W I LL- O THE• MILL
r - L.- STEYENSON ______
W I I / I / O ’ ~T7i e / M iz z
fRoíerlloms i S f e v e m o n
'H.M.C^Jdwell Co. New York an
. ___- — - — Prefatory Remarks
O OBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, the only child of Thomas Steven- son, civil engineer, and Margaret Isa- bella, his wife, youngest daughter of James Balfour, minister o f the parish of Colinton in Mid-Lothian, was born on the I3th of November, 1850, at 8 Howard Place, Edinburgh. Fromabout his eighteenth year he chose to sign himself Robert Louis Stevenson. Louis because there was a certain bailie ex- tant whose political opinions revolted young Stevenson’s soul, and whose surname was (insolently) Lewis. But Stevenson’s friends continued to pro- 7
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nounce his name Lewis to the end. read, books of the romàntic order; As a child, he was of a vain, delicate, and even desirous, with infantine zeal, and excitable temperament, suffering to write them. He dictated “ A His frequently from illness, and not less tory of Moses,” in his sixth year, and frequently from the penalties of a an account of “ Travels in Perth, in romàntic imagination. His works, his ninth.' W e find him engaged one both by accident and design, reflect winter during his childhood days with and chronicle his personal history from his cousin writing a series of adven- stage to stage of his career in a manner tures, which happened upon a fabulous peculiarly his own among writers, and island. W hen he was eight years old, we may learn all we need to know of he went to a preparatory school kept his childhood, as of his later life, by a Mr. Anderson, in índia Street, from his own verses and essays. where he remained two or three years; In “ A Child’s Garden of Verses,” in his eleventh year he began an at- “ Child’s Play,” “ The Manse,” etc., tendance at the Edinburgh Academy, we seem to disengage the picture of “ a junior rival to the high school an eager, frail little boy, with remark- where Scòtt was educated.” Here he able eyes, lustrous and brown, dwell- started a school magazine in manu- ing largely in a world of his own script, The Sunbeam, which seems to invention, loving to read, or to hear have been almost entirely written, S 9 Prefatory Remarles Prefatory Remarles
edited, and illustrated by himself. At busy on my own private end, which thirteen he went for a few months was to learn to write.” Originally to a boarding-school kept by a Mr. intended for the family profession, he W yatt at Spring Grove, near London. was at first a pupil of Fleeming Jenkin, He was sent the next year to Mr. professor of engineering, whose biog- Thompson’s private school in Fred- raphy in course of time he carne to erick Street, Edinburgh, where he write. Civil engineering was not to remained until his seventeenth year; the taste of this dilettante young man while here, he wrote a drama based who cared for nothing but literature, upon the history of Deacon Brodie, as from childhood he had been con- the genesis of the play written in col- tinually writing everything fór the laboration with Mr. Henley fourteen sake of practice in literary gymnastic. years later. At eighteen he entered A t the age of twenty-one he began the Edinburgh University, but there he study of law, and at the age of twenty- was looked upon as a carcless and in- five, July 14, 1875, passed his final different student. W e have his own (oft examination with credit, and was called quoted) statement: “ All through my to the bar on the ióth. During these boyhood and youth I was known and four or five years Stevenson was really pointed out for the pattern of an idler; graduating in many ways for the pro and yet,” he adds, “ I was always fession of letters. He was always io tH Prefatory Remarks Prefatory Remarks Hr writing. He fïrst appeared before the Stevenson family with respect and es- greater world in a little essay on teem declined to recognise the wilful Roads, which, after being refused by eccentric who elected to drive down the Saturday Review , was published Princess Street (that clàssic thorough- in the Portfolio for December, 1873, fare) clothed in boating flannels and and which was signed, L. S. Stoneven. a straw hat upon a summer’s after- In the summer of the same year, noon, whose chosen attire in mid- 1875, Stevenson was called to the bar, winter was a pork-pie hat embroidered had a brass door-plate (at 17 Heriot with silver, a velvet jacket, and a Row) engraved with the legend, Spanish cloak; who wore his hair curl- “ Robert Louis Stevenson, Advocate,” ing below the bottom of his advocate’s and began to pace the Parliament w ig ; who attended evening parties in a House in the mornings according to blue flannel shirt, and who delighted to the Scots’ custom in use among brief- outrage the decorous conventions which less advocates. Among the legal fry govern “ Anglified ” Edinburgh. He of Scotland, he was known as “ The had become fast wedded to literature. Gifted Boy.” At this point one may In 1876, the “ Virginibus Puerisque” observe that he was never popular in essays were published, which contain his native city. The coteries which work of his which remains unsur- had been accustomed to regard the passed by anything achieved by the 12 13 J í i ------■...... , L ^ ¿ iL ...... ------*------i--- Prefatory Remarks Prefatory Remarks artist in later life, and from that point train. Thus did he begin those travels he went straight forward. During this and voyages which landed him at last, year he contributed to the Academy, a life-long exile, upon the island where Vanity Fair, and London, and when he he died. He married in the spring of was twenty-eight, he wrote “ Will o’ 1880, when he was thirty-one, and the M ili,” which remains his highest with Mrs. Stevenson’s son, Samuel achievement in literature. Lloyd Osbourne, they lived for a time In 1879, through differences with at Juan Silverado, the site of an his father, he was left for the first oíd mining camp, in California. In time to gain his living by his own August of that year he and his family exertions. He had by this time finally returned home to Scotland. Six weeks abandoned law, although his work, later, on account of his health, they brilliant and personal as it was, went went to Davos. In May, 1881, they almost unregarded, except by the few again returned to Scotland, living for persons interested in literature. His four months at Petlochy and Braemar. affianced wife, Mrs. Osbourne (an About this time he began his first American by birth), whom he had met novel, “ Treasure Island,” which in in France, had returned to California. some ways is the best of his longer There Stevenson resolved to go; trav- w orks; although he had written a great elling by emigrant ship and emigrant deal, he was as yet unknown to fame. M *5 Prefatory Remarks Hr was “ The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde.” His books previous to 1886 had brought him scant in- crease of fame or profit. He had never earned much more than $1,500 a year. T he death of his father in M ay, 1887, and his own ill-health, sent him again upon his second long exile, which his own death ended. He persuaded his mother to join them, and with his whole household sailed for New York on August 17, 1887. He divided his time from his arrival between Newport, the Adirondacks, the New Jersey coast, and New York, to the summer of 1888, when he ac- cepted an offer of $10,000 to cruise in the South Seas, and to write the story of his voyages in a series of letters. The cruise lasted six months, during ^ Prefatory Remarks Prefatory Remarks which time he visited the Marquesas, almost entirely restored to him, and he Paumolus, and the Society Islands; accomplished a really amazing amount thence to Honolulú, where he re- of work without distress. He wrote mained until the end of the year, when for six or eight hours a day, pioneered he again started on a second cruise of his estates, rodé, boated, and lavishly six months, visiting the Gilberts, fetch- entertained the island population gener- ally, both brown and white. They ing up at Apia, Samoa. Here he bought an estáte of some four hundred called him Tusitala, the teller of tales. In 1891, during the political troubles acres, and called it Vailima They re of the island, Stevenson plunged gaily mained here for some weeks. Thence into that vexed and complicated busi- they sailed to Sydney, where Stevenson ness, taking the side of the oppressed. falling UI again, they remained un i It was evident that Stevenson was habit- April, 