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GLASHRUACH.
As soon as Gibbie had found a stall for Crummie, and thrown a great
dinner before her, he turned and sped back the way he had come:
there was no time to lose if he would have the bridge to cross the
Lorrie by; and his was indeed the last foot that ever touched it.
Guiding himself by well-known points yet salient, for he knew the
country perhaps better than any man born and bred in it, he made
straight for Glashgar, itself hid in the rain. Now wading, now
swimming, now walking along the top of a wall, now caught and
baffled in a hedge, Gibbie held stoutly on. Again and again he got
into a current, and was swept from his direction, but he soon made
his lee way good, and at length clear of the level water, and with
only the torrents to mind, seated himself on a stone under a rock a
little way up the mountain. There he drew from his pocket the
putty-like mass to which the water had reduced the cakes with which
it was filled, and ate it gladly, eyeing from his shelter the
slanting lines of the rain, and the rushing sea from which he had
just emerged. So lost was the land beneath the water, that he had
to think to be certain under which of the roofs, looking like so
many foundered Noah's arks, he had left his father and mother. Ah!
yonder were cattle! -- a score of heads, listlessly drifting down, all
the swim out of them, their long horns, like bits of dry branches,
knocking together! There was a pig, and there another! And, alas!
yonder floated half a dozen helpless sponges of sheep!
At sight of these last he started to his feet, and set off up the
hill. It was not so hard a struggle as to cross the water, but he
had still to get to the other side of several torrents far more
dangerous than any current he had been in. Again and again he had
to ascend a long distance before he found a possible place to cross
at; but he reached the fold at last.
It was in a little valley opening on that where lay the tarn.
Swollen to a lake, the waters of it were now at the very gate of
the pen. For a moment he regretted he had not brought Oscar, but
the next he saw that not much could with any help have been done for
the sheep, beyond what they could, if at liberty, do for themselves.
Left where they were they would probably be drowned; if not they
would be starved; but if he let them go, they would keep out of the
water, and find for themselves what food and shelter were to be had.
He opened the gate, drove them out, and a little way up the hill
and left them.
By this time it was about two o'clock, and Gibbie was very hungry.
He had had enough of the water for one day, however, and was not
inclined to return to the Mains. Where could he get something to
eat? If the cottage were still standing -- and it might be -- he would
find plenty there. He turned towards it. Great was his pleasure
when, after another long struggle, he perceived that not only was
the cottage there, but the torrent gone: either the flow from the
mountain had ceased, or the course of the water had been diverted.
When he reached the Glashburn, which lay between him and the
cottage, he saw that the torrent had found its way into it, probably
along with others of the same brood, for it was frightfully swollen,
and went shooting down to Glashruach like one long cataract. He had
to go a great way up before he could cross it.
When at length he reached home, he discovered that the overshooting
stream must have turned aside very soon after they left, for the
place was not much worse than then. He swept out the water that lay
on the floor, took the dryest peats he could find, succeeded with
the tinder-box and sulphur-match at the first attempt, lighted a
large fire, and made himself some water-brose -- which is not only the
most easily cooked of dishes, but is as good as any for a youth of
capacity for strong food.
His hunger appeased, he sat resting in Robert's chair, gradually
drying; and falling asleep, slept for an hour or so. When he woke,
he took his New Testament from the crap o' the wa', and began to
read.
Of late he had made a few attempts upon one and another of the
Epistles, but, not understanding what he read, had not found profit,
and was on the point of turning finally from them for the present,
when his eye falling on some of the words of St. John, his attention
was at once caught, and he had soon satisfied himself, to his wonder
and gladness, that his First Epistle was no sealed book any more
than his Gospel. To the third chapter of that Epistle he now
turned, and read until he came to these words: "Hereby perceive we
the love of God, because he laid down his life for us, and we ought
to lay down our lives for the brethren."
"What learned him that?" said Gibbie to himself; Janet had taught
him to search the teaching of the apostles for what the Master had
taught them. He thought and thought, and at last remembered "This
is my commandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you."
"And here am I," said Gibbie to himself, "sittin' here in idleseat,
wi' my fire, an' my brose, an' my Bible, and a' the warl' aneath
Glashgar lyin' in a speat (flood)! I canna lay doon my life to save
their sowls; I maun save for them what I can -- it may be but a hen or
a calf. I maun dee the warks o' him 'at sent me -- he's aye savin' at
men."
The Bible was back in its place, and Gibbie out of the door the same
moment. He had not an idea what he was going to do. All he yet
understood was, that he must go down the hill, to be where things
might have to be done -- and that before the darkness fell. He must
go where there were people. As he went his heart was full of joy,
as if he had already achieved some deliverance. Down the hill he
went singing and dancing. If mere battle with storm was a delight
to the boy, what would not a mortal tussle with the elements for the
love of men be? The thought itself was a heavenly felicity, and
made him "happy as a lover."
