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| Northern Lights and other psychic stories by E. D'Espérance. Author of Shadowland London George Redway 1899 |
The mill stream
There stands a house by the side of a stream - the Mill Stream they call it for, a little bit higher, like a ghost in its garment of flour, stands the Mill, and through it comes rushing the stream with a whirring, a churring, and a clang, making the wheels and machinery turn and writhe, and the stones to revolve till the head is dizzy, and ears are deaf with the noise and the clatter.
The men, like phantoms in grave-clothes, are holding high revel, laughing and talking; jumping about in a manner not seemly to spirits of men from the churchyard. They work and whistle and sing, receive the corn from the farmers, grind it to meal in the mill, and deliver the same to its owners.
The stream, after doing its duty in turning the wheel for the miller, goes roaring and foaming and dashing, twisting and turning and clashing, twirling and curling and eddying round, as though in vexation of spirit; splashing and crashing and rushing along with a din and roar and noise, like an illhumoured giant disturbed in his sleep, or the distant verberation of thunder.
Lower still the tumult is over, the roaring and clashing have ceased, and the stream moves placidly on between the hill, as though nothing could ruffle its smoothness, reflection the trees and bushes which grow on its borders, smiling up in the face of the heavens, reflecting its light or its darkness, the sunlight, the moon, and the starlight, with an air serene and happy, like one who has passed through, the troubles of life, experienced all of life's evils - and having overcome them, is now content not to heed them.
In the house by stream dwelt the miller, - the miller, his wife and his daughter. Six days of the seven he worked in his mill, from early to late in the summer. Stout, brawny, and strong was his frame; in years perhaps numbering fifty - though of this no one could be certain; for the hair on his head and his face was as white as the hair of a man full of years, the term of his earth-life completed; white with year, said some; and some, with the flour of his neighbours.
When the day's work was over and evening had come, he would sit with a neighbour and gossip of crops, of cattle, of markets, of this thing and that, till the hour drew night for retiring; then the doors are closed, the curtains drawn, and the pipe replaced in his pocket; composing his features, the round face growing lengthy and long as becomes the solemn occasion, he draws his chair to the table, inclining his head to his wife without speaking, whereupon she, understanding, inclines also her head to her daughter. Then taking their seats they sit silent, with eyes downcast and fingers demurely folded. With reverend looks and sober mien he opens the well-thumbed volume, and takes from between its leaves the spectacles placed there to mark the pages last read.
These fixed on his nose, and the lesson picked out for the evening, the head of the house commences expounding the Scriptures.
He reads of the children of Israel in Egypt, of the trial they suffered in bondage; how the Lord sent a man of their race to the king, to beseech him on behalf of the people, to lighten their labours, and let them depart in peace to the land of their fathers; how the king, much persuaded and counselled, consented at last to grant the prayer of the captives; how the Lord, then did harden his decision; how the Lord in anger sent plagues and disorders and darkness and death: first softened the heart of the king by affliction, and then, for some righteous reason, did harden again, and cause him to recant the promises made in his weakness; and then, to punish the king's hardness of heart, and to publish His own just indignation, the Lord did send down an angel from heaven to kill all the first-born of Egypt.
In tones solemn and slow the miller read, pausing now and again with uplifted eyes, that glanced through the horn rim of his glasses, to mark the effect of his words on his hearers; and when he had finished the chapter he closed with this observation - "Such are the wonderful ways of the Lord, and His mercy endureth for ever."
"Methinkis," said Ruth, the miller's young daughter, "that the mercy in this case was a-wanting; it scarcely was just to punish the nation because the king had incurred His displeasure; and when He Himself hardened the heart of the king, was it right He should punish the people?"
The miller looked up in angry displeasure. "Things," he said, "are coming on strangely, if this be the way children talk to their elders. Who taught you to judge of the Lord or His mercy? Not your mother, I ween, nor His mercy? Not your mother, I ween, nor would the parson give you such ill-advised counsel. Surely the Lord may do what He likes with His own, without asking permission of those He created. Flee to your closet, and pray that His wrath may not overtake you for daring to question His justice."
It chanced at that time that the wife of the miller was engrossed with the cares of her household, her larder and dairy, and all the things thereto pertaining. As soon as her husband had gone to the mill she would be up and a-smoking and drying of bacon and ham, a-pressing and moulding of cheese, stirring and scolding and bustling around, taking care that no fingers were idle. Such scrubbing and scouring, and brightening of pans, such washing and rubbing of dishes, preserving of fruits and baking of bread, pies, pastry, and delicate dishes.
For a stranger was coming that day to sojourn in the house of the miller; a slender young stripling of twenty-five summers was about to seek, in the house of the miller, the good health he had lost in the city; "lost for the want of good food," said the wife of the miller; so she laid a fresh stock in her larder, determined no efforts of hers should be spared to recruit the weak health of the stranger. Then when he arrived, pale, weary, and weak, she gave strict instructions to her daughter to tend well the wants of her guest, that he might not grow weary and pine for home counsel to hold in subjection her childish and hoydenish spirit; to be prudent and grave, and hold herself with all maiden decorum; to neglect not her spinning nor weaving, lest the stranger should take back a tale to the town of the unthrifty child of the miller. Still further she gravely advised her to study her Bible and psalm-book, to impress on her mind the words of the Lord, and pray for His grace to redeem her; to have faith in His wisdom and mercy; not to think and make seditious speeches like the sons and daughters of Belial, for they suffer severely for all their rebellion and treason, who question the right of the Lord.