1890, and whence they sailed ually overworking himself. Though during the summer, visiting Auckland the Penrhyn, Union, Ellice, Gdbert, for a man of letters his income was large, his expenses kept pace well with and Marshall Islands, returmng ° Apia by New Caledonia, Sydney, an his earnings, and, besides his proper Auckland in September. There, upon work, he was giving attention to the cultivating and colonising of his estáte, his estáte, Stevenson settled with hi with the hope that in time it would family. A t first, his health seemed l8 19 # í Prefatory Remarks yield a sufficient maintenance to re léase him from the immediate necessity for toil. Stevenson was now forty- three years of age, and it might be supposed that a man of letters and established repute would begin to take Will o’ the Mill a little ease. He never did. O n the afternoon of December 4, 1894, he C H A P T E R I. was talking gaily with his wife, when THE PLAIN AND THE STARS the sudden rupture of a blood-vessel in the brain laid him at her feet, and ''Jp H E mill where W ill lived with his within two hours he was dead. adopted parents stood in a falling So Robert Louis Stevenson, whose valley between pinewoods and great first published essay was rejected by mountains. Above, hill after hill that recognised literary periodical, the soared upwards until they soared out Saturday Review , of England, carne of the depth of the hardiest timber, unto his own peculiar kingdom at last; and stood naked against the sky. Some and died, and was buried upon the way up, a long gray village lay like a summit o f Mount Vaea, in the island seam or a rag of vapour on a wooded of Samoa. hillside; and when the wind was fa- 20 21 *íW ill o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili vourable, the sound of the church past the m ill; and as it happened that bells would drop down, thin and sil— the other side was very much easier of very, to Will. Below, the valley ascent, the path was not much fre- grew ever steeper and steeper, and at quented, except by people going in one the same time widened out on either direction; and of all the carriages that hand; and from an eminence beside W ill saw go by, five-sixths were plung the mill it was possible to see its ing briskly downward, and only one- whole length and away beyond it over sixth crawling up. Much more was a wide plain, where the river turned this the case with foot-passengers. All and shone, and moved on from city the light-footed tourists, all the pedlars to city on its voyage toward the sea. laden with strange wares, were tending It chanced that over this valley there downward like the river that accom- lay a pass into a neighbouring king- panied their path. Nor was this all; dom ; so that, quiet and rural as it for when W ill was yet a child a dis- was, the road that ran along beside astrous war aróse over a great part the river was a high thoroughfare of the world. The newspapers were between two splendid and powerful full of defeats and victòries, the earth societies. All through the summer rang with cavalry hoofs, and often for travelling-carriages came crawling up, days together, and for miles around, or went plunging briskly downward the coii of battle terrified good people 22 z3 Will o’ the Mil] Will o’ the Mills* from their labours in the field. O f all pedition, for they lay out of the way this, nothing was heard for a long time of gossip in those troublous times ; but in the valley; but at last one of the Will saw one thing plainly, that not a commanders pushed an army over the man returned. Whither had they all pass by forced marches, and for three gone ? W hither went all the tourists days horse and foot, cannon and tum- and pedlars with strange wares ? whither bril, drum and standard, kept pouring all the brisk barouches with servants in downward past the mili. All day the the dicky ? whither the water of the child stood and watched them on their stream, ever coursing downward, and passage — the rhythmical stride, the ever renewed from above ? Even the palé, unshaven faces tanned about the wind blew oftener down the valley, eyes, the discoloured regimentáis, and and carried the dead leaves along with the tattered flags, filled him with a it in the fall. It seemed like a great sense of weariness, pity, and wonder; conspiracy of things animate and inani and all night long, after he was in bed, mate ; they all went downward, fleetly he could hear the cannon pounding, and gaily downward, and only he, it and the feet trampling, and the great seemed, remained behind, like a stock armament sweeping onward and down upon the wayside. It sometimes made ward past the mili. No one in the him glad when he noticed how the valley ever heard the fate of the ex- fishes kept their heads up - stream. 24 25 ¿HWill o’ the Mili W ill o’ the Mili H£ They, at least, stood faithfully by him, too. And then it goes on and on, and while all else were posting downward down through marshes and sands, until to the unknown world. at last it falls into the sea, where the One evening he asked the miller ships are that bring parrots and tobáceo where the river went. from the Indies. A y, it has a long It goes down the valley,” answered trot before it as it goes singing over he, “ and turns a power of m ilis,_ our weir, bless its heart ! ” six score milis, they say, from here “ And what is the sea ? ” asked W ill. to Unterdeck, — and it none the wearier “ The sea! ” cried the miller. after all. And then it goes out into “ Lord help us all, it is the greatest the lowlands, and wàters the great corn thing God made ! That is where all country, and runs through a sight of the water in the world runs down into fine cities (so they say) where kings a great salt lake. There it lies, as flat live all alone in great palaces, with a as my hand, and as innocent-like as a sentry walking up and down before child ; but they do say when the wind the door. And it goes under bridges blows it gets up into water-mountains with stone men upon them, looking bigger than any of ours, and swallows down and smiling so curious at the down great ships bigger than our mili, water, and living folies leaning their and makes such a roaring that you can elbows on the wall, and looking over, hear it miles away upon the land. 2 6 27 #4 Will o’ the Mili Will o’ the Mili There are great fish in it five times could see the cities, and the woods and bigger than a bull, and one oíd serpent fields, and the bright curves of the as long as our river, and as oíd as all river, and far away to where the rim the world, with whiskers like a man, of the plain trenched along the shining and a crown of silver on her head.” heavens. An overmastering emotion W ill thought he had never heard seized upon the boy, soul and body; anything like this, and he kept on ask- his heart beat so thickly that he could ing question after question about the not breathe; the scene swam before world that lay away down the river, his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel with all its perils and marvels, until the round and round, and throw off, as oíd miller became quite interested him- it turned, strange shapes which disap- self, and at last took him by the hand peared with the rapidity of thought, and led him to the hilltop that over- and were succeeded by others. W ill looks the valley and the plain. T he covered his face with his hands, and sun was near setting, and hung low burst into a violent fit of tears; and down in a cloudless sky. Everything the poor miller, sadly disappointed was defined and glorified in golden and perplexed, saw nothing better for light. W ill had never seen so great an it than to take him up in his arms expanse of country in his life; he and carry him home in silence. stood and gazed with all his eyes. He From that day forward W ill was 28 29 — jH Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill full of new hopes and longings. Some- river. It did not matter what it w as; thing kept tugging at his heart-strings; everything that went that way, were it the running water carried his desires doud or carriage, bird or brown water along with it as he dreamed over its in the stream, he felt his heart flow out fleeting surface; the wind, as it ran after it in an ecstasy of longing. over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him W e are told by men of Science that with encouraging words; branches all the ventures of mariners on the sea, beckoned downward; the open road, all that countermarching of tribes and as it shouldered round the angles and races that confounds