; an' long it wer' afore they knowed reightly whether tha wer' wick or deead."

"Have I been poorly?" asked Tom. "What am I doing here? Where's Ben? Is he at th' mill? There's those pieces for Skilbeck's want 'livering. Why isn't Lucy here?"

"Poorly! Tha may weel say that, an' off thi yed for days together, an' of all th' stuff 'at ivver a man talked, all abaat 'junctions, an' love, an' ferrets, an' rabbits, an' then tryin' to swim, an' it took two on us to howd thi i' bed. But theer, it's time tha had thi physic, an' then thi mun go to sleep agen, an' th' cook 'll mak thi some arrowroot, an' thou'rt to have a glass o' port wine in it, th' doctor says, teetotal or no teetotal, which aw nivver did howd wi' i' time o' sickness, an' agen th' law o' natur' in a way o' speikin'." But Hannah's views on this grave question were lost upon the invalid. He had again sunk into deep and refreshing sleep, and as Hannah laid her hand gently upon his brow, the slight moisture told that the fever in which he had tossed and raved had succumbed to care and treatment.

When Tom awoke Hannah's place had been taken by a tall, grey-haired man of spare form, broad shoulders and slightly bent, his forehead lined with the tracery of time and care. His eyes had been long fixed upon the features of the sleeping youth and seemed from their expression to seek for some flitting transient likeness they bore a moment but to lose the next. It was Jabez Tinker. From the face so often, so minutely scanned, the eyes of the watcher turned at times to a small gold locket he held in his palm. It bore in pearls the letters.

A.J.

It was the locket taken by Moll o' Stuarts from the slender neck of the way-worn woman the _Hanging Gate_ had received more than twenty years before, the locket confided to Tom by Mr. Black, and which, ever since, night and day, sleeping or waking, he had worn beneath his vest. Presently Mr. Tinker became aware by that subtle uneasy sense we all have felt, that Tom's eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face. He rose somewhat stiffly to his feet and bent over the bed. He took the hand that lay upon the coverlet.

"Are you better, Tom?" he asked, very gently. "We have been very anxious about you."

Tom looked upon the features, usually so stern, with puzzled interest. He seemed to be searching for some elusive memory of the past.

"I dreamed you were dead, drowned," he said at length. "But I seem to remember so many strange things for an instant or two. Then it is all blank again. But mostly I seem to be fighting with some awful, pitiless enemy that tosses and whirls and throttles me till I choke. And then again all is dark and vague, and I remember nothing."

"Well, you see, I am not dead yet, Tom, thanks be to God, and under God to you. 'Tis you, Tom, that have been nearer Jordan than I."

"Jordan!" said Tom, musingly. "Jordan! I was right then. I knew there was a flood, somehow, but I thought it was Bilberry burst." Then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud:

"Dorothy! Dorothy! Where is Dorothy! Oh God, I've let her slip again," and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face, and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in tears.

Mr. Tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. She had entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. It was Dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for Hannah had told her that Tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary waiting and fearing was at an end. As Dorothy with noiseless step approached the bed Mr. Tinker drew aside. Dorothy touched gently the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek.

"No, Tom!" she whispered. "Not lost--won." And as Tom raised his face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. She stole her hand into his, and for a while they were still. Jabez came and stood by his niece's side.

"Leave us for a time, Dorothy," he said. It was the voice of Jabez; but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. It was almost caressing in its gentleness. Dorothy smiled her assent.

"I'm to bring your arrowroot up, Tom, and I've made it myself. I know the port wine's nice. I tasted it. Don't let the food be spoiled, uncle, and, remember, Tom's not to be bothered or upset. If he is, won't Hannah give it you, that's all," and she tripped away with a glance at Tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine.

Mr. Tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he drew a chair to the bedside.

"I mustn't agitate you, Tom," he spoke. "But, oh! If you could realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you would forgive much to an old and stricken man." He opened the hand in which he still held the locket. Involuntarily Tom raised his to feel for the trinket he had so long cherished.

"Can you tell me the meaning of this locket? It was found upon your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after the Flood had abated. You had saved Dorothy, how, she scarce seems to know. But she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast. They thought you both dead. But Dorothy was soon no worse. But this locket, speak, Tom, what does it mean?"

"It was my mother's," said Tom.

"And she?"

"She died the night I was born."

