THE STORY OF THE MILL

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 13, 1888

THE STORY OF THE MILL.

It was a quaint old scene,—the ruined mill,—and the artist sat long with his pencil in hand and his sketch-book open before him, as he looked over the narrow stream to the spot where it stood.

"It's a deserted spot now," said a voice from behind him, as a man halted in the narrow foot-path through the woods, "it's deserted enough now; but I remember when it was full of bustle and life, and that not so many years ago as you might think, either, sir."

"Not many years?" repeated the artist, looking up. "It does indeed look very desolate."

"Well, not many years as I look at it," answered the man, "but it might seem a long enough time to you. Eighteen years off your head would leave you quite a stripling, I take it."

"So it is eighteen years since the mill was inhabited?" asked the artist again, anxious to hear particulars.

"Nigh about eighteen years," replied the man. "If you ain't too busy," with a glance at the sketch-book, "I wouldn't mind telling you about it. Everyone knows the story in these parts, and they do say as how the mill is haunted, but I never believed in that. I know how such things get started; the water running under that wheel, in the dark night, and the wind whistling among those boards, sounds dismal enough to anyone going along this lonely path, or the road over the other side; and then, when you remember what happened, it does seem kind of awesome."

"I see," answered the young man, moving along the log to make room for his companion. "It is dreary enough in the day-time, and it would be unbearable at night. But you were going to tell me what happened."

"Well, then, to begin at the beginning," said the man, laying down his ax and taking the offered seat, "I must tell you that that little house over yonder, behind that clump of underbrush, at the other side of the mill—you can't see it from here, but you must have passed it this morning—that little house was where they lived, the miller and his wife.

"He bought it when they were married, for he had some money on hand which had been left him by his father. And then, when they got married, they put their earnings together, for she was a thrifty girl and had a store of her own, and they furnished it just as nice as could be. There was nothing great or grand in it, of course, but everything was so cozy and home-like; and there was never a king more proud of his palace than poor Dave was of his snug little cottage.

"When he went home at night, there was Rosy always ready to meet him at the gate, and then they would look over the beds of posies together, and see how fast they were growing; for Dave took great stock in his posy-beds, and often worked at them evenings, weeding and fixing them up. Why, sir, they were as happy as two children was Rosy and Dave."

"Well, things went on this way for over a year, and everyone was setting great store by Dave—but all at once his old habits began to crop out again. He had been a trifle wild before he got to keeping company with Rosy, but everyone thought she would make a new man of him, and for a while she did. But just about this time some of his old companions came back to the village. They had always had a great influence over him, and it soon began to show itself again. They would go down to the mill to meet him late in the afternoon, and sometimes he would stop running a little earlier than usual, to have a talk with them. He was a jolly, kind-hearted fellow, and didn't realize the danger he was in; when they brought their bottles, he had not strength to resist the temptation or bear the ridicule. Then it began to be a common thing for Rosy to wait at the gate a long time, with her pretty blue eyes fixed on the road where he would come in sight. Sometimes a neighbor would happen along instead, and she would turn at the first glimpse and run into the house—it hurt her so to let anyone see that her Dave was not doing just right, or that she was uneasy about him.

"By and by the roses began to fade from her cheeks, and she was more like a lily than the Rosy we used to know; but she never complained, and when anyone would try to put in a word of sympathy, she would actually try to make out she didn't know what they meant. She couldn't bear to own that her husband did anything wrong.

"Well, time went on, and things kept going from bad to worse. Dave was losing his trade, for he was getting to be so unsteady that no one could depend on him. When the farmers took in their grist to be ground, they never knew when it would be ready for them to bring home again. Dave was careless, and he was growing surly, too. So there came long afternoons when the mill stood idle, and the miller lay down in some quiet corner, more than half stupefied with drink. Poor Rosy used to come after him sometimes and try to get him home, but it wasn't much use, she often got nothing but harsh words, and orders to leave him alone. She was a broken-hearted woman, and that was plain to everybody.

"At last there came a spring morning something like this. I remember it well. The trees were just a-budding out, and the little twigs down by the water's edge were a-putting out their leaves. I had just come down the road past the cottage, and I noticed that nothing had been done to the posy-beds this year; I didn't suppose either of them had the courage. Then I walked slowly down this way to the mill. I wondered when I heard the heavy wheels going, for Dave hadn't worked much of late. Then I stepped in, but there was no grist being ground, and I knew something must be wrong. My legs shook under me as I walked round the outside, toward the big wheel, and then—I can hardly think of it yet, sir, it was so dreadful!—right on the ground by the wheel lay poor Dave, with his head crushed and bleeding, and when I touched him I found he was dead. I don't know how I gave the alarm, but I did someway; and we fixed him up as well as we could before we carried him home to poor Rosy.

"She didn't scream or moan, but sank in a dead faint, and lay like marble till we thought she never would come to; and when at last she did, we saw it was all over with her—poor thing!—and she would never be well again.

"She lingered on awhile, so kind and gentle to everyone, never complaining of her lot; but everyone knew that the end was coming, and it came very soon. Before the leaves fell over Dave's grave, we laid her beside him, and the little cottage was desolate. The mill has never been used since that awful day, and the winds and storms have done their work with it. It isn't much wonder that folks shun it, knowing its story."

"And isn't it a wonder that they don't shun the evil that caused it all?" asked the artist, looking sadly over the water at the old mill as he spoke.

"Aye," said the old man thoughtfully, "you are right there, sir; that is the wonder."—Voice from the Old Brewery.