Thus with motherly counsel did she talk to her daughter, but alas! the maiden was fair, and Philip, the stranger, was comely. Moreover the stranger was sick. Right well the girl observed her mother's behest, and looked well to the wants of the stranger. She would sit by his side on the bank while he fished in the river, or, when he was weary, would sing with soft musical cadence the words of the Psalmist; or sometimes he'd sit by her side at the wheel and help her to feed it; but somehow, their fingers entangled the thread, the wheel would buzz round, the thread snap and snarl, and Ruth would look up demurely - "It did it itself, I assure you - I really cannot understand it." The good wife, perplexed, would disentangle the thread and sigh for her daughter's shortcomings, and think of the time when she herself was a girl and worked by the side of her mother - had worked and sung psalms; would think of the flax and the wool she had carded and spun, of the piles of fine linen her own hands had woven, ere becoming the wife of the miller. It was sad to think how far maidens had fallen short since then.
Philip was grave for his years, with much thought and much learning. He talked to the maiden, and she loved to listen of the why and the wherefore of things, the reason for this and for that. And things that had once been to her a puzzle were explained and made clear to her mind. He would talk of the Scriptures, of the monk who translated them from the scripts and quaintly writ letters on parchments; would discourse of the lives of the holy apostles, their fastings, their trials and teaching, extolling the greatness and goodness of God who inspired them and gave them such courage.
And the maiden would listen intently with wondering eyes, admiring deeply the knowledge possessed by her teacher. When Philip encountered her soft gaze he grew greatly perplexed and bewildered; and found his heart palpitating, in a manner both wild and unseemly. Then to his delight and amazement he discovered, that while he had been teaching he too had been learning a lesson, and, not to seem selfish or greedy, he taught it again. This was the lesson of love, which she to the full comprehended. And thus months passed away, and still at the house of the miller the stripling yet lingered, though his face had grown ruddy, and his limbs stout and strong, with good health. He "could study much better with Ruth by his side," was the excuse he made to the miller. And the miller, well pleased that his child should have won the heart of Philip the scholar, was content to see the bright faces of the twain, as they walked hand in hand through the meadows, or talked of the time when the two should be one, and live in a cottage together; how Philip would teach the good tidings to men, and point out the straight road to heaven; how Ruth should help in the care of his flock, and teach in the school of a Sabbath; how, like two happy children, they ever would be a-living and loving each other, for, till death should divide them they never would part; and perhaps they might both die together, like those who had lived undivided on earth, and death did not try to disserver.
At length the autumn had come, and Philip must go to the city - must go to the city, and there be ordained by the bishop. Then after a while he'd return to the mill, to claim his young bride from her father. The day of departure too quickly drew near, and Ruth, with her face pale and tearful, clung tight to her lover, a-trembling with fear.
"Suppose you fell sick," she said, "as you did once before in the city; suppose you should die and I never to see you! Something clutches my heart, and I seem like to die with the feeling; and in spite of all reason there's something that tells me, that when you depart in the morning I never again shall behold you. Something will happen, one of us will die, and we shall meet no more till we wake up in heaven." It was in vain that he soothed her, for, strange to say, he too felt the same premonition, but laughing, he said; "If I die I'll come to you; for I love you too dearly to leave you; even heaven itself would be dreary and dull, if you were not there beside me."
Thoughtless he spoke to beguile her strange fears, but she, in her terror, believing, repeated his words with so solemn an air, that their import did startle him strangely. Then holding her close to his heart, as he spoke in tones that were solemn and reverent, they repeated the words; "If either should die, and spirits may come back from heaven, that will we do, that the grave may be robbed of its terror, and death be robbed of its sting. Still living and loving we'll comfort the other with patience and calmness and hope the time that shall see us united."
This said, their hearts got rid of the burden of care and deep gloom which oppressed them, and Ruth, with a smile, half of love, half contrition, said low in a whisper to Philip: "I'm ashamed of my fears, but remember, whenever death may divide us, we'll think of our vow, and maintain the compact quite sacred."
The autumn had come, with a breath of the north, painting with artistic fancy the leaves of the trees and mosses and ferns with patches of russet and yellow. The jessamine and clematis, climbing the porch, were resplendent with crimson and gold, as though they had stolen some fire from the sun, when he lingered to kiss them "Good evening." The fruits were all ripe, and the harvest was in; the farmers rejoiced at the plenty. The sun still shone brightly, but the wind it grew cool, and came through sobbing. The souls of the trees were grieved for the pain, and shed golden tears in their sorrow, till the ground was strewn with heaps of brown leaves, which the wind, in its wild gusty passion, whirled high in the air, then twisted round, and scattered them over the meadows. The mosses crept down from the trunks of the trees, till the gnarled rugged bark was left naked. The squirrels sat solemnly eating their nuts among the few leaves still remaining, a-trembling with cold as the breeze swept along; so they made up their mind that winter was near, and scampered away to their dwellings. The birds had gone southwards looking for summer; only sparrows and robin were left to cogitate over the ways and the means, or to converse with grave speculation on the truth of the proverb, that winters were long when the hips and the haws were in plenty; for the hips and the haws gleamed ruddy and bright on bare hedges of wildrose and hawthorn.