"But her name? Who was she? For heaven's sake, Tom, tell me all you know. You cannot divine how much hangs on your words. They mean perhaps as much to me as you."

Then Tom told him the tale of the night on which this story opened.

"And Fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? They can tell me more, they can speak to this. Does this Moll o' Stute's still live?"

"Oh, yes, Moll's safe enough. Did you know my mother, Mr. Tinker?"

"Know her! Oh! my God, know her! But ask me no more now, Tom. Not a moment must be lost. Brook will lend me a horse. Mine went with the Flood. I'll see you to-morrow. Now have your arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. Whether my hopes are well founded or not, you're my son from this day, Tom, for you saved my life, lad, and you saved Dorothy's. And I'm proud of you, lad, I'm proud of you--Tom Pinder, foundling, and there isn't a man in the valley that wouldn't like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn't win. Hannah and Dorothy'll look after you till tomorrow, then."

It was the afternoon of the next day before Jabez Tinker returned from his quest. In the interval between his departure and return, Hannah had yielded to Tom's importunity, and sent for Ben.

"Eh! Lad," was Ben's greeting, as he wrung the invalid's hand with a grip that made Tom wince, "aw could awmost find it i' mi heart to call it an answer to prayer. Yo' munnot let on to Hannah, but mony a time a day this last ten days an' more, aw've been dahn o' my marrow-bones a prayin' tha med be spared Th' laws o' natur's all vary weel, Tom, for th' intellec' but there's times, lad, when th' heart o' man turns to its Maker like a babby to its mother i' its pain. An' this has been sich a time, aw reckon. Eh! man! its fair heart-breakin' to gooa dahn th' valley. Near on eighty folks drahned, caantin' th' childer in, an' as for th' damage to property, a quarter million pund willn't cover it, folk sayn. Th' Co-op. Mill's gone, choose yah, an' Wilberlee House an' all. Yar bit o' a whomstid's safe, an' that's summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer we'st all ha' to turn for summat to do, there's thaasan's an' thaasan's o' folk aat o' wark, an' no prospec' o' ther getting onny, an' i' thick o' winter, too."

"It's all a dreadful muddle to me, Ben, I can't seem to remember much about it. How did you escape, and how came I here?"

"Well, aw nivver did!" exclaimed Ben. "Didn't yo' com' an' wakken me up, an' didn't Jack an' me awmost carry th' missus an' yar Lucy till we gate 'em on to th' 'ill-side. An' if we couldn't see mich on account o' th' dark we could hear enough. By God! aw thowt th' end o' th' world wer' come. An' th' skrikin'! Eh! lad, it wer' enough to freeze th' blood i' yo'r veins. But that didn't last long. It were short shrift for most on 'em. An' then wonderin' an' wonderin' what had come on yo'. Aw thowt Lucy'd go fair daft abaat yo'. That's a heart for feelin', if yo' like. Then Jack couldn't stand it no longer. He said he could swim down to Wilberlee if he could nobbut be sure of findin' th' road. He said 'at if tha wer' deead he'd as lief be deead, too, an' aat o' th' gate. An', by gosh, he off, an' 'atween runnin' an' wadin' an' swimmin' he gate theer, but theer wer nooa signs o' thee, or onybody else, for that matter, an' nowt but part o' th' mill truck to be seen. Th' chimbley wer' clean gone. But it wer' Jack that fun' thee all th' same up in Honley churchyard liggin' ovver a gravestooan. An' Miss Dorothy. Gow! lad, ha tha mun ha' hugged her. It's a mercy tha didn't squeeze th' life aat on her. Aw've nooan seen 'em missen, 't isn't likely," and, Ben winked; "but yar Hannah says oo's black an blue wheer thi arm held her. But oo'll think none th' worse of thee for that."

"Get on with your story, Ben, and don't be frivolous. Where's Jack?"

"Oh, Jack's all reight, barrin' 'at he says he's supped soa mich watter o' late that nowt but owd ale an' plenty on it 'll tak' th' taste aat of his maath."

"But you mustn't let Jack get into evil courses Ben."