old history with went turning and vanishing fast and its dust and rumour, sprang from noth- faster down the valley, tortured him ing more abstruse than the laws of with its solicitations. He spent long supply and demand, and a certain whiles on the eminence, looking down natural instinct for cheap rations. T o the river-shed and abroad on the flat any one thinking deeply, this will seem lowlands, and watched the clouds that a dull and pitiful explanation. The travelled forth upon the sluggish wind tribes that carne swarming out of the and trailed their purple shadows on the North and East, if they were indeed plain; or he would linger by the way- pressed onward from behind by others, side, and follow the carriages with his were drawn at the same time by the eyes as they rattled downward by the magnètic influence of the South and 3° 31 #4 Will o’ the Mill W ill o ’ the M ili Hi- W est. The fame of other lands had the Eternal City ! ” He looked upon reached them ; the name of the eternal them gravely. “ I have sought it,” he city rang in their ears; they were not said, “ over the most part of the world. colonists, but pilgrims ; they travelled Three such pairs as I now carry on my toward wine and gold and sunshine, feet have I worn out upon this pil- but their hearts were set on something grimage, and now the fourth is grow- higher. That divine unrest, that old ing slender underneath my steps. And stinging trouble of humanity that makes all this while I have not found the all high achievements and all miserable city.” And he turned and went his failure, the same that spread wings with own way alone, leaving them as- Icarus, the same that sent Columbus tonished. into the desolate Atlantic, inspired and And yet this would scarcely parallel supported these barbarians on their the intensity o f W ill’s feeling for the perilous march. There is one legend plain. I f he could only go far enough which profoundly represents their out there, he felt as if his eyesight spirit, of how a flying party of these would be purged and clarified, as if his wanderers encountered a very old man hearing would grow more delicate, and shod with iron. The old man asked his very breath would come and go them whither they were going; and with luxury. He was transplanted and they answered with one voice : “ To withering where he was ; he lay in a 32 33 -tH Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill strange country and was sick for home. life. It was no wonder he was un- Bit by bit, he pieced together broken happy, he would go and teli the fish: notions of the world below : of the they were made for their life, wished river, ever moving and growing until for no more than worms and running it sailed forth into the majestic ocean; water, and a hole below a falling bank; of the cities, full of brisk and beautiful but he was differently designed, full of people, playing fountains, bands of desires and aspirations, itching at the music and marble palaces, and lighted fingers, lusting with the eyes, whom up at night from end to end with arti the whole variegated world could not ficial stars of gold ; of the great satisfy with aspects. The true life, churches, wise universities, brave the true bright sunshine, lay far out armies, and untold money lying stored upon the plain. And O ! to see this in vaults ; of the high-flying vice that sunlight once before he died! to move moved in the sunshine, and the stealth with a jocund spirit in a golden land ! and swiftness of midnight murder. I to hear the trained singers and sweet have said he was sick as if for home : church bells, and see the holiday gar- the figure halts. He was like some one dens ! “ And O fish ! ” he would cry, lying in twilit, formless preéxistence, “ if you would only turn your noses and stretching out his hands lovingly down-stream, you could swim so easily toward many-coloured, many-sounding into the fabled wàters and see the vast 34 35 asW ill o’ the Mill ships passing over your head like into a little wayside inn, and, several clouds, and hear the great water-hills pieces of good fortune falling in oppor- making music over you all day long ! ” tunely, built stables and got the posi- But the fish kept looking patiently in tion of postmaster on' the road. It their own direction, until W ill hardly now became W ill’s duty to wait upon knew whether to laugh or cry. people, as they sat to break their fasts Hitherto the traffic on the road had in the little arbour at the top of the passed by W ill, like something seen in mili garden ; and you may be sure that a picture: he had perhaps exchanged he kept his ears open, and learned salutations with a tourist, or caught many new things about the outside sight of an old gentleman in a travel- world as he brought the omelette or the ling cap at a carriage window ; but for wine. Nay, he would often get into the most part it had been a mere S y m conversation with single guests, and by bol, which he contemplated from apart adroit qüestions and polite attention, and with something of a superstitious not only gratify his own curiosity, but feeling. A time came at last when win the good-will of the travellers. this was to be changed. The miller, Many complimented the old couple on who was a greedy man in his way, their serving-boy ; and a professor was and never forewent an opportunity of eager to take him away with him, and honest profit, turned the mill-house have him properly educated in the 36 37 ¿H Will o’ the Mili W ill o ’ the M ili He plain. T he miller and his wife were which had seemed all jollity to him at mightily astonished and even more first, began to take on a colour of pleased. They thought it a very good gravity, and the nocturnal summons thing that they should have opened their inn. “ You see,” the oíd man and waiting equipage occupied a place in his mind as something to be both would remark, “ he has a kind of talent feared and hoped for. for a publican; he never would have One day, when Will was about made anything else! ” And so life sixteen, a fat young man arrived at wagged on in the valley, with high sunset to pass the night. He was a satisfaction to all concerned but W ill. contented-looking fellow, with a jolly Every carriage that left the inn door eye, and carried a knapsack. W hile seemed to take part of him away with dinner was preparing, he sat in the i t ; and when people jestingly offered arbour to read a book; but as soon as him a lift, he could with difficulty he had begun to observe W ill, the book command his emotion. Night after was laid aside; he was plainly one of night he would dream that he was those who prefer living people to peo awakened by flustered servants, and ple made of ink and paper. W ill, on that a splendid equipage waited at the his part, although he had not been door to carry him down into the plain ; much ¡nterested in the stranger at first night after night; until the dream, sight, soon began to take a great deal 38 39 íH W ill o’ the M ill W ill o’ the M ill H3- of pleasure in his talk, which was full their hearts to get up into the moun- of good nature and good sense, and at tains. And let me teli you, those who last conceived a great respect for his go down into the plains are a very character and wisdom. They sat far short while there before they wish into the night; and about two in the themselves heartily back again. The morning W ill opened his heart to the air is not so light nor so pure; nor is young man, and told him how he the sun any brighter. As for the beau- longed to leave the valley and what tiful men and women, you would see bright hopes he had connected with many of them in rags and many of the cities of the plain. The young them deformed with horrible disorders; man whistled, and then broke into a and a city is so hard a place for people smile. who are poor and sensitive that many “ M y young friend,” he remarked, choose to die by their own hand.” “ you are a very curious little fellow, to “ You must think me very simple,” be sure, and wish a great many things answered Will. “ Although I have which you will never get. Why, you never been out of this valley, believe would feel quite ashamed if you knew me, I have used my eyes. I know how how the little fellows in these fairy one thing lives on another; for in- cities of yours are all after the same stance, how the fish hangs in the eddy sort of nonsense, and keep breaking to catch his fellows ; and the shepherd, 4» 41 # 4 W ill o’ the Mili W ill o’ the Mili í# who makes so pretty a picture carrying “ Thousands of people,” said the home the lamb, is