“Where is he?” he asked.
He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed small and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress.
“Go upstairs,” he said. “He’ll be in th’ stable.”
“To—om! To—om!” cried the elderly woman, with a long, unnatural, penetrating call that chilled her son to the marrow. He quickly pulled on his boots and his coat.
“Go upstairs, mother,” he said; “I’ll go an’ see where he is.”
“To—om! To—o—om!” rang out the shrill, unearthly cry of the small woman. There was only the noise of water and the mooing of uneasy cattle, and the long yelping of the dog, clamouring in the darkness.
Fred Brangwen splashed out into the flood with a lantern. His mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him go. It was all water, water, running, flashing under the lantern.
“Tom! Tom! To—o—om!” came her long, unnatural cry, ringing over the night. It made her son feel cold in his soul.
And the unconscious, drowning body of the father rolled on below the house, driven by the black water towards the high-road.
Tilly appeared, a skirt over her nightdress. She saw her mistress clinging on the top of a chair in the open doorway, a candle burning on the table.