"Oh! Jack 'll be reight enough when he's getten summat to do. But it's the owd tale. 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' Yo' see ther's a seet o' folk come fro' all th' parts o' Yorkshire an' Lancashire to see th' course o' th' flood and th' deborah, as th' newspapper ca'd th' muck an' th' rubbish 'at's left. Holmfirth's more like a fair nor owt else. It's as bad as Honley Feeast time. An' all th' seet-seers 'at can get howd o' Jack mun treeat him. If he does get a bit fuddled afore bed-time it's little wonder. Aw've often noticed 'at folk 'll pay for a pint o' ale for a chap 'at wouldn't gi' him a penny-teea-cake if he wer clammin'. Dun they let yo' smoke i' this fine room, Tom? Aw'm fair dyin' for a reek o' baccy."

But now Dorothy entered with a tray covered with a napkin snowy-white and on it a basin of arrowroot, and Ben slipped his clay and flat tin box into his pocket.

"Aw rekkon aw'll be gooin', Tom, or Hannah 'll be flytin' me. Nivver yo' get wed, Tom, if yo' want to ca' yo'r soul yo'r own. It's just awful' th' way a felly's put on after he's once getten th' noose raand 'is neck. Tak a frien's advice Tom an' be warned i' time."

And with a wink that meant volumes, Ben conveyed himself away, walking on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeper to whom sleep might mean life or death.

"Now, Tom, you've got to eat this just now," said Dorothy, "wait till I see if it's cool enough," and she touched the lip of the spoon with hers and affected to taste the odorous compound with the air of a connoisseur. "It's just nice, sir, and if that doesn't cure you, nothing will."

"I could drink a bucketful," protested Tom. Couldn't I have a chop or a steak? I'm as hungry as a hunter.''

"Chop, indeed! I should think not. Later on you shall have a cup of chicken-broth and the weest slice of toast. You've no idea how ill you are." Dorothy spoke lightly, but suddenly the woman gushed into her eyes, and it was a poor, faltering voice that said, "But you're better now, thank God. Oh! Tom, if you had died!"

"Would you have cared very much, Dorothy?" asked Tom.

"Is that what you call eating arrowroot, sir? Listen, that's uncle. How soon he's back." Dorothy had gone to the window and drawn aside the curtains. "The horse is covered with foam, and uncle looks ten years younger and as glad as a bridegroom."

A quick step was heard on the stairs, and Jabez Tinker stood at the door of the sick-room.

"Is he awake, Dorothy?" whispered Mr. Tinker.

"Awake, yes, and likely to be, as far as I can see, what with one and another. Call this a sick-room. Better call it a show and charge for admission. It takes one maid's time to attend to the door. If Mr. Brooke doesn't send in a bill for a new knocker and fresh paint, he's a saint."

"There, there, chatterbox," exclaimed Jabez, gaily. "Out you go, Dorothy, and don't come up again till I ring. Then you may come, no one else."

Mr. Tinker looked radiant, and, as Dorothy had said, younger by ten good years. In his impatience he almost pushed his niece from the room. Then he strode to the bed and held out both his hands to Tom.

"It's true, Tom, it's true, every word of it. Oh! that ever I should live to see this day. I've dreamed of it, I've prayed for it, and now it has come to me, this my great joy, out of the deep waters. Truly God moves in a mysterious way."

Tom had risen to a sitting posture. Jabez flung a loose shawl--it was Dorothy's--over his shoulders.

"You mustn't risk taking cold," he said, very gently. "Are you quite sure you feel strong enough to hear a rather long story, Tom, or would you rather wait?"

"I would rather hear it now, sir."

"Then hear me to the finish and don't judge me too harshly. God knows I've suffered enough without your condemnation. But it might have been worse, it might have been worse."

Mr. Tinker was silent for a time, as if to arrange his thoughts or choose his words. Then very gravely he spoke:

"My father, Tom, was a very strict, stern man" ("I'm not surprised to hear that," thought his listener) "and with an overweening sense of family pride. He was very proud that he was a Tinker, and, indeed, Tom, we are as old a family as there is in the valley. Never forget that. And we have an unsullied name. My father had another failing, if failing it be called. He was inordinately fond of money. He expected, he took it for granted, that both Dick and myself would marry not for money, of course, but where money was.