The Mill Stream 'neath the trees looked sulky and sad, as though vexed with having to carry the burden of leaves, which the wild wind had hurried down from the trees and the roadside. The wind grew colder and wilder and stronger, the rain came down in torrents. The birds took shelter in cranny and nook, and sleepily said to each other, "It is wiser to stay with our heads under our wings, then to go hopping about in such weather." The storms grew wilder, and more frequent and longer; but at last of the leaves of the trees, nor ferns, nor mosses, nor flowers; not a sound could be heard but the voice of the stream, or the chirping of obins of sparrows.
Then down fell the snow, and covered the earth in a garment of heavenly whiteness. One might almost have thought that the spring-time had come, and the trees had been laden with blossoms. The snow was so fair, so pure, that angels themselves up in heaven might have envied the homes of the mortals below and rejoiced in its fairness and beauty. Only the Mill Stream looked angry and grim, as blackly it hurried along, winding its sinuous way through the fields, like the serpent that crept into Eden.
The winter had come, and Ruth's heart it grew light, for Philip had said in a letter that, in spite of the frost, the snow, or the cold, they should spend a sweet Christmas together. Her eyes grew bright, for her heart was light, and with gladness was running over. Her voice ever raised in a song of sweet praise for the love and the blessings around her. So swiftly the time of his absence had passed, preparing the clothes for the wedding, that in spite of the longing for Christmas to come, the days seemed too short for their labour. But now all was ready, and in the old church their names had been "called" by the parson. Nothing had happened, and Philip was well, and Ruth had all fears nigh forgotten. Bright and gay as a bird, she carroled and sang, a-filling the old house with music, till the robins themselves closed their little black eyes, and their heads set to one side to listen.
'Twas the even of Christmas; the work was done, the miller was home from the mill. Ruth's heart it beat high at every strange sound; her cheek it was crimson with blushes, as her father would give a sly glance at her face, and whisper, "Surely this is him coming." The snow had been falling, but now it had ceased, and all the bright stars were a-shining; and through the bare branches of trees by the stream the new silver moon was a-peeping. The air it was frosty and cutting and keen; the icicles hung from the housetops, or clung to the trees and the stones and the hedges, a-glinthing and gleaming like jewels. Inpatient and restless, Ruth stood by the door, unheeding the cold wintry weather. Surely never before were horses so slow or coaches so tardy a coming. "Nother, give me my hood; I'll run down the lane, for I'm certain that something has happened."
The miller looked up with a smile at his wife, and she laughed as she glanced at her daughter. Ruth blushed, turned away with the hood on her head, paused just for a moment to listen; then hearing the sound of the coach on the road, she glanced once more in at the kitchen. It all looked so cosy, so home-like and warm; the table was spread; her parents were sitting close by the fire, he reading, she knitting, both waiting the coming Philip. Ruth's heart swelled with love for her parents and home; just then in her heart they stood brightest. Turning back to the chair where her father was seated, she curled his white locks round her fingers; turning them round and round, till at last his neck with her arm she encircled; and dropping her head to his cheek, she kissed him, lingering, waiting, yet wanting to go. A feeling momentous possessed her. "Will you not come too, to the end of the lane?" she said in the ear of the miller. But her father just laughed: "No, no, I'm too old to expose my limbs to the frost and the cold, for I'm not in love with young Philip." So Ruth laughing lightly, ran out of the house, saying brightly: "I'll stop just ten minutes."
The minute-hand of the old kitchen clock just pointed ten minutes to seven; but Philip arrived ere it chimed out the hour, and all the first greetings were over. "Where is Ruth?" he asked, after waiting awhile for the sound of her voice or her footsteps. "Where is Ruth?" for the missed the sweet "Welcome," for which all the day he'd been longing. "Where is Ruth?" "Ah! she went out to meet you, I wonder that you did not see her; but she will not be long; she said she'd be back in ten minutes."
Ten minutes, twenty, and hour had passed by, and still no signs of returning. They sought the lane through, from the house to the village, over hill, over dale, over meadows. The whole of the villagers turned out that night, with shouts and lanterns to find her. But all was in vain; no trace of the maiden was found. In tearless anguish the mother prayed for some voice from heaven to guide them. But no voice replied, not a sound could be heard, e'en the voice of the Mill Stream was silent, for the ice on its surface was creeping. Only the cries of the searchers were heard, as they echoed all over the valleys.
The morning of Christmas dawned brightly and clear, but all was woe in the village. No dinners were eaten, no sermons were preached, for the pastor himself had said to them, with tears in his eyes and trembling tones: "It is better to work than be talking."