only carrying it home young man, “ live and die like you, for dinner. I do not expect to find all and are none the less happy.” things right in your cities. That is “ Ah ! ” said W ill, “ if there are not what troubles m e; it might hav^ thousands who would like, why should been that once upon a time; but al- not one of them have my place ? ” though I live here always, I have asked It was quite dark; there was a many qüestions and learned a great hanging lamp in the arbour which lit deal in these last years, and certainly up the table and the faces of the speak- enough to cure me of my oíd fancies. ers; and along the arch, the leaves But you would not have me die like a upon the trellis stood out illuminated dog and not see all that is to be seen, against the night sky, a pattern of and do all that a man can do, let it be transparent green upon a dusky purple. good or evil ? you would not have me The fat young man rose, and, taking spend all my days between this road W ill by the arm, led him out under here and the river, and not so much as the open heavens. make a motion to be up and live my “ Did you ever look at the stars ? ” life ? — I would rather die out of he asked, pointing upwards. hand,” he cried, u than linger on as “ Often and often,” answered Will. I am doing.” “ And do you know what they are ? ” 42 43 # 4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill Hí- “ I have fancied many things.” overhead. W e may stand down here, “ They are worlds like ours,” said a whole army of us together, and shout the young man. Some of them less; until we break our hearts, and not a many of them a million times greater; whisper reaches them. W e may climb and some of the least sparkles that you the highest mountain, and we are no see are not only worlds, but whole nearer them. All we can do is to clusters of worlds turning about each stand down here in the garden and other in the midst of space. W e do take off our hats; the starshine lights not know what there may be in any of upon our heads, and where mine is a them ; perhaps the answer to all our little bald, I daré say you can see it difficulties or the cure of all our suffer- glisten in the darkness. The mountain ings: and yet we can never reach and the mouse. That is like to be all them ; not all the skill of the craftiest we shall ever have to do with Arcturus of men can fit out a ship for the near- or Aldebaran. Can you apply a para- est of these our neighbours, nor would ble ? ” he added, laying his hand upon the life of the most aged suffice for W ill’s shoulder. “ It is not the same such a journey. W hen a great battle thing as a reason, but usually vastly has been lost or a dear friend is dead, more convincing.” when we are hipped or in high spirits, W ill hung his head a little, and then there they are unweariedly shining raised it once more to heaven. The 44 45 # i Will o’ the Mi]l W ill o’ the M ili H£ stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in multitude CHAPTER II. under his gaze. “ I see,” he said, turning to the THE PARSON’S MARJORY young man. “ W e are in a rat-trap.” “ Something of that size. Did you ^ ^ F T E R some years the old people ever see a squirrel turning in a cage ? died, both in one winter, very care- and another squirrel sitting philosophi- fully tended by their adopted son, and cally over his nuts ? I needn’t ask you very quietly mourned when they were which of them looked more of a fool.” gone. People who had heard of his roving fancies supposed he would hasten to sell the property, and go down the river to push his fortunes. But there was never any sign of such an intention on the part ofW ill. On thecontrary, he had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a couple of servants to assist him in carrying it o n ; and there he 46 47 ¿HWill o’ the Mili W ill o’ the M ill H? settled down, a kind, talkative, inscru- fused several offers of marriage with table young man, six feet three in his a grand air, which had got her hard stockings, with an iron constitution and ñames among the neighbours. For all a friendly voice. He soon began to that she was a good girl, and one that take rank in the district as a bit of an would have made any man well con- oddity : it was not much to be won- tented. dered at from the first, for he was W ill had never seen much of her; always full of notions, and kept calling for although the church and parsonage the plainest common sense in ques- were only two miles from his own tion; but what most raised the report door, he was never known to go there upon him was the odd circumstance of but on Sundays. It chanced, however, his courtship with the parson’s Mar- that the parsonage fell into disrepair, jory. and had to be dismantled; and the The parson’s Marjory was a lass parson and his daughter took lodgings about nineteen, when Will would be for a month or so, on very much re- about thirty ; well enough looking, and duced terms, at W ill’s inn. Now, much better educated than any other what with the inn, and the mili, and giri in that part of the country, as be- the oíd miller’s savings, our friend was came her parentage. She held her a man of substance; and besides that, head very high, and had already re- he had a ñame for good temper and 4S 49 WjjÉ^tísdái¿tí¡yulÍíham!bttilí¿iii #4 Will o’ the Mill shrewdness, which make a capital por- them would rule the roast in marriage. tion in marriage; and so it was cur- But Marjory had never given it a rently gossiped, among their ill-wishers, thought, and accompanied her father that the parson and his daughter had with the most unshaken innocence not chosen their temporary lodging and unconcern. with their eyes shut. W ill was about T he season was still so early that the last man in the world to be cajoled W ill’s customers were few and far or frightened into marriage. You had between; but the lilacs were already only to look into his eyes, limpid and flowering, and the weather was so still like pools of water, r nd yet with mild that the party took dinner under a sort of clear light that seemed to the trellis, with the noise of the river come from within, and you would in their ears and the woods ringing understand at once that here was one ahout them with the songs of birds. who knew his own mind, and would W ill soon began to take a particular stand to it immovably. Marjory her- pleasure in these dinners. The parson self was no weakling by her looks, was rather a dull companion, with a with strong, steady eyes and a resolute habit of dozing at table; but nothing and quiet bearing. It might be a ques- rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. tion whether she was not W ill’s match And as for the parson’s daughter, she in steadfastness, after all, or which of suited her surroundings with the best 5° 51 1 HHH vrnm'urnimeimmmmk #? Will o’ the Mill grace imaginable; and whatever she senseless, the clouds hung in heaven said seemed so pat and pretty that like dead things, and even the moun- W ill conceived a great idea of her tain-tops were disenchanted. T he talents. He could see her face, as whole valley could not compare in she leaned forward, against a back- looks with this one girl. ground of rising pinewoods; her eyes Will was always observant in the shone peaceably; the light lay around society of his fellow creatures; but her hair like a kerchief; something his observation became almost pain- that was hardly a smile rippled her fully eager in the case of Marjory. pale cheeks, and Will could not con- He listened to ali she uttered, and read tain himself from gazing on her in an her eyes, at the same time, for the agreeable dismay. She looked, even unspoken commentary. Many kind, in her quietest moments, so complete simple, and sincere speeches found an in herself, and so quick with life down echo in his heart. He became con- to her finger-tips and the very skirts scious of a soul beautifully poised upon of her dress, that the remainder of itself, nothing doubting, nothing desir- created things became no more than ing, clothed in peace. It was not pos a blot by comparison; and if Will sible to separate her thoughts from her glanced away from her to her surround- appearance. T he turn of her wrist, ings, the trees looked inanimate and the stili sound of her voice, the light 52 53 ¿HWill o’ the Mili Will o’ the Mili in her eyes, the lines of her body, fell news a man’s character from the in tune with her grave and gentle fountain upward. words, like the accompaniment that One day after dinner W ill took a sustains and harmonises the voice of stroll among the