"But both his sons disregarded their father's wishes. I, secretly, while he yet lived; Richard, as you know, after his death. It was my fate, at the house of a customer in Liverpool, to meet sweet Annie Lisle, the family governess. She was an orphan, alone and unfriended, in the world. What else she was, how sweet, how winsome, how patient, how true and how trustful I cannot bear to think of, still less speak. I won her love. I dared not speak of my passionate devotion at home. My father with the burden of age had become each year more exacting, less tolerant of opposition to his will. I feared to anger him. It was in his power to disinherit me by his will. I was absolutely dependent on him. The homestead was his, the mill, the business, were his. I was not man enough to face poverty, expulsion from my home, loss of social status--not even for my loved one's sake. Call me a poltroon, Tom, a coward, a cur, if you like. I have used bitterer words than those to myself. I knew it would be hopeless to ask my father's consent. He would have had one word--'Go!' Then I began, with a satisfaction I strove in vain to banish, to observe, nay, to gauge, the sign of my father's failing health. I persuaded myself he was not long for this world, and in my heart of hearts I was glad. But my passion ill brooked delay. I urged Annie to a secret wedding. Reluctantly she consented. She procured a week's holiday from her employer, and we were married by special license at the parish church of Seaford, on the south coast, a small fishing hamlet little frequented by the tourist or holiday-maker. It was a week of Paradise. Then my wife returned to her employment, I was to find a favourable opportunity of breaking the news to my father. Meantime anything might happen. I conjured my wife to keep our secret. I kept the certificate of our marriage, so afraid was I lest it should fall into another's hand. My wife was not even to write to me lest my father's suspicions should be aroused. I continued to call on my Liverpool customer as usual, and when he asked me as usual to dine or sup at his house, I treated my own wife with the distant courtesy one shows to a governess. One day, early in the winter of 1830, I called at the house of Mr.----, I was determined to take my wife away. My father had softened much during the past few months. He had agreed to pay me a fixed salary, instead of doling out a pound or two for pocket money. I had resolved to place Annie in some small cottage not far from Holmfirth I had thought of Greenfield. I could see her there each week. And there was another reason why another home should be found for her. Judge of my consternation when Mrs.--, in answer to the inquiry which I made with assumed indifference as to the health of the children and their governess, told me that Miss Lisle had been dismissed her service, dismissed ignominiously, without a character. I controlled myself as well as I could. Mrs. ---- said enough to convince me that my darling had been dismissed under the darkest suspicion that can rest upon a pure, unsullied woman. But even then I did not disclose the truth. My wife had vanished and left no trace behind her. She had been true to her promise to me, even when a word would have cleared her name and confounded the angry jealous woman who spurned her from her home. Almost penniless she turned into the world. She never wrote to me or sent me word. Judge how I searched in all places likely and unlikely for her. Secretly, with what scant means I could procure. I instituted inquiries on every side; but my wife had disappeared as effectively as though she had never been. She had never worn her wedding ring; she had borne my name only during all that too brief week of wedded bliss at Seaford. Time went by; I knew my wife, if she still lived, must be a mother. I feared, then at last I persuaded myself, that in her shame and grief she had destroyed herself. I called upon my head the curse of the Almighty, but God seemed heedless of my blasphemous ravings. From that time life for me had lost its savour. I lived only for work, for business success. They were my distraction. Then, as you know, I married. But of that I need not speak. My wife bore me no children, and when I took Dorothy as my ward I almost hated the child because I could not love her as my own."

There was a long silence. Tom feared to speak. He guessed the rest too surely.

"One present only had I given to my sweetheart. It was a locket with our initials intertwined, and a love-knot of our hair inside. It was a whim of Annie's. Tom, my boy, my son, you have worn that locket about your neck. Can you forget the wrong I did your mother, and forgive the father who can never forgive himself?"

"Nay, Mr. Tinker, nay, father, if indeed I am your son," faltered Tom.

"I've seen Moll o' Stute's. I've seen Mrs. Schofield. They remembered the features of your mother as though she died but yesterday. Besides--but there can be no question of it."

"Well, father," said Tom, very solemnly, "I thank God that I am indeed your son. It is not for me to judge or to forgive. I will try to be to you all your son should be."

Jabez bent over the bed and kissed Tom's brow, and the tears streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had never known before.

"Do you know, Tom," he half laughed, half sobbed, "you're not unlike what I was at your age. You're a Tinker, whether you like it or not."

"And a Lisle," added Tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great comfort. Then he added:

"So Dorothy's my cousin."

Jabez nodded.

"Can I come in?" spoke Dorothy's voice outside. "Open the door, uncle, I've both hands full."

"I'll leave you together, Tom. I know more than you think I know," whispered the old man, and quitted the room.