And he worked with the men who, with shovels and spades, every heap of the snow did turn over. From daylight till darkening they delved and they dug, but never a sign of the maiden. Then torches they made them, and worked by their light, although they knew well if they found her life would be flown, and 'twas only the clay they could give to the arms of the mother. But Philip's pale face, her mother's sad moans, and the noiseless grief of the miller, spurred them on in their work, and they felt no fatigue, till at last no spot was left covered where either a fox o a hare could have hidden. one by one, slowly, they gave up the search, and returned to their homes in the village.
To the house, with the miller, the parson returned, and endeavoured with Christian patience to bring consolation and calmness where all now was woe and lamenting. It is hard to believe that all works for good, when nothing but evil is present; so they thought and they felt, when he prayed them to say: "Whatever Thou doest, O Lord, it is good; for Thy mercy endureth for aye." "We know," said the pastor, his eyes streamed as he spoke, for Ruth was to him as a daughter. "We know the great wonders He works for our good, and in all things a blessing is hidden. Who knows what a joy may come out of affliction, tough in this case at present 'tis hid? Yet, sometimes, when peace has softened your hearts, a gleam of bright you may come to you, borne of this very affliction. Great troubles come to us, but while we are brooding, and black melancholy sits still in our hearts, a star shines through the clouds; at first 'tis but small, but ere long it illumines the darkness, and we bask in the light and rejoice in the brightness, forgetting the clouds, and loving the light better, because we at first had the darkness. The darkness is round you to-day; well I know it; have faith in God and His goodness. If Ruth has gone, 'tis but a while; you too will go sometime to join her. Think how brightly for you that morning will dawn, when, after the pain and sorrow, you close your eyes on the earth below, and join your loved daughter in heaven. And you, brother Philip, is your faith so weak that you need me to tell you your duty? You preach to your people the goodness of God, the need of faith and submission. Where is your faith? Can it not sustain you, and help you to bear this affliction? God has thought fit to lay His hand heavily on you, to chasten and teach you, to make you more humble. In love hath He done it, for those whom He loves doth He chasten. Bend down to the yoke and wear it, with faith, on your shoulders."
"'Tis easy to talk," said Philip, "of faith: I have, and thought I possessed it. Yet now, when I need it, I find it a word empty and devoid of meaning. When she stood beside me my faith was unbounded; this life, the next, all eternity opened before me. Not a doubt or a fear overshadowed my mind. Ruth lived; my knowledge of that gave me a foundation to build on. I loved God all the better, because I loved her, because she lived and loved me. She is dead, and for ever, as far as I know, I never again shall behold her. The future is black to my eyes as the starless midnight of winter. And I know that I never had faith. I was only happy in knowledge; taking for granted all that was preached, not using my reason; contented to hang my hopes upon other's talk; think, act, as did others. Now all is changed; when I need faith I find it is wanting. You are older then I an - help me to find it; give me something to hold on. Give proof that my darling is sleeping; that she will some day awake, and my eyes shall behold her, as though nothing had happened to part us. Do you know it for certain? Say you do. I'll believe you. I know you're a good man and true. If you know it, oh help me to learn it as well. Teach me faith, teach me life is immortal!"
With horror the old man looked down on his friend, his friend whom he thought almost saintly. "God help you, my brother! I fear that I cannot. No faith! A, how can I help you? Faith cannot be tanght, it comes of itself, a breath from the angels in heaven. It comes not by logic, nor reason, not thought, it is inspiration from heaven."
It was the day that had been set for the wedding; the sun had gone to its rest. The house was still; its inmates slept - all slept, save Philip; he alone was awake. The old folks, weary with grief, had gone to their beds, entreating him to do likewise. Still he sat by the fire with gloomy eyes fixed on its embers, watching the flickering lights gleam and then expire anon to rise up more brightly.
Unconscious his thoughts, which erstwhile had been fixed on his troubles, were turned and absorbed by the fanciful shapes of the embers. Two flames danced together, now rising, now falling, now steady, now waving, but always keeping together, and childlike, he named them - one Ruth and one Philip; and he watched them intently, feeling strange interest in every moment; Philip the larger, more steady and stable, Ruth smaller and brighter, more waving. Like a child ha endowed them with fictitious life, weaving a future before them, as once he had woven for Ruth and himself; when, crash! falls the coal with so sudden a sound, he starts from his seat with a groan. Remorseful, his thoughts from his troubles had wavered, to weave such pictures fantastic. When again he glanced at the fire, the flame he called Ruth was lost in the blackness of coal; not spark nor a gleam of it left. Ruth was dead, the light from the embers had fallen; only the flame he called Philip was left.
Again his wandering fancy endowed it with being; he watched it quiver and tremble, and hang o'er the blackness into which the other had fallen. And he bitterly said to himself: "So must my life be henceforward, striving with vain endeavour to pierce the darkness before me; to see beyond death and the grave which engulfed her; longing myself to die, and solve the mystery, yet clinging to life, and fearing the end of existence, fearing that this is the whole, and the end to be found in the graveyard. How can preach life immortal to men, when I myself cannot believe it! O God! give me faith! nay more, give me knowledge; grant me one inspiration from heaven. Not for myself do I ask it alone, but for those who call me their teacher. Send light in my darkness! O God! give me truth to lighten the burden of others!"
