TOLD IN THE STORM
“THE storm,” said John, “will be upon us in a moment.”
Rosamund had found him by the gate of the White Cottage. Half a dozen
words had put the happening before him. Two minutes had sufficed to
inform Mrs. Trimwell that his return might be delayed. Three minutes
saw him again beside Rosamund.
With no earthly clue to guide them, with north, south, east, west, to
choose from, it was, so it seemed, a pure toss-up which route they
should pursue.
After a moment’s consultation they set out for the willows and the
river, deciding to take their way down stream. It was no less unlikely
than any other road, though it certainly cannot be termed more likely.
Conversation, you may well believe, was non-existent; eyes and ears
alert, they pursued their way. Hope at first held some sway in their
hearts, but an hour’s fruitless walking brought it to a low ebb.
“I think we had better turn back,” said Rosamund. “He would never have
come further than this.”
It was then that John made the aforementioned remark.
“The storm will be upon us in a moment.”
As he spoke came the first low growl of thunder; a moment later a
louder, deeper growl. A gust of wind swept the river, bending the
rushes, breaking the still surface of the water into a thousand moving
fragments. Then two or three big raindrops fell.
John glanced round quickly. Some three hundred yards lower down
the river was a rough shed, a thing built of logs, and roofed with
corrugated iron. Possibly it was used as a shelter for the men who cut
the willows, which abounded in the sedgey meadows.
“Quick,” he cried indicating it. And they set off at a run.
They weren’t a moment too soon. They had barely reached it, when the
sky, seen through the opening of the shed, became a sea of white light,
through which tore a blinding zig-zag, a veritable river of fire; a
reverberating crash broke above them. And then the rain came down. It
fell like bullets on the iron roof of the shed, deafening, terrifying.
The wind tore with insensate fury at the wooden walls, rushed through
the opening in a swirl of madness, lashing the rain before it.
“Oh, Tony!” cried Rosamund. And she hid her face in her hands.
John saw the gesture, though the words were lost in the deafening noise
around them.
Wisdom, prudence, waiting, fled out into the storm, escaped on the
wings of the gale.
He caught her hands in his.
What he said was as lost as her own cry. But, after all, perhaps there
was no need to hear the words.