"Of all the born conspirators commend me to Jabez Tinker, Esq., J.P., of Wilberlee Mill, that was, and to Mr. Tom Pinder, of Co-op. Mill, also that was. Here's your chicken-broth, sir, and you're to drink a glass of champagne--doctor's orders."

"Put it on the table, Dorothy, for a moment. I want to speak to you. Come, stand here, please."

Dorothy pouted, but obliged, "Behold, thine handmaiden," she said, "what wills my lord?"

"Dorothy, be serious for a moment. Your uncle has told me a strange story. I cannot repeat it all. Can you credit it? I am your cousin!"

"Oh! poor fellow, he's raving again. I knew how it would be, all this talking. I'm sorry to hear it, Tom--I do so hate cousins. I've dozens of 'em, and not one nice one in the lot."

"And I'm not Tom Pinder, either."

"And who may you please to be?"

"Only Tom Tinker, son of Jabez Tinker, of Wilberlee Mill that was and is to be."

Dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and fixedly on Tom.

"And is that all you have to tell me, Mr. Tom Tinker?"

"No, Dorothy, I have another secret to tell you. But you must come closer, closer still. Dorothy, I love you. I have loved you for years. Will you be my wife?"

Dorothy made answer none. But when Tom drew her face to his she suffered him.

"My darling, oh, my darling! I love you more than life," murmured Tom in her ear.

"And is that what you call telling me a secret? You silly boy, I've known it ever so long."

"And you, Dorothy, how long have you loved me?"

"Ah! that's my secret."

The story I set about to tell is told. Another house stands by Wilberlee Mill; another mill stands upon the ruins of Wilberlee, and Tom Tinker is master of the mill, and nominal master of the house. There is a Young Jabez plays about an old man's knee, and a sweet fair-haired Lucy prattles and babbles on its godmother's knee. Lucy Garside was bridesmaid at Dorothy's wedding, and was sponsor for her daughter at the font. She remained unmarried through her life, and she, too, had a secret; it was one that was never told.

Wilberlee Mill prospered. The hands were paid on the same principles as Tom and Ben had introduced at Co-op. Mill, and prospered with the mill. If Tom was never rich as this world counts riches, he was rich in a wealth above a miser's dream.

"What about the action 'Pinder at the suit of Tinker,'" asked Nehemiah Wimpenny of his client.

"Judgment for the defendant with costs," was the curt reply.

"Happy to draw the marriage settlements," ventured the unabashed attorney.

"Thank you, Edwin Sykes will do that," was the reply.

Wimpenny returned to his siege of the facile heart of the lively Polly, and in time wedded her. But their marriage was not a happy one. Nehemiah's attachment to the bar of the _Rose and Crown_ survived Polly's translation to a loftier sphere of life. He became a confirmed tippler, and his clients left him one after the other. He became in time that most pitiable of objects--a pot-house lawyer, and only escaped the last disgrace of a lawyer's life because no one would trust him with their money.

Ben Garside took to Methodism in his old age, and wore glossy black-cloth o' Sundays. But he always averred that he had fallen from his best ideals, and suffered the fear for his own soul to deaden his concern for the souls of others. He and Jack smoked many a pipe together in the calm summer months of peaceful and prosperous years, seated on the crumbling walls of Co-op. Mill, and mourning over a vanished dream.

The last sage dictum of Ben to be recorded in this narrative suggested its title. It was uttered on the eve of his friend's wedding.

"Aw reckon, Tom, as ha' tha'll be goin' to Aenon Chapel after tha'rt wed?"

"Why so?" asked Tom

"Cost tha'rt one o' th' elect."

"I don't take you, Ben."

"Why, mon, doesn't elect mean chossen."

"I suppose so, Ben."

"Why, doesn't ta see, tha'rt Dorothy's choice?"

THE END.

THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD.

