Part 49 (2/2)
”Floods maybe,” said the Wheel dreamily. ”It isn't the proper season, but they can come without warning. I shall never forget the big one--when the Miller went to sleep and forgot to open the hatches. More than two hundred years ago it was, but I recall it distinctly. Most unsettling.”
”We lifted that wheel off his bearings,” cried the Waters. ”We said, 'Take away that bauble!' And in the morning he was five mile down the valley-- hung up in a tree.”
”Vulgar!” said the Cat. ”But I am sure he never lost his dignity.”
”We don't know. He looked like the Ace of Diamonds when we had finished with him.... Move on there! Keep on moving. Over! Get over!”
”And why on this day more than any other,” said the Wheel statelily. ”I am not aware that my department requires the stimulus of external pressure to keep it up to its duties. I trust I have the elementary instincts of a gentleman.”
”Maybe,” the Waters answered together, leaping down on the buckets. ”We only know that you are very stiff on your bearings. Over, get over!”
The Wheel creaked and groaned. There was certainly greater pressure upon him that he had ever felt, and his revolutions had increased from six and three-quarters to eight and a third per minute. But the uproar between the narrow, weed-hung walls annoyed the Grey Cat.
”Isn't it almost time,” she said plaintively, ”that the person who is paid to understand these things shuts off those vehement drippings with that screw-thing on the top of that box-thing.”
”They'll be shut off at eight o'clock as usual,” said Rat; ”then we can go to dinner.”
”But we shan't be shut off till ever so late,” said the Waters gaily. ”We shall keep it up all night.”
”The ineradicable offensiveness of youth is partially compensated for by its eternal hopefulness,” said the Cat. ”Our dam is not, I am glad to say, designed to furnish water for more than four hours at a time. Reserve is Life.”
”Thank goodness!” said the Black Rat. ”Then they can return to their native ditches.”
”Ditches!” cried the Waters; ”Raven's Gill Brook is no ditch. It is almost navigable, and _we_ come from there away.” They slid over solid and compact till the Wheel thudded under their weight.
”Raven's Gill Brook,” said the Rat. ”_I_ never heard of Raven's Gill.”
”We are the waters of Harpenden Brook--down from under Callton Rise. Phew!
how the race stinks compared with the heather country.” Another five foot of water flung itself against the Wheel, broke, roared, gurgled, and was gone.
”Indeed,” said the Grey Cat, ”I am sorry to tell you that Raven's Gill Brook is cut off from this valley by an absolutely impa.s.sable range of mountains, and Callton Rise is more than nine miles away. It belongs to another system entirely.”
”Ah yes,” said the Rat, grinning, ”but we forget that, for the young, water always runs uphill.”
”Oh, hopeless! hopeless! hopeless!” cried the Waters, descending open- palmed upon the Wheel ”There is nothing between here and Raven's Gill Brook that a hundred yards of channelling and a few square feet of concrete could not remove; and hasn't removed!”
”And Harpenden Brook is north of Raven's Gill and runs into Raven's Gill at the foot of Callton Rise, where ilex trees are, and _we_ come from there!” These were the gla.s.sy, clear waters of the high chalk.
”And Batten's Ponds, that are fed by springs, have been led through Trott's Wood, taking the spare water from the old Witches' Spring under Churt Haw, and we--we--_we_ are their combined waters!” Those were the Waters from the upland bogs and moors--a porter-coloured, dusky, and foam- flecked flood.
”It's all very interesting,” purred the Cat to the sliding waters, ”and I have no doubt that Trott's Woods and Bott's Woods are tremendously important places; but if you could manage to do your work--whose value I don't in the least dispute--a little more soberly, I, for one, should be grateful.”
”Book--book--book--book--book--Domesday Book!” The urged Wheel was fairly clattering now: ”In Burgelstaltone a monk holds of Earl G.o.dwin one hide and a half with eight villeins. There is a church--and a monk.... I remember that monk. Blessed if he could rattle his rosary off any quicker than I am doing now ... and wood for seven hogs. I must be running twelve to the minute ... almost as fast as Steam. d.a.m.nable invention, Steam! ...
Surely it's time we went to dinner or prayers--or something. Can't keep up this pressure, day in and day out, and not feel it. I don't mind for myself, of course. _n.o.blesse oblige_, you know. I'm only thinking of the Upper and the Nether Millstones. They came out of the common rock. They can't be expected to----”
”Don't worry on our account, please,” said the Millstones huskily. ”So long as you supply the power we'll supply the weight and the bite.”
”Isn't it a trifle blasphemous, though, to work you in this way?” grunted the Wheel. ”I seem to remember something about the Mills of G.o.d grinding 'slowly.' _Slowly_ was the word!”
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