firs; a grave beati- the singer. Her influence was one tude possessed him from top to toe, thing, not to be divided or discussed, and he kept smiling to himself and the only to be felt with gratitude and joy. landscape as he went. The river ran To Will, her presence recalled some- between the stepping-stones with a thing of his childhood, and the thought pretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in of her took its place in his mind be- the wood; the hilltops looked im- side that of dawn, of running water, measurably high, and as he glanced and of the earliest violets and lilacs. at them from time to time seemed to It is the property of things seen for contemplate his movements with a the first time, or for the first time beneficent but awful curiosity. His after long, like the flowers in spring, way took him to the eminence which to reawaken in us the sharp edge of overlooked the plain; and there he sat sense and that impression of mystic down upon a stone, and fell into deep strangeness which otherwise passes out and pleasant thought. T he plain lay of life with the coming of years; but abroad with its cities and silver river; the sight of a loved face is what re- everything was asleep, except a great 54 55 # 4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili í# eddy of birds which kept rising and m an; not from want of heart, but out falling and going round and round in of strangeness in my way of thinking; the blue air. He repeated Marjory’s and people seem far away from me. ñame aloud, and the sound of it grati- ’T is as if there were a circle round fied his ear. He shut his eyes, and me, which kept every one out but her ¡mage sprang up before him, y o u ; I can hear the others talking quietly luminous and attended with and laughing; but you come quite good thoughts. The river rnight run close. Maybe, this is disagreeable to for ever; the birds fly higher and you ? ” he asked. higher till they touched the stars. Marjory made no answer. He saw it was empty bustle after ali; “ Speak up, girl,” said the parson. for here, without stirring a foot, wait- “ Nay, now,” returned W ill, “ I ing patiently in his own narrow valley, wouldn’t press her, parson. I feel he also had attained the better sunlight. tongue-tied myself, who am not used to T he next day W ill made a sort it ; and she’s a woman, and little more of declaration across the dinner-table, than a child, when ali is said. But for while the parson was filling his pipe. my part, as far as I can understand “ Miss Marjory,” he said, “ I never what people mean by it, I fancy I must knew any one I liked so well as you. be what they call in love. I do not I am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of wish to be held as committing m yself; 56 57 Will o’ the Mili Will o’ the Mili i# for I may be w rong; but that ¡s how “ Is that the right thing to do, think I believe things are with me. And if you ? ” demanded W ill. Miss Marjory should feel any otherwise “ It is indispensable,” said the par- on her part, mayhap she would be so son. kind as shake her head.” “ Very well,” replied the wooer. Marjory was silent, and gave no sign T w o or three days passed away with that she had heard. great delight to W ill, although a by- “ How is that, parson ? ” asked W ill. stander might scarce have found it out. “ The girl must speak,” replied the He continued to take his meáis oppo parson, laying down his pipe. “ Here’s site Marjory, and to talk with her and our neighbour who says he loves you, gaze upon her in her father’s presence ; Madge. Do you love him, ay or no ? ” but he made no attempt to see her “ I think I do,” said Marjory, faintly. alone, ñor in any other way changed “ W ell, then, that’s all that could be his conduct toward her from what it wished ! ” cried W ill, heartily. And had been since the beginning. Perhaps he took her hand across the table, and the girl was a little disappointed, and held it a moment in both of his with perhaps not unjustly; and yet if it great satisfaction. had been enough to be always in the “ You must marry,” observed the thoughts of another person, and so per- parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth. yade and alter his whole life, she might 58 59 -èN Will o’ the Mili Will o’ the Mili Hi have been thoroughly contented. For at night, and so restless that he could she was never out of W ill’s mind for hardly sit stili out of her company. an instant. He sat over the stream, And yet it seemed as if he avoided her and watched the dust of the eddy, and rather than sought her out. the poised fish, and straining weeds; One day, as he was coming horne he wandered out alone into the purple from a ramble, W ill found Marjory in even, with all the blackbirds piping the garden picking flowers, and as he round him in the wood; he rose early came up with her, slackened his pace in the morning, and saw the sky turn and continued walking by her side. from gray to gold, and the light leap “ You like flowers ? ” he said. upon the hilltops; and all the while “ Indeed, I love them dearly,” she he kept wondering if he had never seen replied. “ Do you ? ” such things before, or how it was that “ W hy, no,” said he, “ not so much. they should look so different now. They are a very small affair, when all T he sound of his own mill-wheel, or is done. I can fancy people caring for of the wind among the trees, con- them greatly, but not doing as you are founded and charmed his heart. The just now.” most enchanting thoughts presented “ How ? ” she asked, pausing and themselves unbidden in his mind. He looking up at him. was so happy that he could not sleep “ Plucking them,” said he. “ They 60 61 ¿HWill o’ the Mili are a deal better off where they are, it any longer. W as not that fine rea- and look a deal prettier, if you go to soning ? Dear, dear, if they only that.” thought of. it, all the world would do “ I wish to have them for my own,” like m e; and you would let your flow- she answered, “ to carry them near my ers alone, just as I stay up here in the heart, and keep them in my room. mountains.” Suddenly he broke off They tempt me when they grow here; sharp. “ By the Lord ! ” he cried. they seem to say, ‘ Come and do some- And when she asked him what was thing with us; ’ but once I have cut wrong, he turned the question off, and them and put them by, the charm is walked away into the house with rather laid, and I can look at them with quite a humourous expression of face. an easy heart.” He was silent at table; and after the “ You wish to possess them,” replied night had fallen and the stars had come W ill, u in order to think no more about out overhead, he walked up and down them. It’s a bit like killing the goose for hours in the courtyard and garden with the golden eggs. It’s a bit like with an uneven pace. There was still what I wished to do when I was a boy. a light in the window of Marjory’s Because I had a fancy for looking out room: one little oblong patch of over the plain, I wished to go down orange in a world of dark blue hills there — where I couldn’t look out over and silver starlight. W ill’s mind ran 62 63 « ffflJ ï® Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill Hc a great deal on the window; but his còrner of the blind was lifted up and thoughts were not very lover-like. lowered again at once. He laughed a “ There she is in her room,” he loud ho-ho ! “ One and another ! ” thought, “ and there are the stars over- thought W ill. “ The stars tremble, head, — a blessing upon both ! ” Both and the blind goes up. W hy, before were good influences in his life ; both Heaven, what a great magician I must soothed and braced him in his profound be! Now if I were only a fool, contentment with the world. And should not I be in a pretty way ? ” what more should he desire with And he went off to bed, chuckling to either ? T he fat young man and his himself: “ If I were only a fool! ” comiséis were so present to his mind, The next morning, pretty early, he that he threw back his head, and, saw her once more in the garden, and putting his hands before his mouth, sought her out. shouted aloud to the populous heavens. “ I have been thinking about getting Whether from the position of his head married,” he began, abruptly; “ and or the sudden strain of the exertion, after having turned it all over, I have he seemed to see a momentary shock made up my mind it’s not worth among the stars, and a difFusion of while.” frosty light pass from one to another She turned upon him for a single along the sky. At the same instant a moment; but his