As many of the readers of "Dorothy's Choice" may not be conversant with the facts upon which that story is based, and as those who are may wish to have in concise form a historical narrative of that great catastrophe the following account, taken from the author's "History of Huddersfield and Its Vicinity," is appended:-- "The Bilberry Reservoir is situated at the head of a narrow gorge or glen, leading from the Holme Valley, at Holme Bridge, to a high bluff of land called Good Bent, and was supplied by two streams flowing through the cloughs running to the north-east and south-east of Good Bent, and draining the Moors of Holme Moss on the one side and the hills running up to Saddleworth on the other, including some thousands of acres of moorland. The confluence of the streams takes place between two large hills, called Hoobrook Hill and Lum Bank, and which run parallel to each other for a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards, when they open out and form an extensive oval basin of not less than three hundred yards diameter. The reservoir formed by blocking up the valley below the basin enclosing some twelve acres of surface. It was defective in its original construction, and was for a long time known to be in a most dangerous condition. At the time when the embankment gave way the quantity of water in the reservoir would not be less than eighty-six million two hundred and forty-eight thousand gallons or the enormous and fearful amount of three hundred thousand tons in weight. It burst a little before one o'clock in the morning of February 5th, 1852. The moon shone bright over the varied and romantic landscape; the streamlets swollen by recent heavy rains, filled the river to its banks; the industrious population were recruiting their wasted energies by sleep, when all at once, in a moment, the ponderous embankment was carried away by the force and weight of the pent-up waters, and desolation, ruin, and death overspread the rich and fertile valley for miles around. Trees were torn up by the roots and hurried onwards by the rush of waters, roaring with renewed fury as they swept each successive obstruction. The death-shrieks of scores were hushed as the flood passed forwards to new scenes of destruction and death, leaving in its track ponderous pieces of rock weighing many tons; the dead carcases of horses, cows, goats, and other cattle; here and there broken machinery, bags of wool, carding machines, dye pans, steam engine boilers, timber, spars, looms, furniture, and every variety of wreck. It would seem as if the whole body of accumulated waters had tumbled down the valley together, sweeping all before them, throwing a four-storey mill down like a thing of nought, tossing steam engine boilers about like feathers, and carrying death and destruction in their progress. In consequence of the narrowness between the mountain bluffs on either side, a vast volume of water was kept together, which spent its force upon Holmfirth, where the mass of houses, shops, mills, warehouses, and other buildings was expected to present a formidable barrier to its further progress. The check, however, was but momentary for the flood, with the mass of floating wreck which it carried in its bosom, shot through buildings, gutted some, and tumbled others down, until it found a further outlet and passed on, doing more or less damage lower down the valley at Thongs Bridge, Honley, and Armitage Bridge. After passing the last place mentioned the flood got more into the open country spreading itself out in the fields, and swelling the river down below Huddersfield. Much might be written on the details and incidents connected with the catastrophe. A few of the most striking may be mentioned. A few hundred yards below the reservoir stood a small building two storeys high called Bilberry Mill, the occupation of Joseph Broadhead, and used as a scribbling and dressing mill. The end of the mill was caught by the sudden swell, and about ten feet in length and its gable were washed down the valley. A little further down the valley, and on the same side as Bilberry Mill, stood Digley Upper Mill, lately occupied by Mr. John Furniss, woollen manufacturer. The building was a block of stone work, consisting of a factory, a large house, farm buildings, and outhouses. The end of the mill was washed away, a quantity of machinery, and a large amount of property in the shape of pieces, warps, etc., destroyed, and the gable end of the house, which was comparatively new, and the farm buildings swept away. In the latter were twelve tons of hay, three cows, a horse, and several head of poultry, which were all carried down the stream. A short distance below stood Digley Mill property, which consisted of a large building sixty yards square, four storeys high, built of stone; a weaving shed, containing thirty-four looms and other machinery; two dwelling-houses, seven cottages, farm, and other outbuildings, making altogether a small town. Adjacent to it in the valley and on the hill side were several fields of rich and fertile land; the whole forming a secluded but compact estate, valued at from twelve to fifteen thousand pounds. In one of the houses built on the river side, resided Mrs. Hirst, widow of the late George Hirst; and in the other resided Henry Beardsall, her son-in-law. The cottages were occupied by work people. The buildings formed a mass of solid stone work; but the torrent swept it away like a straw, carrying its ponderous machinery down the valley, and tossing its boilers about with the greatest ease. The engine was carried from its place, and became embedded in the mud lower down in the valley. The house