When they had eaten their breakfast, Robert took his pipe to the barn, saying there was not much danger of fire that day; Janet washed up the dishes, and sat down to her Book; and Jean went out and in, attending to many things.
Mean time the rain fell, the wind blew, the water rose. Little could be done beyond feeding the animals, threshing a little corn in the barn, and twisting straw ropes for the thatch of the ricks of the coming harvest—if indeed there was a harvest on the road, for, as the day went on, it seemed almost to grow doubtful whether any ropes would be wanted; while already not a few of last year’s ricks, from farther up the country, were floating past the Mains, down the Daur to the sea. The sight was a dreadful one—had an air of the day of judgment about it to farmers’ eyes. From the Mains, to right and left beyond the rising ground on which the farm buildings stood, everywhere as far as the bases of the hills, instead of fields was water, yellow brown, here in still expanse or slow progress, there sweeping along in fierce current. The quieter parts of it were dotted with trees, divided by hedges, shaded with ears of corn; upon the swifter parts floated objects of all kinds.
Mr. Duff went wandering restlessly from one spot to another, finding nothing to do. In the gloaming, which fell the sooner that a rain-blanket miles thick wrapt the earth up from the sun, he came across from the barn, and, entering the kitchen, dropped, weary with hopelessness, on a chair.
“I can weel un’erstan’,” he said, “what for the Lord sud set doon Bony an’ set up Louy, but what for he sud gar corn grow, an’ syne sen’ a spate to sweem awa wi’ ’t, that’s mair nor mortal man can see the sense o’.—Haud yer tongue, Janet. I’m no sayin’ there’s onything wrang; I’m sayin’ naething but the sair trowth, ’at I canna see the what-for o’ ’t. I canna see the guid o’ ’t till onybody. A’thing’s on the ro’d to the German Ocean. The lan’ ’s jist miltin’ awa intil the sea!”
Janet sat silent, knitting hard at a stocking she had got hold of, that Jean had begun for her brother. She knew argument concerning the uses of adversity was vain with a man who knew of no life but that which consisted in eating and drinking, sleeping and rising, working and getting on in the world: as to such things existing only that they may subserve a real life, he was almost as ignorant, notwithstanding he was an elder of the church, as any heathen.
From being nearly in the centre of its own land, the farm-steading of the Mains was at a considerable distance from any other; but there were two or three cottages upon the land, and as the evening drew on, another aged pair, who lived in one only a few hundred yards from the house, made their appearance, and were soon followed by the wife of the foreman with her children, who lived farther off. Quickly the night closed in, and Gibbie was not come. Robert was growing very uneasy; Janet kept comforting and reassuring him.
“There’s ae thing,” said the old man: “Oscar’s wi’ ’im.”
“Ay,” responded Janet, unwilling, in the hearing of others, to say a word that might seem to savour of rebuke to her husband, yet pained that he should go to the dog for comfort—“Ay; he’s a well-made animal, Oscar! There’s been a fowth o’ sheep-care pitten intil ’im. Ye see him ’at made ’im, bein’ a shepherd himsel’, kens what’s wantit o’ the dog.”—None but her husband understood what lay behind the words.
“Oscar’s no wi’ im,” said Donal. “The dog cam to me i’ the byre, lang efter Gibbie was awa, greitin’ like, an’ luikin’ for ’im.”
Robert gave a great sigh, but said nothing.