So he prayed, and he wrestled, like Jacob of old, for knowledge and wisdom to guide him. His breast was torn with conflicting emotions; with grief for his loss and gloomy forebodings, distrust for the future, remorse for the past, doubts and fears of the life everlasting. Long he fought, long he prayed, as one fighting a battle that ends either in life or in death; till worn out and weary, his strength all exhausted, from weakness itself a calmness came o'er him; and he sobbed as a child sobs to sleep, and he dreamed.
He dreamed that a bright form came near him with looks full of love and compassion, that soft tender hands were laid light on his brow! And, lifting his head from his bosom, he saw the figure of Ruth there beside him! his Ruth, as of yore, though strangely transfigured, and light with heavenly radiance. Was he mad? Was he dreaming? Did his eyes not deceive him? Was it really his darling beside him, or had reason deserted its throne? He gasped for breath, with an agonised cry, his hands outstretched in appealing: "Ruth! Ruth! is it you? 'tis not madness, not dreaming? oh, speak! my heart hungers to hear you!"
Then accents familiar fell soft on his ear, words of love and tender compassion, of warning, of teaching, and gentle upbraiding, bidding him master his grief and go forth on his mission: "Teach men their duty to God, and themselves; teach mercy and kindness and goodness of heart, to bear with the failing of others. teach them they are the seed in the garden of earth, that must afterward open in heaven. Nay more - teach them this - that every vile thought, bad action, or vicious desire, will rest like a blight on the seed, and canker-like eat of its substance till only the heart of it is left, - the life which no worm can destroy. Then, when this life is done, and the seed is removed, the work of the earth-life is wasted in sorrow, in pain, in useless remorse, vain regrets, and wearying longings. The work must be done that on earth once was committed; not by repentance alone, but by work, as one who has builded a house, and finds its foundation unsteady, finds it vain to endeavour by building it higher to make it more safe and secure; the whole superstructure must come to the ground, the fault rooted out and repaired. If the seed be not good, then the plant must be stunted and weak in its growing. Cheer them on in their troubles, help them carry their burdens; tell them the lost ones still live and hover about them; tell them they die not, nor sleep not, but ever are waiting to help them, with love and with sympathy, longing to greet them not far away, but just by a veil separated, trying to guide them, and urge them with beckoning finger, onwards, into regions of knowledge and light."
So she talked, and he listened, not daring to speak, while into his soul came a calmness as came on the waves of Galilee's sea, when the voice of the Lord had said, "Peace!" Many wondered thereafter, who looked on his face, and said: "He was not greived to lose her," for the light had returned to his eyes; to his cheek had come back the colour. But his voice it was softer, his manner more mild, forbearing and gentle. Grief had all vanished, hope dwelt in its place, and faith that had come there by knowledge.
....
When the winter was over and springtime had come, the ice and the snow had all melted; then they found what they sought - the body of Ruth - that lay 'neath the rushing mill-waters. Then those that were watching him say a few tears crept down his cheek, but he smiled to himself as he said, "Not lost, only changed, yet ever my own, my teacher, my helper, my friend."
Since then years have flown. The miller has gone, and his wife, full of years rejoicing, has joined him. Only Philip is left, and old man and grey, with the burden of years on his shoulders; a seed almost ripe for the planting. In his church on a Sabbath, he preaches to men, tells them of the life everlasting.
Right dearly they love him, the kindly old man, whose life to their troubles come children and men, and make him their father confessor; tell him their follies and trials, and feeling the better because of the love that he bears them. Their burdens grow light when he, with kind sympathy, helps them. 'Tis said in a whisper, that when all is still, he talks with the spirits from heaven; that the spirit of Ruth ever wits by his side; young Ruth, who was drowned in the stream. Some say they have seen her, some say they have heard her, conversing in soft tones with Philip. But they love him no less, but rather the more, that he holds close communion with heaven.
He teaches the doctrine of love to the world, he frights not with terror and darkness. "God is love" is the creed that he teaches; and further - that, as all men from God are forthcoming, and ever to God are returning, their lives and their actions, every one, should be to His honour and glory.
There he lives in the house by the stream; the Mill-Stream they call it, for a little higher there stands the remains of a mill. And through it comes rushing, the stream, whirring and churring along, making strange sounds as it goes; but no longer the wheels and machinery turn, nor the stones revolve, as in the days of the miller of old; the mill is deserted, and another is built where the vorn is ground for the farmers. Still the stream goes raring and foaming; twisting and truning and clashing, twirling and curling and eddying round, as though in vexation of spirit; splashing and crashing and rushing along, with a dash and a roar like the distant verberation of thunder.
Lower down it widens and opens into a lagoon, bordered with larches and willows. It smiles in the air of the heavens, reflection the glory of sunlight. Peaceful and smooth is its surface, undisturbed by the tumult above it. Calm and serene, it flows gently along towards the end of the journey. Peaceful and happy, content with its lot and its station. Like one who has passed through the troubles of life; experienced all of life's evils - overcome them; and now, content with his work, is gliding along to the haven.