radiant, kindly appear- 64 65 jKW ill o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili Ht ance would, under the circumstances, meaning. As to whether I have ever have disconcerted an ángel, and she loved you or not, I must leave that to looked down again upon the ground others. But, for one thing, my feeling in silence. He could see her tremble. is not changed; and for another, you “ I hope you don’t mind,” he went may make it your boast that you have on, a little taken aback. “ You ought made my whole life and character some- not. I have turned it ali over, and thing different from what they were. upon my soul there’s nothing in it. I mean what I say; no less. I do not W e should never be one whit nearer think getting married is worth while. than we are just now, and, if I am a I would rather you went on living with wise man, nothing like so happy.” your father, so that I could walk over “ It is unnecessary to go round and see you once, or maybe twice a about with me,” she said. “ I very week, as people go to church, and then well remember that you refused to we should both be all the happier be- commit yourself; and now that I see tween whiles. That’s my notion. But you were mistaken, and in reality have PII marry you if you will,” he added. never cared for me, I can only feel sad “ Do you know that you are insult- that I have been so far misled.” ing me ? ” she broke out. “ I ask your pardon,” said W ill, “ Not I, Marjory,” said he; “ if stoutly; “ you do not understand my there is anything in a ciear conscience, 66 67 #4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili Hr not I. I offer all my heart’s best affec- simple living. Can a man be more tions; you can take it or want it, downright or honourable to a woman though I suspect it’s beyond either than I have been ? I have said my your power or mine to change what say, and given you your choice. Do has once been done, and set me fancy- you want me to marry you ? or will free. I ’ll marry you, if you lik e; but you take my fríen dship, as I think best ? I teli you again and again, it’s not or have you had enough of me for worth while, and we had best stay good ? Speak out, for the dear God’s friends. Though I am a quiet man sake ! You know your father told you I have noticed a heap of things in my a girl should speak her mind in these life. Trust in me, and take things affairs.” as I propose; or, if you don’t like that, She seemed to recover herself at say the word, and Pll marry you out that, turned without a word, walked of hand.” rapidly through the garden, and disap- There was a considerable pause, and peared into the house, leaving W ill in Will, who began to feel uneasy, began some confusión as to the result. He to grow angry in consequence. walked up and down the garden, whis- “ It seems you are too proud to say tling softly to himself. Sometimes he your mind,” he said. “ Relieve me, stopped and contemplated the sky and that’s a pity. A clean shrift makes hilltops; sometimes he went down to 68 69 #4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mills# the tail of the weir and sat there, look- take about our feelings, and he has ing foolishly in the water. All this agreed, at my request, to give up all dubiety and perturbation was so foreign idea of marriage, and be no more than to his nature and the life which he had my very good friend, as in the past. resolutely chosen for himself, that he You see, there is no shadow of a quar- began to regret Marjory’s arrival. rel, and indeed I hope we shall see a “ After all,” he thought, “ I was as great deal of him in the future, for his happy as a man need be. I could visits will always be welcome in our come down here and watch my fishes house. Of course, father, you will all day long if I wanted. I was as know best, but perhaps we should do settled and contented as my old mill.” better to leave Mr. W ill’s house for Marjory Carne down to dinner, look- the present. I believe, after what has ing very trim and quiet; and no sooner passed, we should hardly be agreeable were all three at table than she made inmates for some days.” her father a speech, with her eyes fixed Will, who had commanded himself upon her píate, but showing no other with difficulty from the first, broke out sign of embarrassment or distress. upon this into an inarticulate noise, “ Father,” she began, “ Mr. W ill and raised one hand with an appear- and I have been talking things over. ance of real dismay, as if he were W e see that we have each made a mis- about to interfere and contradict. But 70 71 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Milla* she checked him at once, looking up at good man liked both his entertainment him with a swift glance and an angry and his host. It was curious to see 'I flush upon her cheek. how the giri managed them, saying “ You will, perhaps, have the good little all the time, and that very quietly, grace,” she said, “ to let me explain and yet twisting them round her fin- these matters for myself.” ger, and insensibly leading them wher- W ill was put entirely out of counte- ever she would by feminine tact and nance by her expression and the ring generalship. It scarcely seemed to of her voice. He held his peace, con- have been her doing — it seemed as cluding that there were some things if things had merely so fallen out — about this giri beyond his comprehen- that she and her father took their sion, in which he was exactly right. departure that same afternoon in a The poor parson was quite crest- farm-cart, and went farther down the fallen. He tried to prove that this valley, to wait until their own house was no more than a true lovers’ tiff, was ready for them in another hamlet. which would pass off before night; But W ill had been observing closely, and, when he was dislodged from that and was well aware of her dexterity position, he went on to argue that and resolution. W^hen he found him- where there was no quarrel there could self alone he had a great many curious be no call for a separation; for the matters to turn over in his mind. He 72 73 #4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill Hfr was very sad and solitary, to begin As the days went forward he passed with. All the interest had gone out from one extreme to another; now of his life, and he might look up at the pluming himself on the strength of stars as long as he pleased, he some- his determination, now despising his how failed to find support or consola- timid and silly caution. The former tion. And then he was in such a was, perhaps, the true thought of his turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He heart, and represented the regular tenor had been puzzled and irritated at her of the man’s reflections ; but the latter behaviour, and yet he could not keep burst forth from time to time with an himself from admiring it. He thought unruly violence, and then he would he recognised a fine, perverse ángel in forget all consideration, and go up and that stili soul which he had never hith- down his house and garden, or walk erto suspected; and though he saw it among the firwoods, like one who is was an influence that would fit but ill beside himself with remorse. T o with his own life of artificial calm, he equable, steady-minded W ill this state could not keep himself from ardently of matters was intolerable; and he desiring to possess it. Like a man who determined, at whatever cost, to bring has lived among shadows, and now it to an end. So, one warm summer meets the sun, he was both pained and afternoon, he put on his best clothes, delighted. took a thorn switch in his hand, and 74 75 T ...... tH Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill set out down the valley by the river. and more than half ashamed of himself As soon as he had taken his determi- for this infirmity of purpose. nation, he had regained at a bound his Marjory seemed glad to see him, customary peace of heart, and he en- and gave him her hand without affec- joyed the bright weather and the vari- tation or delay. ety of the scene without any admixture “ I have been thinking about this of alarm or unpleasant eagerness. It marriage,” he began. was nearly the same to him how the “ So have I,” she answered. “ And matter turned out. I f she accepted I respect you more and more for a him, he would have to marry her this very wise man. You understood me time, which perhaps was all for the better than I understood m yself; and best. I f she refused him, he would I am now quite certain that things are have done his utmost, and might follow all for the best as they