“Go, my boy: but do it gently, Oliver,—gently.”
“That is what I want, sir,—that they should not see or hear you: for Mildred is ill,—and Roger too. Please keep out of sight till I come for you. So mother is safe,—really?”
“Really, and we will take you all to her.”
Mildred, lying uncomfortably in the soaked cloth (for the rain had penetrated everything), was yet dozing,—now and then starting and calling out. Oliver took her hand, to wake her up, and asked her, with a smile, as she opened her eyes, whether she was dreaming of a boat again. Mildred believed not, but her head was sadly confused; so much so, that she heard of the boat which had really come, and the pastor and her parents, without showing any surprise or pleasure. Little ceremony was necessary with the strong Ailwin; and one of the men made short work with Roger, by lifting him and carrying him into the boat. Oliver said a word to the pastor about seeing George’s grave, and about the chest and the money-bag which belonged to somebody who might want them much. The pastor took charge of the bag, but declared that everything else must be left for another trip, at a more leisure time. Mrs Linacre was waiting,—and in what a state of expectation!
While the two stout rowers were pulling rapidly away from the Red-hill, and in the direction of Gainsborough, the pastor explained to the party what they most wanted to know. Mrs Linacre had heard some rumour which alarmed her on the day of the flood, and had locked up her shed, and set out homewards when the waters gushed over her road, and compelled her to turn back. Like a multitude of others, as anxious and miserable as herself, she had ever since been wandering about in search of a boat, and imploring aid from every one she met.
For three days, it appeared as if there really were no boats in all the district. Some had certainly been swamped and broken by the rush of the flood: and there was great difficulty in bringing round from the coast such as could there be had from the fishermen. Some farmers on the hill had lent their oxen, to bring boats over the hills; and others, men to row them; and this was in time to save many lives. What number had been lost, it was impossible yet to say; but the cleverness and the hopefulness with which a multitude had struggled for life, during five days of hardship and peril were wonderful and admirable. Mrs Linacre had trusted in the power which God gives his children in such extremity, and had been persuaded throughout (except during short moments of despair), that she should see her husband and children again. In this persuasion she had been sustained by the pastor, from the moment of his finding her, after his own escape.
Of his own escape the pastor would say nothing at present. The children’s minds were too full now for such tales of wonder and of horror as they must hear hereafter. Neither would he permit a word on the origin of the flood. He said they must think as little as they could of the wicked deeds of men, in this hour of God’s mercy. One prayer, in every heart, that God would forgive all evil-minded men,—one such prayer let there be; and then, no more disturbing thoughts of enemies in the hour of preservation.
Oliver could not trust himself to ask, in the presence of strangers, what the rumour was, which the pastor had mentioned, about his father. The pastor was very apt to understand what was stirring in people’s hearts; and he knew Oliver’s at this moment. He explained to him that a sailor had declared, on landing at Hull, that the ship in which he was had spoken with a Dutch vessel, off the Humber, in the night, by the light of lanterns only, when a voice was heard, as if from the deck of the Dutchman, crying out, “Will some one have the charity to tell the wife of Linacre of the Levels that he is saved?” The sailors had some fears about this voice—thought the message odd—fancied the voice was like what they should suppose a ghost’s to be; and at length, persuaded one another that it came, not from any ship, but from the air overhead; and that the message meant that Linacre was dead, and that his soul was saved. When they came ashore, however, and found what had befallen the Levels, they began to doubt whether it was not, after all, the voice of a flesh and blood man that had called out to them. When the pastor now heard how the miller was floated off in his mill, he had little doubt of the good man having been picked up in the Humber, by a vessel sailing for Holland, which could not stop to set him ashore, but which now contained him, safe and well. Within two months, he would be heard of or seen, it might fairly be hoped.
Mrs Linacre was kindly taken care of in a farm-house, near the spring—that farm-house where she had often taken her copper money to be changed for silver: but she had been little within doors, day or night. She had paced all day by the brink of the flood; and as long as the moon was up, had sat at night on a rising ground, looking over the waters towards the Red-hill. She had discovered that the mill was gone, when other eyes could distinguish nothing so far off. No one had a glass to lend her—so, at least, it was said; but some whispered that a glass might have been procured, but that it was thought she could see only what would distress her, and nothing that could do her any good.
She was on the brink of the water when the boat came near. She would have thrown herself in to meet her children, if a neighbour had not been there to hold her back.