The men, like phantoms in grave-clothes, are holding high revel, laughing and talking; jumping about in a manner not seemly to spirits of men from the churchyard. They work and whistle and sing, receive the corn from the farmers, grind it to meal in the mill, and deliver the same to its owners.
The stream, after doing its duty in turning the wheel for the miller, goes roaring and foaming and dashing, twisting and turning and clashing, twirling and curling and eddying round, as though in vexation of spirit; splashing and crashing and rushing along with a din and roar and noise, like an illhumoured giant disturbed in his sleep, or the distant verberation of thunder.
Lower still the tumult is over, the roaring and clashing have ceased, and the stream moves placidly on between the hill, as though nothing could ruffle its smoothness, reflection the trees and bushes which grow on its borders, smiling up in the face of the heavens, reflecting its light or its darkness, the sunlight, the moon, and the starlight, with an air serene and happy, like one who has passed through, the troubles of life, experienced all of life's evils - and having overcome them, is now content not to heed them.
In the house by stream dwelt the miller, - the miller, his wife and his daughter. Six days of the seven he worked in his mill, from early to late in the summer. Stout, brawny, and strong was his frame; in years perhaps numbering fifty - though of this no one could be certain; for the hair on his head and his face was as white as the hair of a man full of years, the term of his earth-life completed; white with year, said some; and some, with the flour of his neighbours.
When the day's work was over and evening had come, he would sit with a neighbour and gossip of crops, of cattle, of markets, of this thing and that, till the hour drew night for retiring; then the doors are closed, the curtains drawn, and the pipe replaced in his pocket; composing his features, the round face growing lengthy and long as becomes the solemn occasion, he draws his chair to the table, inclining his head to his wife without speaking, whereupon she, understanding, inclines also her head to her daughter. Then taking their seats they sit silent, with eyes downcast and fingers demurely folded. With reverend looks and sober mien he opens the well-thumbed volume, and takes from between its leaves the spectacles placed there to mark the pages last read.
These fixed on his nose, and the lesson picked out for the evening, the head of the house commences expounding the Scriptures.
He reads of the children of Israel in Egypt, of the trial they suffered in bondage; how the Lord sent a man of their race to the king, to beseech him on behalf of the people, to lighten their labours, and let them depart in peace to the land of their fathers; how the king, much persuaded and counselled, consented at last to grant the prayer of the captives; how the Lord, then did harden his decision; how the Lord in anger sent plagues and disorders and darkness and death: first softened the heart of the king by affliction, and then, for some righteous reason, did harden again, and cause him to recant the promises made in his weakness; and then, to punish the king's hardness of heart, and to publish His own just indignation, the Lord did send down an angel from heaven to kill all the first-born of Egypt.
In tones solemn and slow the miller read, pausing now and again with uplifted eyes, that glanced through the horn rim of his glasses, to mark the effect of his words on his hearers; and when he had finished the chapter he closed with this observation - "Such are the wonderful ways of the Lord, and His mercy endureth for ever."
"Methinkis," said Ruth, the miller's young daughter, "that the mercy in this case was a-wanting; it scarcely was just to punish the nation because the king had incurred His displeasure; and when He Himself hardened the heart of the king, was it right He should punish the people?"
The miller looked up in angry displeasure. "Things," he said, "are coming on strangely, if this be the way children talk to their elders. Who taught you to judge of the Lord or His mercy? Not your mother, I ween, nor His mercy? Not your mother, I ween, nor would the parson give you such ill-advised counsel. Surely the Lord may do what He likes with His own, without asking permission of those He created. Flee to your closet, and pray that His wrath may not overtake you for daring to question His justice."
It chanced at that time that the wife of the miller was engrossed with the cares of her household, her larder and dairy, and all the things thereto pertaining. As soon as her husband had gone to the mill she would be up and a-smoking and drying of bacon and ham, a-pressing and moulding of cheese, stirring and scolding and bustling around, taking care that no fingers were idle. Such scrubbing and scouring, and brightening of pans, such washing and rubbing of dishes, preserving of fruits and baking of bread, pies, pastry, and delicate dishes.
For a stranger was coming that day to sojourn in the house of the miller; a slender young stripling of twenty-five summers was about to seek, in the house of the miller, the good health he had lost in the city; "lost for the want of good food," said the wife of the miller; so she laid a fresh stock in her larder, determined no efforts of hers should be spared to recruit the weak health of the stranger. Then when he arrived, pale, weary, and weak, she gave strict instructions to her daughter to tend well the wants of her guest, that he might not grow weary and pine for home counsel to hold in subjection her childish and hoydenish spirit; to be prudent and grave, and hold herself with all maiden decorum; to neglect not her spinning nor weaving, lest the stranger should take back a tale to the town of the unthrifty child of the miller. Still further she gravely advised her to study her Bible and psalm-book, to impress on her mind the words of the Lord, and pray for His grace to redeem her; to have faith in His wisdom and mercy; not to think and make seditious speeches like the sons and daughters of Belial, for they suffer severely for all their rebellion and treason, who question the right of the Lord.