are.” his own way in the future with an un- “ A t the same time — ” ventured troubled conscience. He hoped, on W ill. the whole, she would refuse him ; and “ You must be tired,” she inter- then, again, as he saw the brown roof rupted. “ Take a seat, and let me which sheltered her peeping through fetch you a glass of wine. The after- some willows at an angle of the stream, noon is so warm ; and I wish you not he was half inclined to reverse the wish, to be displeased with your visit. You 76 77 ** Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Milii* musí come quite often j once a week, there was one córner of the road if you can spare the time; I am always whence he could see the church-spire so glad to see my friends.” wedged into a crevice of the valley “ Oh, very well,” thought W ill to between sloping firwoods, with a tri himself. “ It appears I was right after angular snatch of plain by way of all.” And he paid a very agreeable background, which he greatly affected visit, walked home again in capital as a place to sit and moralise in before spirits, and gave himself no further returning homewards; and the peas- concern about the matter. ants got so much into the habit of For ’nearly three years W ill and finding him there in the twilight that Marjory continued on these terms, they gave it the ñame of “ W ill o’ the seeing each other once or twice a Mill’s Córner.” week without any vvord of love be- A t the end of the three years Mar tween them; and for all that time jory played him a sad trick by sud- I believe W ill was nearly as happy denly marrying somebody else. W ill as a man can be. He rather stinted kept his countenance bravely, and himself the pleasure of seeing her; merely remarked that, for as little as and he would often walk half-way over he knew of women, he had acted very to the parsonage, and then back again, prudently in not marrying her himself as if to whet his appetite. Indeed, three years before. She plainly knew 78 79 •SH Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill HS- very little of her own mind, and, in for Marjory was dying, and had sent spite of a deceptive manner, was as urgently to fetch him to her bedside. fickle and flighty as the rest of them. W ill was no horseman, and made so He had to congratulate himself on an little speed upon the way that the poor escape, he said, and would take a * young wife was very near her end higher opinion of his own wisdom in before he arrived. But they had some consequence. But at heart, he was minutes’ talk in private, and he was reasonably displeased, moped a good present and wept very bitterly while deal for a month or two, and fell away she breathed her last. in flesh, to the astonishment of his serving-lads. It was perhaps a year after this mar- riage that W ill was awakened late one night by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, followed by precipítate knocking at the inn-door. He opened his window and saw a farm servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told him to make what haste he could and go along with him ; So 8i Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill Ht in the swift stream, the birds circled overhead, the pine-tops rustled under- neath the stars, the tall hilis stood over CHAPTER III. a ll; and W ill went to and fro, minding DEATH his wayside inn, until the snow began to thicken on his head. His heart was 'Y 'E A R after year went away into young and vigorous; and if his pulses nothing, with great explosions kept a sober time, they still beat strong and outcries in the cities on the plain. and steady in his wrists. He carried a Red revolt springing up and being ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe suppressed in blood, battle swaying apple; he stooped a little, but his step hither and thither, patient astronomers was still firm, and his sinewy hands in observatory towers picking out and were reached out to all men with a christening new stars, plays being per- friendly pressure. His face was cov- formed in lighted theatres, people being ered with those wrinkles which are got carried into hospital on stretchers, and in open air, and which, rightly looked all the usual turmoil and agitation of at, are no more than a sort of per men’s lives in crowded centres. Up manent sunburning; such wrinkles in W ill’s valley only the winds and heighten the stupidity of stupid faces, seasons made an epoch; the fish hung but to a person like W ill, with his 83 jHWill o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili ciear eyes and smiling mouth, only give upland valley. He would shake his another charm by testifying to a simple head and smile over his tobacco-pipe and easy life. His talk was full of with a deal of meaning. “ You come wise sayings. He had a taste for other too late,” he would answer. “ I am a people, and other people had a taste for dead man n ow : I have lived and died him. When the valley was full of already. Fifty years ago you would tourists in the season, there were merry have brought my 'heart into my mouth, nights in W ill’s arbour; and his views, and now you do not even tempt me. which seemed whimsical to his neigh- But that is the object of long living, bours, were often enough admired by that man should cease to care about learned people out of towns and col- life.” And again: “ There is only leges. Indeed, he had a very noble one difference between a long life and old age, and grew daily better known, a good dinner: that, in the dinner, the so that his fame was heard of in the sweets come last.” Or once more: cities of the plain, and young men who “ When I was a boy, I was a bit puz- had been summer travellers spoke to- zled, and hardly knew whether it was gether in cafés of W ill o’ the Mili and myself or the world that was curious his rough philosophy. Many and many and worth looking into. Now, I know an invitation, you may be sure, he had, it is myself, and stick to that.” but nothing could tempt him from his He never showed any symptoms of 84 85 # 4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili Hr frailty, but kept stalwart and firm to and dressed himself, and went out to the last; but they say he grew less meditate in the arbour. It was pitch talkative toward the end, and would dark, without a star; the river was listen to other people by the hour in swollen, and the wet woods and mead- an amused and sympathetic silence. ows loaded the air with perfume. It Only, when he did speak, it was more had thundered during the day, and it to the point, and more charged with promised more thunder for the mor- oíd experience. He drank a bottle of row. A murky, stifling night for a wine gladly; above ali, at sunset on man of seventy-two. Whether it was the hilltop, or quite late at night, the weather or the wakefulness, or some under the stars in the arbour. The little touch of fever in his old limbs, sight of something attractive and unat- W ill’s mind was besieged by tumultu- tainable seasoned his enjoyment, he ous and crying memòries. His boy- would say; and he professed he had hood, the night with the fat young lived long enough to admire a candle man, the death of his adopted parents, all the more when he could compare it the summer days with Marjory, and with a planet. many of those small circumstances, One night, in his seventy-second which seem nothing to another, and year, he awoke in bed, in such uneas- are yet the very gist of a man’s own iness of body and mind that he aróse life to himself, — things seen, words 86 87 Will o’ the Miil Will o’ the Mill K4 heard, looks misconstrued,— aróse from startled by the voice of the dead miller their forgotten corners, and usurped calling to him out of the house as he his attention. The dead themselves used to do on the arrival of custom. were with him, not merely taking part The hallucination was so perfect that in this thin show of memory that W ill sprang from his seat, and stood defiled before his brain, but revisiting listening for the summons to be re- his bodily senses as they do in profound peated; and as he listened he became and vivid dreams. The fat young man conscious of another noise besides the leaned his elbows on the tabie oppo brawling of the river and the ringing site ; Marjory came and went with an in his feverish ears. It was like the apronful of flowers between the garden stir of the horses and the creaking of and the arbour; he could hear the old harness, as though a carriage with an parson knocking out his pipe, or blow- impatient team had been brought up ing his resonant nose. The tide of upon the