His first definitely directive thought was, that his nearest
neighbours were likely enough to be in trouble -- "the fowk at the
muckle hoose." He would go thither straight.
Glashruach, as I have already said, stood on one of the roots of
Glashgar, where the mountain settles down into the valley of the
Daur. Immediately outside its principal gate ran the Glashburn; on
the other side of the house, within the grounds, ran a smaller
hill-stream, already mentioned as passing close under Ginevra's
window. Both these fell into the Lorrie. Between them the mountain
sloped gently up for some little distance, clothed with forest. On
the side of the smaller burn, however, the side opposite the house,
the ground rose abruptly. There also grew firs, but the soil was
shallow, with rock immediately below, and they had not come to much.
Straight from the mountain, between the two streams, Gibbie
approached the house, through larches and pines, raving and roaring
in the wind. As he drew nearer, and saw how high the house stood
above the valley and its waters, he began to think he had been
foolish in coming there to find work; but when he reached a certain
point whence the approach from the gate was visible, he started,
stopped and stared. He rubbed his eyes. No; he was not asleep and
dreaming by the cottage fire; the wind was about him, and the firs
were howling and hissing; there was the cloudy mountain, with the
Glashburn, fifty times its usual size, darting like brown lightning
from it; but where was the iron gate with its two stone pillars,
crested with wolf's-heads? where was the bridge? where was the wall,
and the gravelled road to the house? Had he mistaken his bearings?
was he looking in a wrong direction? Below him was a wide, swift,
fiercely rushing river, where water was none before! No; he made no
mistake: there was the rest of the road, the end of it next the
house! That was a great piece of it that fell frothing into the
river and vanished! Bridge and gate and wall were gone utterly.
The burn had swallowed them, and now, foaming with madness, was
roaring along, a great way within the grounds, and rapidly drawing
nearer to the house, tearing to pieces and devouring all that
defended it. There! what a mouthful of the shrubbery it gobbled up!
Slowly, graciously, the tall trees bowed their heads and sank into
the torrent, but the moment they touched it, shot away like arrows.
Would the foundations of the house outstand it? Were they as
strong as the walls of Babylon, yet if the water undermined them,
down they must! Did the laird know that the enemy was within his
gates? Not with all he had that day seen and gone through, had
Gibbie until now gathered any notion of the force of rushing water.
Rousing himself from his bewildered amazement, he darted down the
hill. If the other burn was behaving in like fashion, then indeed
the fate of the house was sealed. But no; huge and wild as that was
also, it was not able to tear down its banks of rock. From that
side the house did not seem in danger.
Mr. Galbraith had gone again, leaving Ginevra to the care of
Mistress Mac Farlane, with a strict order to both, and full
authority to the latter to enforce it, that she should not set foot
across the threshold on any pretext, or on the smallest expedition,
without the housekeeper's attendance. He must take Joseph with him,
he said, as he was going to the Duke's, but she could send for Angus
upon any emergency.
The laird had of late been so little at home, that the establishment
had been much reduced; Mistress Mac Farlane did most of the cooking
herself; had quarrelled with the housemaid and not yet got another;
and, Nicie dismissed, and the kitchen maid gone to visit her mother,
was left alone in the house with her Mistress, if such we can call
her who was really her prisoner. At this moment, however, she was
not alone, for on the other side of the fire sat Angus, not thither
attracted by any friendship for the housekeeper, but by the glass of
whisky of which he sipped as he talked. Many a flood had Angus
seen, and some that had done frightful damage, but never one that
had caused him anxiety; and although this was worse than any of the
rest, he had not yet a notion how bad it really was. For, as there
was nothing to be done out of doors, and he was not fond of being
idle, he had been busy all the morning in the woodhouse, sawing and
splitting for the winter-store, and working the better that he knew
what honorarium awaited his appearance in the kitchen. In the
woodhouse he only heard the wind and the rain and the roar, he saw
nothing of the flood; when he entered the kitchen, it was by the
back door, and he sat there without the smallest suspicion of what
was going on in front.
Ginevra had had no companion since Nicie left her, and her days had
been very dreary, but this day had been the dreariest in her life.
Mistress Mac Farlane made herself so disagreeable that she kept
away from her as much as she could, spending most of her time in her
own room, with her needlework and some books of poetry she had found
in the library. But the poetry had turned out very dull -- not at all
like what Donal read, and throwing one of them aside for the tenth
time that day, she wandered listlessly to the window, and stood
there gazing out on the wild confusion -- the burn roaring below, the
trees opposite ready to be torn to pieces by the wind, and the
valley beneath covered with stormy water. The tumult was so loud,
that she did not hear a gentle knock at her door: as she turned
away, weary of everything, she saw it softly open -- and there to her
astonishment stood Gibbie -- come, she imagined, to seek shelter,
because their cottage had been blown down. -- Calculating the position
of her room from what he knew of its windows, he had, with the
experienced judgment of a mountaineer, gone to it almost direct.