built on the hill-side remained, but the cottages and all the other buildings were carried away, except a tall engine chimney. With the buildings were swept away four cows and a valuable horse. Bank End Mill was the next building in the valley. Its gable end and one window from the top to the bottom of the building were washed away. It was completely gutted in the lower rooms and the machinery in the upper storeys was thrown together in heaps. The dye house and stove, about twenty yards long, were completely cleared away, leaving nothing of them standing above the ground. The property belonged to Joe Roebuck whose loss was estimated at from two to three thousand pounds. The valley here widens until it reaches Holme Bridge, a small village composed of a few hundred inhabitants. The stream here is crossed by a bridge of one arch, about forty yards on one side of which stands Holme Church, in the centre of a graveyard; and about the same distance on the other side stood a toll gate and a number of dwellings. The bridge was swept away to its foundations. The wall surrounding the church was ravished by the speeding torrent, and the few trees planted in the yard were uprooted and carried down the stream. The interior of the church and the graveyard, as seen a day or two after the flood, presented a melancholy spectacle. Inside the church the water had risen about five feet. The floor was torn up--the pews had been floating, and the floor was covered with sand and mud several inches thick. In the centre of the aisle was laid the body of a goat which had been washed from Upper Digley Mill, and within a few feet of it, resting on the seat of one of the pews, lay the coffin and remains of a full grown man. Both these relics, with others not found, had been washed up from their graves by the whirlpools formed by the current, as it passed over the churchyard. The roads and fields from the reservoir downwards to this point were almost covered with huge masses of stone and other loose substances, of which the bank of the reservoir had been formed. Down to this point no human life appears to have been lost; but a little lower down, at the village of Hinchliffe Mill, the loss of life was very great. This village was on the left bank of the river, and consisted principally of cottage houses. The factory, which gave its name to the village, was a large building five storeys high, built on the opposite side of the river, and which remained, though the water had passed its first and second floor, and done great damage to the machinery. The mill was for some time blocked up to the windows in the second storey with huge pieces of timber, broken machinery, and wreck of various descriptions, which the torrent brought down from the mills above. On the village side of the river, six dwellings which formed "Water Street," were swept down and hurled forward with the flood, and thirty-five of the inmates perished. The following is the list of the occupants of the houses that were swept down. The first house was occupied by Miss Marsden and three others; the second by Joseph Todd, his wife and children; the third by J. Crosland and seven others; the fourth by James Metternick, and nine others; the fifth by Joshua Earnshaw, his little girl, and two sons; and the sixth by John Charlesworth, and nine others. The houses in this neighbourhood not washed down, were in some cases flooded into the chambers; and in one of them--the endmost left standing--were sixteen individuals, who saved their lives by getting on an adjoining roof. In the adjoining houses, five persons perished. Of the five persons who were overcome by the waters in the houses above Hinchliffe, three were drowned in one house, viz.--James Booth, his wife, and a lodger. In the same pile of buildings, the wife of Joseph Brook (who was endeavouring to save herself and child) was drowned with her infant in her arms. The country grows wilder below the last-mentioned place; and in the centre of a wide valley stood Bottom's Mill. From the open country here offered to the stream, the factory, which was a very large one, sustained comparatively little damage. After leaving the mill, the torrent assailed the machine shops and works of Messrs. Pogson and Co.; proceeding thence to Harpin's Victoria woollen mill, doing great damage. Machinery was broken, cottages carried away, and much property destroyed. At the time of the calamity twenty persons were in these cottages, and were only rescued by a communication being opened up through the walls with the end house which was rather higher up away from the flood. Here in one chamber, the poor creatures were huddled together expecting momentary death, when at last the water abated sufficiently to allow of their being removed which was scarcely effected before the house fell in. Within a short distance of Victoria Mill stood Dyson's Mill, which was occupied by Mr. Sandford in the yard of which Mr. Sandford resided. His house was swept away, and with it himself, his two children, and servant. The factory sustained very serious damage, both in its walls and machinery. Mr. Sandford was a person of considerable property, and is said to have had three or four thousand pounds in the house at the time. However this may be, it is known that he had just before been in treaty for the purchase of a considerable estate at Penistone, and that he had only that very week given instructions to a share broker at Huddersfield to buy for him a large amount of London and North Western Railway Stock. His life was also insured for a large sum. The bodies of Mr. Sandford's two daughters and his housekeeper were found a few days after the