road before the courtyard his consciousness ebbed and flowed; gate. At such an hour, upon this he was sometimes half-asleep, and rough and dangerous pass, the suppo- drowned in his recollections of the sition was no better than absurd ; and past; and sometimes he was broad W ill dismissed it from his mipd, and awake, wondering at himself. But resumed his seat upon the arbour about the middle of the night he was chair; and sleep closed over him again 88 89 'i-. p <“ “ 1...... ■. *tW ill o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mill H? like running water. He was once with this flower from end to end, and again awakened by the dead miller’s the hot, damp night had drawn forth cali, thinner and more spectral than all their perfumes in a breath. Now before; and once again he heard the the heliotrope had been Marjory’s noise of an equipage upon the road. favourite flower, and since her death And so thrice and four times, the same not one of them had ever been planted dream, or the same fancy, presented in W ill’s ground. itself to his senses; until at length, “ I must be going crazy,” he thought. smiling to himself as when one hu- “ Poor Marjory and her heliotropes 1 ” mours a nervous child, he proceeded And with that he raised his eyes toward the gate to set his uncertainty toward the window that had once been at rest. hers. T f he had been bewildered be From the arbour to the gate was no fore he was now almost terrified; for great distance, and yet it took W ill there was a light in the room ; the some time ; it seemed as if the dead window was an orange oblong as of thickened around him in the court, and yore ; and the córner of the blind was crossed his path at every step. For, lifted and let fall as on the night when first, he was suddenly surprised by an he stood and shouted to the stars in overpowering sweetness of heliotropes ; his perplexity. The illusion only en- it was as if his garden had been planted dured an instant; but it left him some- 90 91 Will o’ the Mili Will o’ the Mili H£ what unmanned, rubbing his eyes and though I have both hands full of busi- staring at the outline of the house, and ness, I wish to drink a bottle of wine the black night behind it. W hile he with you in your arboür. Before I go, thus stood, and it seemed as if he must I shall introduce myself.” have stood there quite a long time, W ill led the way to the trellis, and there carne a renewal of the noises on got a lamp lighted, and a bottle un- the road; and he turned in time to corked. He was not altogether unused meet a stranger, who was advancing to such complimentary interviews, and to meet him across the court. There hoped little enough from this one, was something like the outline of a being schooled by many disappoint- great carriage discernible on the road be ments. A sort of cloud had settled on hind the stranger, and, above that, a few his wits, and prevented him from re- black pine-tops, like so many plumes. membering the strangeness o f the hour. “ Master W ill ? ” asked the new- He moved like a person in his sleep; comer, in brief military fashion. and it seemed as if the lamp caught “ That same, sir,” answered W ill. fire and the bottle carne uncorked with “ Can I do anything to serve you ? ” the facility of thought. Still, he had I have heard you much spoken of, some curiosity about the appearance of Master W ill,” returned the other; his visitor, and tried in vain to tura the “ much spoken of, and well. And light into his face; either he handled 92 93 Will o’ the Mili the lamp clumsily, or there was a dim- “ So am I,” continued the other; ness over his eyes; but he could make “ and it is the delight of my heart to out little more than a shadow at table tramp on people’s corns. I will have with him. He stared and stared at nobody positive but m yself; not one. this shadow, as he wiped out the I have crossed the whims, in my time, glasses, and began to feel cold and of kings and generals and great artists. strange about the heart. The silence And what would you say,” he went on, weighed upon him, for he could hear “ if I had come up here on purpose to nothing now, not even the river, but cross yours ? ” the drumming of his own arteries in W ill had it on his tongue to make a his ears. sharp rejoinder; but the politeness of “ Here’s to you,” said the stranger, an old innkeeper prevailed; and he roughly. held his peace, and made answer with “ Here is my Service, sir,” replied a civil gesture of the hand. W ill, sipping his wine, which somehow “ I have,” said the stranger. “ And tasted oddly. if I did not hold you in a particular “ I understand you are a very posi esteem I should make no words about tive fellow,” pursued the stranger. the matter. It appears you pride your- W ill made answer with a smile of self on staying where you are. You some satisfaction and a little nod. mean to stick by your inn. Now I 94 95 ¿HWill o’ the Mili mean you shall come for a turn with me in my barouche; and before this God^ knows I am tired enough of it bottle’s empty, so you shall.” a ll; and when the time comes for a “ That would be an odd thing, to be longer journey than ever you dream sure,” replied W ill, with a chuckle. of, I reckon I shall find myself “ W hT sir, I have grown here like an prepared.” oíd oak-tree; the devil himself could The stranger emptied his glass, and hardly root me up ; and for all I per- pushed it away from him. He looked ceive you are a very entertaining oíd down for a little, and then, leaning gentleman, I would wager you another over the table, tapped W ill three times bottle you lose your pains with me.” upon the forearm with a single finger. The dimness of W ill’s eyesight had “ The time has com e! ” he said, been increasing all this w hile; but he solemnly. was somehow conscious of a sharp and An ugly thrill spread from the spot chilling scrutiny which irritated and he touched. The tones of his voice yet overmastered him. were dull and startling, and echoed “ You need not think,” he broke strangely in W ill’s heart. out suddenly, in an explosive, febrile “ I beg your pardon,” he said, with manner that startled and alarmed him some discomposure. “ W hat do you self, “ that I am a stay-at-home, be- mean ? ” 96 97 jHWill o’ the Mill “ Look at me, and you will find Will o’ the Mili your eyesight swim. Raise your hand; it is dead-heavy. This is your last quiet, it has been long of coming, and bottle of wine, Master Will, and your you have had long to discipline your- last night upon the earth.” self for its reception. You have seen “ You are a doctor?” quavered what is to be seen about your m ili; W ill. you have sat cióse all your days like a “ The best that ever was,” replied haré in its form; but now that is at an the other; “ for I cure both mind and end; and,” added the doctor, getting body with the same prescription. I on his feet, “ you must arise and come with me.” take away all pain and I forgive all sins ; and where my patients have gone “ You are a strange physician,” said wrong in life, I smooth out all compli- W ill, looking steadfastly upon his guest. cations and set them free again upon their feet.” “ I am a natural law,” he replied, “ I have no need of you,” said W ill. “ and people cali me Death.” “ A time comes for all men, Master “ W hy did you not tell me so at W ill,” replied the doctor, “ when the first?” cried W ill. « I have been helm is taken out of their hands. For waiting for you these many years. Give you, because you were prudent and me your hand, and welcome.” 98 “ Lean upon my arm,” said the stranger, “ for already your strength 99 #4 Will o’ the Mill Will o’ the Mili abates. Lean on me heavily as you pawing before he dropped asleep again; need; for though I am oíd, I am very all down the valley that night there was strong. It is but three steps to my a rushing as of a smooth and steady carriage, and there all your trouble wind descending toward the plain ; and ends. W hy, W ill,” he added, “ I have when the world rose next morning, been yearning for you as if you were sure enough W ill o’ the Mili had gone my own son; and of all the men that at last upon his travels. ever I carne for in my long days, I have come for you most gladly. I am càus tic, and sometimes offend people at first sight; but I am a good friend at heart to such as you.” THE END. “ Since Marjory was taken,” re- turned W ill, “ I declare before God you were the only friend I had to look for.” So the pair went arm-in-arm across the courtyard. One of the servants awoke about this time and heard the noise of horses ioo '¡y-'üük - i-,'1