"You mustn't come here, Gibbie," she said, advancing. "Go down to
the kitchen, to Mistress Mac Farlane. She will see to what you
want."
Gibbie made eager signs to her to go with him. She concluded that
he wanted her to accompany him to the kitchen and speak for him; but
knowing that would only enrage her keeper with them both, she shook
her head, and went back to the window. She thought, as she
approached it, there seemed a lull in the storm, but the moment she
looked out, she gave a cry of astonishment, and stood staring.
Gibbie had followed her as softly as swiftly, and looking out also,
saw good cause indeed for her astonishment: the channel of the
raging burn was all but dry! Instantly he understood what it meant.
In his impotence to persuade, he caught the girl in his arms, and
rushed with her from the room. She had faith enough in him by this
time not to struggle or scream. He shot down the stair with her,
and out of the front door. Her weight was nothing to his excited
strength. The moment they issued, and she saw the Glashburn raving
along through the lawn, with little more than the breadth of the
drive between it and the house, she saw the necessity of escape,
though she did not perceive half the dire necessity for haste.
Every few moments, a great gush would dash out twelve or fifteen
yards over the gravel and sink again, carrying many feet of the bank
with it, and widening by so much the raging channel.
"Put me down, Gibbie," she said; "I will run as fast as you like."
He obeyed at once.
"Oh!" she cried, "Mistress Mac Farlane! -- I wonder if she knows. Run
and knock at the kitchen window."
Gibbie darted off, gave three loud hurried taps on the window, came
flying back, took Ginevra's hand in his, drew her on till she was at
her full speed, turned sharp to the left round the corner of the
house, and shot down to the empty channel of the burn. As they
crossed it, even to the inexperienced eyes of the girl it was plain
what had caused the phenomenon. A short distance up the stream, the
whole facing of its lofty right bank had slipped down into its
channel. Not a tree, not a shrub, not a bed of moss was to be seen;
all was bare wet rock. A confused heap of mould, with branches and
roots sticking out of it in all directions, lay at its foot, closing
the view upward. The other side of the heap was beaten by the
raging burn. They could hear, though they could not see it. Any
moment the barrier might give way, and the water resume its course.
They made haste, therefore, to climb the opposite bank. In places
it was very steep, and the soil slipped so that often it seemed on
its way with them to the bottom, while the wind threatened to uproot
the trees to which they clung, and carry them off through the air.
It was with a fierce scramble they gained the top. Then the sight
was a grand one. The arrested water swirled and beat and foamed
against the landslip, then rushed to the left, through the wood,
over bushes and stones, a ragging river, the wind tearing off the
tops of its waves, to the Glashburn, into which it plunged, swelling
yet higher its huge volume. Rapidly it cut for itself a new
channel. Every moment a tree fell and shot with it like a rocket.
Looking up its course, they saw it come down the hillside a white
streak, and burst into boiling brown and roar at their feet. The
wind nearly swept them from their place; but they clung to the great
stones, and saw the airy torrent, as if emulating that below it,
fill itself with branches and leaves and lumps of foam. Then first
Ginevra became fully aware of the danger in which the house was, and
from which Gibbie had rescued her. Augmented in volume and rapidity
by the junction of its neighbour, the Glashburn was now within a
yard -- so it seemed from that height at least -- of the door. But they
must not linger. The nearest accessible shelter was the cottage,
and Gibbie knew it would need all Ginevra's strength to reach it.
Again he took her by the hand.
"But where's Mistress Mac Farlane?" she said. "Oh, Gibbie! we
mustn't leave her."
He replied by pointing down to the bed of the stream: there were she
and Angus crossing. Ginevra, was satisfied when she saw the
gamekeeper with her, and they set out, as fast as they could go,
ascending the mountain, Gibbie eager to have her in warmth and
safety before it was dark.
