Clergy -- Fiction; Love stories; Scotland -- Fiction
"It may come down at any minute," the farmer answered, "and syne, mind
you, you'll be five miles frae Waster Lunny, for there'll be no
crossing but by the Brig o' March. If you winna come, I maun awa back.
I mauna bide langer on the wrang side o' the Moss ditch, though it has
been as dry this month back as a rabbit's roady. But if you--" His
voice changed. "God's sake, man," he cried, "you're ower late. Look at
that! Dinna look--run, run!"
If I had not run before he bade me, I might never have run again on
earth. I had seen a great shadowy yellow river come riding down the
Quharity. I sprang from it for my life; and when next I looked behind,
it was upon a turbulent loch, the further bank lost in darkness. I was
about to shout to Waster Lunny, when a monster rose in the torrent
between me and the spot where he had stood. It frightened me to
silence until it fell, when I knew it was but a tree that had been
flung on end by the flood. For a time there was no answer to my cries,
and I thought the farmer had been swept away. Then I heard his
whistle, and back I ran recklessly through the thickening darkness to
the school-house. When I saw the tree rise, I had been on ground
hardly wet as yet with the rain; but by the time Waster Lunny sent
that reassuring whistle to me I was ankle-deep in water, and the rain
was coming down like hail. I saw no lightning.
For the rest of the night I was only out once, when I succeeded in
reaching the hen-house and brought all my fowls safely to the kitchen,
except a hen which would not rise off her young. Between us we had the
kitchen floor, a pool of water; and the rain had put out my fires
already, as effectually as if it had been an overturned broth-pot.
That I never took off my clothes that night I need not say, though of
what was happening in the glen I could only guess. A flutter against
my window now and again, when the rain had abated, told me of another
bird that had flown there to die; and with Waster Lunny, I kept up
communication by waving a light, to which he replied in a similar
manner. Before morning, however, he ceased to answer my signals, and I
feared some catastrophe had occurred at the farm. As it turned out,
the family was fighting with the flood for the year's shearing of
wool, half of which eventually went down the waters, with the
wool-shed on top of it.
The school-house stands too high to fear any flood, but there were
moments when I thought the rain would master it. Not only the windows
and the roof were rattling then, but all the walls, and I was like one
in a great drum. When the rain was doing its utmost, I heard no other
sound; but when the lull came, there was the wash of a heavy river, or
a crack as of artillery that told of landslips, or the plaintive cry
of the peesweep as it rose in the air, trying to entice the waters
away from its nest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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