Thus with motherly counsel did she talk to her daughter, but alas! the maiden was fair, and Philip, the stranger, was comely. Moreover the stranger was sick. Right well the girl observed her mother's behest, and looked well to the wants of the stranger. She would sit by his side on the bank while he fished in the river, or, when he was weary, would sing with soft musical cadence the words of the Psalmist; or sometimes he'd sit by her side at the wheel and help her to feed it; but somehow, their fingers entangled the thread, the wheel would buzz round, the thread snap and snarl, and Ruth would look up demurely - "It did it itself, I assure you - I really cannot understand it." The good wife, perplexed, would disentangle the thread and sigh for her daughter's shortcomings, and think of the time when she herself was a girl and worked by the side of her mother - had worked and sung psalms; would think of the flax and the wool she had carded and spun, of the piles of fine linen her own hands had woven, ere becoming the wife of the miller. It was sad to think how far maidens had fallen short since then.
Philip was grave for his years, with much thought and much learning. He talked to the maiden, and she loved to listen of the why and the wherefore of things, the reason for this and for that. And things that had once been to her a puzzle were explained and made clear to her mind. He would talk of the Scriptures, of the monk who translated them from the scripts and quaintly writ letters on parchments; would discourse of the lives of the holy apostles, their fastings, their trials and teaching, extolling the greatness and goodness of God who inspired them and gave them such courage.
And the maiden would listen intently with wondering eyes, admiring deeply the knowledge possessed by her teacher. When Philip encountered her soft gaze he grew greatly perplexed and bewildered; and found his heart palpitating, in a manner both wild and unseemly. Then to his delight and amazement he discovered, that while he had been teaching he too had been learning a lesson, and, not to seem selfish or greedy, he taught it again. This was the lesson of love, which she to the full comprehended. And thus months passed away, and still at the house of the miller the stripling yet lingered, though his face had grown ruddy, and his limbs stout and strong, with good health. He "could study much better with Ruth by his side," was the excuse he made to the miller. And the miller, well pleased that his child should have won the heart of Philip the scholar, was content to see the bright faces of the twain, as they walked hand in hand through the meadows, or talked of the time when the two should be one, and live in a cottage together; how Philip would teach the good tidings to men, and point out the straight road to heaven; how Ruth should help in the care of his flock, and teach in the school of a Sabbath; how, like two happy children, they ever would be a-living and loving each other, for, till death should divide them they never would part; and perhaps they might both die together, like those who had lived undivided on earth, and death did not try to disserver.
At length the autumn had come, and Philip must go to the city - must go to the city, and there be ordained by the bishop. Then after a while he'd return to the mill, to claim his young bride from her father. The day of departure too quickly drew near, and Ruth, with her face pale and tearful, clung tight to her lover, a-trembling with fear.
"Suppose you fell sick," she said, "as you did once before in the city; suppose you should die and I never to see you! Something clutches my heart, and I seem like to die with the feeling; and in spite of all reason there's something that tells me, that when you depart in the morning I never again shall behold you. Something will happen, one of us will die, and we shall meet no more till we wake up in heaven." It was in vain that he soothed her, for, strange to say, he too felt the same premonition, but laughing, he said; "If I die I'll come to you; for I love you too dearly to leave you; even heaven itself would be dreary and dull, if you were not there beside me."
Thoughtless he spoke to beguile her strange fears, but she, in her terror, believing, repeated his words with so solemn an air, that their import did startle him strangely. Then holding her close to his heart, as he spoke in tones that were solemn and reverent, they repeated the words; "If either should die, and spirits may come back from heaven, that will we do, that the grave may be robbed of its terror, and death be robbed of its sting. Still living and loving we'll comfort the other with patience and calmness and hope the time that shall see us united."
This said, their hearts got rid of the burden of care and deep gloom which oppressed them, and Ruth, with a smile, half of love, half contrition, said low in a whisper to Philip: "I'm ashamed of my fears, but remember, whenever death may divide us, we'll think of our vow, and maintain the compact quite sacred."
The autumn had come, with a breath of the north, painting with artistic fancy the leaves of the trees and mosses and ferns with patches of russet and yellow. The jessamine and clematis, climbing the porch, were resplendent with crimson and gold, as though they had stolen some fire from the sun, when he lingered to kiss them "Good evening." The fruits were all ripe, and the harvest was in; the farmers rejoiced at the plenty. The sun still shone brightly, but the wind it grew cool, and came through sobbing. The souls of the trees were grieved for the pain, and shed golden tears in their sorrow, till the ground was strewn with heaps of brown leaves, which the wind, in its wild gusty passion, whirled high in the air, then twisted round, and scattered them over the meadows. The mosses crept down from the trunks of the trees, till the gnarled rugged bark was left naked. The squirrels sat solemnly eating their nuts among the few leaves still remaining, a-trembling with cold as the breeze swept along; so they made up their mind that winter was near, and scampered away to their dwellings. The birds had gone southwards looking for summer; only sparrows and robin were left to cogitate over the ways and the means, or to converse with grave speculation on the truth of the proverb, that winters were long when the hips and the haws were in plenty; for the hips and the haws gleamed ruddy and bright on bare hedges of wildrose and hawthorn.