Both burns were now between them and the cottage, which greatly
added to their difficulties. The smaller burn came from the tarn,
and round that they must go, else Ginevra would never get to the
other side of it; and then there was the Glashburn to cross. It was
an undertaking hard for any girl, especially such for one
unaccustomed to exertion; and what made it far worse was that she
had only house-shoes, which were continually coming off as she
climbed. But the excitement of battling with the storm, the joy of
adventure, and the pleasure of feeling her own strength, sustained
her well for a long time; and in such wind and rain, the absence of
bonnet and cloak was an advantage, so long as exertion kept her
warm. Gibbie did his best to tie her shoes on with strips of her
pocket handkerchief; but when at last they were of no more use, he
pulled off his corduroy jacket, tore out the sleeves, and with
strips from the back tied them about her feet and ankles. Her hair
also was a trouble: it would keep blowing in her eyes, and in
Gibbie's too, and that sometimes with quite a sharp lash. But she
never lost her courage, and Gibbie, though he could not hearten her
with words, was so ready with smile and laugh, was so cheerful -- even
merry, so fearless, so free from doubt and anxiety, while doing
everything he could think of to lessen her toil and pain, that she
hardly felt in his silence any lack; while often, to rest her body,
and withdraw her mind from her sufferings, he made her stop and look
back on the strange scene behind them. It was getting dark when
they reached the only spot where he judged it possible to cross the
Glashburn. He carried her over, and then it was all down-hill to
the cottage. Once inside it, Ginevra threw herself into Robert's
chair, and laughed, and cried, and laughed again. Gibbie blew up
the peats, made a good fire, and put on water to boil; then opened
Janet's drawers, and having signified to his companion to take what
she could find, went to the cow house, threw himself on a heap of
wet straw, worn out, and had enough to do to keep himself from
falling asleep. A little rested, he rose and re-entered the
cottage, when a merry laugh from both of them went ringing out into
the storm: the little lady was dressed in Janet's workday garments,
and making porridge. She looked very funny. Gibbie found plenty of
milk in the dairy under the rock, and they ate their supper together
in gladness. Then Gibbie prepared the bed in the little closet for
his guest and she slept as if she had not slept for a week.
Gibbie woke with the first of the dawn. The rain still
fell -- descending in spoonfuls rather than drops; the wind kept
shaping itself into long hopeless howls, rising to shrill yells that
went drifting away over the land; and then the howling rose again.
Nature seemed in despair. There must be more for Gibbie to do! He
must go again to the foot of the mountain, and see if there was
anybody to help. They might even be in trouble at the Mains, who
could tell!
Ginevra woke, rose, made herself as tidy as she could, and left her
closet. Gibbie was not in the cottage. She blew up the fire, and,
finding the pot ready beside it, with clean water, set it on to
boil. Gibbie did not come. The water boiled. She took it off, but
being hungry, put it on again. Several times she took it off and
put it on again. Gibbie never came. She made herself some porridge
at last. Everything necessary was upon the table, and as she poured
it into the wooden dish for the purpose, she took notice of a slate
beside it, with something written upon it. The words were, "I will
cum back as soon as I cann."
She was alone, then! It was dreadful; but she was too hungry to
think about it. She ate her porridge, and then began to cry. It
was very unkind of Gibbie to leave her, she said to herself, But
then he was a sort of angel, and doubtless had to go and help
somebody else. There was a little pile of books on the table, which
he must have left for her. She began examining them, and soon found
something to interest her, so that an hour or two passed quickly.
But Gibbie did not return, and the day went wearily. She cried now
and then, made great efforts to be patient, succeeded pretty well
for a while, and cried again. She read and grew tired a dozen
times; ate cakes and milk, cried afresh, and ate again. Still
Gibbie did not come. Before the day was over, she had had a good
lesson in praying. For here she was, one who had never yet acted on
her own responsibility, alone on a bare mountain-side, in the heart
of a storm which seemed as if it would never cease, and not a
creature knew where she was but the dumb boy, and he had left her!
If he should never come back, what would become of her? She could
not find her way down the mountain; and if she could, where was she
to go, with all Daurside under water? She would soon have eaten up
all the food in the cottage, and the storm might go on for ever, who
could tell? Or who could tell whether, when it was over, and she
got down to the valley below, she should not find it a lifeless
desert, everybody drowned, and herself the only person left alive in
the world?
Then the noises were terrible. She seemed to inhabit noise.
Through the general roar of wind and water and rain every now then
came a sharper sound, like a report or crack, followed by a strange
low thunder, as it seemed. They were the noises of stones carried
down by the streams, grinding against each other, and dashed stone
against stone; and of rocks falling and rolling, and bounding
against their fast-rooted neighbours. When it began to grow dark,
her misery seemed more than she could bear; but then, happily, she
grew sleepy, and slept the darkness away.
With the new light came new promise and fresh hope. What should we
poor humans do without our God's nights and mornings? Our ills are
all easier to help than we know -- except the one ill of a central
self, which God himself finds it hard to help. -- It no longer rained
so fiercely; the wind had fallen; and the streams did not run so
furious a race down the sides of the mountain. She ran to the burn,
got some water to wash herself -- she could not spare the clear water,
of which there was some still left in Janet's pails -- and put on her
own clothes, which were now quite dry. Then she got herself some
breakfast, and after that tried to say her prayers, but found it
very difficult, for, do what she might to model her slippery
thoughts, she could not help, as often as she turned herself towards
him, seeing God like her father, the laird.
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