flood; but the body of Mr. Sandford was not found till February 20th. His friends wished to find the body in order to prove his death, without which they would not have been entitled to receive the amount secured by his policy of insurance. A reward of ten pounds was therefore offered in the first instance for the recovery of his body, which sum was increased to one hundred pounds. Procklington or Farrars' Upper Mill stood next, the large dyehouse of which was completely destroyed. The damage was estimated at two, or three thousand pounds; and one of the boilers, weighing six tons, was carried by the water to Berry Brow, a distance of three miles. These were the property of Mr. J. Farrar. The factory known as the Tower Mill, situate a little below, was built across the stream; but the torrent rushed onward and carried the greater portion of the mill along with it, leaving the two ends standing. The mill was filled with valuable machinery and woollen material, and was the property of Mr. Hodson Farrar. In the factory yard two children were drowned, and a little further down a third child was found dead. At the _George_ Inn, near this place, nine bodies, principally recovered from the stream, were laid. At Holmfirth, hundreds of dwellings were inundated, some of them were filled to the top storey, compelling the inmates to escape through and get upon the roof for safety; indeed, the houses were thoroughly gutted. Happily no lives were lost; but the most heart-rending scenes occurred to the inhabitants of some of the houses on the opposite side of the street. On the left hand side of what the day previous was a narrow street stood the toll-bar house, kept by S. Greenwood, who, with his wife and child, were swept away. He was seen to come out of the house with a lighted candle in his hand return into the house, close the door after him, and in a moment or two not a vestige of the house was to be seen. Lower down, on the same side of the street, was an extensive warehouse occupied by Messrs. Crawshaw, carriers, which was swept away. To the left were some extensive blue dye works; the destruction of these premises was most complete. A little above the mill and between that building and a stable, stood two small cottages, one occupied by S. Hartley and his family, the other by R. Shackleton and family. All the members save three of these families, were swept away with the cottages. Victoria Bridge was dismantled. On the right hand side, over the bridge, was a new row of shops, built in the modern style, every one of which was flooded. The loss sustained by the various occupants was great. At Smithy Place (a hamlet about two miles north-east of Holmfirth) the water rose to a fearful height, and but for the alarm which had been given, the loss of life must have been great. Whole families had to leave their beds and betake themselves out of the way of the flood with no other covering than what they slept in some quite naked; and the shrieks and cries of children for their parents, and parents for their children, were heartbreaking. The damage done in this place was very great. From Honley to Armitage Bridge the wreck was fearful, the front and back walls of St. Paul's Church, at the latter place, being completely destroyed. Two children were found dead above the "Golden Fleece" Inn, one of them on the water side, the other washed into a tree; they were conveyed to the inn. A young woman, about eighteen years of age, was found dead and naked in a field near Armitage Fold. Beyond this part there was some slight damage done. From a statement published soon after the occurrence, it appears, that so far as could be ascertained, 77 lives had been lost, 38 of them being adults, and 39 children; 26 were married, 12 unmarried, and 12 children were left destitute. The estimated damage and summary of property, in addition to the loss from devastated land under tillage was as follows :--Buildings destroyed: 4 mills, 10 dyehouses, 3 stoves, 27 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 7 shops, 7 bridges, 10 warehouses, 8 barns and stables. Buildings seriously injured: 5 dyehouses, 17 mills, 3 stoves, 129 cottages, 7 tradesmen's houses, 44 large shops, 11 public-houses 5 bridges, 1 county bridge, 4 warehouses, 13 barns, 3 places of worship, and 2 iron foundries. Hands thrown out of work: Adults, 4,896; children, 2,142 total, 7,038. The total loss of property was estimated at £250,000. The coroner's jury, who viewed the bodies of the persons drowned by the flood, in addition to the usual verdict of "Found drowned," made a statement to the effect that the Holme Reservoir Commissioners had been guilty of great and culpable negligence in allowing the reservoir to remain for several years in a dangerous state, with a full knowledge thereof, and that had they been in the position of a private individual or firm they would certainly have subject themselves to a verdict of "Manslaughter." Generous subscriptions were raised for the sufferers in various parts of the country, amounting altogether to £68,000. A large surplus of the fund was left after relieving the sufferers, which was devoted towards the erection of five almshouses, the first stone being laid in 1856. A brass plate bears the following inscription:--

"The foundation stone of the Holmfirth Monumental Alms Houses, erected to commemorate the great flood caused by the bursting of the Bilberry Reservoir, on the 5th of February, 1852 (by which upwards of eighty lives were lost), and also the munificent liberality of the British public, was laid by the Provincial Grand Lodge of Freemasons of West Yorkshire, on Monday, the 24th of April, 1856, 5856."