The Mill Stream 'neath the trees looked sulky and sad, as though vexed with having to carry the burden of leaves, which the wild wind had hurried down from the trees and the roadside. The wind grew colder and wilder and stronger, the rain came down in torrents. The birds took shelter in cranny and nook, and sleepily said to each other, "It is wiser to stay with our heads under our wings, then to go hopping about in such weather." The storms grew wilder, and more frequent and longer; but at last of the leaves of the trees, nor ferns, nor mosses, nor flowers; not a sound could be heard but the voice of the stream, or the chirping of obins of sparrows.
Then down fell the snow, and covered the earth in a garment of heavenly whiteness. One might almost have thought that the spring-time had come, and the trees had been laden with blossoms. The snow was so fair, so pure, that angels themselves up in heaven might have envied the homes of the mortals below and rejoiced in its fairness and beauty. Only the Mill Stream looked angry and grim, as blackly it hurried along, winding its sinuous way through the fields, like the serpent that crept into Eden.
The winter had come, and Ruth's heart it grew light, for Philip had said in a letter that, in spite of the frost, the snow, or the cold, they should spend a sweet Christmas together. Her eyes grew bright, for her heart was light, and with gladness was running over. Her voice ever raised in a song of sweet praise for the love and the blessings around her. So swiftly the time of his absence had passed, preparing the clothes for the wedding, that in spite of the longing for Christmas to come, the days seemed too short for their labour. But now all was ready, and in the old church their names had been "called" by the parson. Nothing had happened, and Philip was well, and Ruth had all fears nigh forgotten. Bright and gay as a bird, she carroled and sang, a-filling the old house with music, till the robins themselves closed their little black eyes, and their heads set to one side to listen.
'Twas the even of Christmas; the work was done, the miller was home from the mill. Ruth's heart it beat high at every strange sound; her cheek it was crimson with blushes, as her father would give a sly glance at her face, and whisper, "Surely this is him coming." The snow had been falling, but now it had ceased, and all the bright stars were a-shining; and through the bare branches of trees by the stream the new silver moon was a-peeping. The air it was frosty and cutting and keen; the icicles hung from the housetops, or clung to the trees and the stones and the hedges, a-glinthing and gleaming like jewels. Inpatient and restless, Ruth stood by the door, unheeding the cold wintry weather. Surely never before were horses so slow or coaches so tardy a coming. "Nother, give me my hood; I'll run down the lane, for I'm certain that something has happened."
The miller looked up with a smile at his wife, and she laughed as she glanced at her daughter. Ruth blushed, turned away with the hood on her head, paused just for a moment to listen; then hearing the sound of the coach on the road, she glanced once more in at the kitchen. It all looked so cosy, so home-like and warm; the table was spread; her parents were sitting close by the fire, he reading, she knitting, both waiting the coming Philip. Ruth's heart swelled with love for her parents and home; just then in her heart they stood brightest. Turning back to the chair where her father was seated, she curled his white locks round her fingers; turning them round and round, till at last his neck with her arm she encircled; and dropping her head to his cheek, she kissed him, lingering, waiting, yet wanting to go. A feeling momentous possessed her. "Will you not come too, to the end of the lane?" she said in the ear of the miller. But her father just laughed: "No, no, I'm too old to expose my limbs to the frost and the cold, for I'm not in love with young Philip." So Ruth laughing lightly, ran out of the house, saying brightly: "I'll stop just ten minutes."
The minute-hand of the old kitchen clock just pointed ten minutes to seven; but Philip arrived ere it chimed out the hour, and all the first greetings were over. "Where is Ruth?" he asked, after waiting awhile for the sound of her voice or her footsteps. "Where is Ruth?" for the missed the sweet "Welcome," for which all the day he'd been longing. "Where is Ruth?" "Ah! she went out to meet you, I wonder that you did not see her; but she will not be long; she said she'd be back in ten minutes."
Ten minutes, twenty, and hour had passed by, and still no signs of returning. They sought the lane through, from the house to the village, over hill, over dale, over meadows. The whole of the villagers turned out that night, with shouts and lanterns to find her. But all was in vain; no trace of the maiden was found. In tearless anguish the mother prayed for some voice from heaven to guide them. But no voice replied, not a sound could be heard, e'en the voice of the Mill Stream was silent, for the ice on its surface was creeping. Only the cries of the searchers were heard, as they echoed all over the valleys.
The morning of Christmas dawned brightly and clear, but all was woe in the village. No dinners were eaten, no sermons were preached, for the pastor himself had said to them, with tears in his eyes and trembling tones: "It is better to work than be talking."
And he worked with the men who, with shovels and spades, every heap of the snow did turn over. From daylight till darkening they delved and they dug, but never a sign of the maiden. Then torches they made them, and worked by their light, although they knew well if they found her life would be flown, and 'twas only the clay they could give to the arms of the mother. But Philip's pale face, her mother's sad moans, and the noiseless grief of the miller, spurred them on in their work, and they felt no fatigue, till at last no spot was left covered where either a fox o a hare could have hidden. one by one, slowly, they gave up the search, and returned to their homes in the village.
To the house, with the miller, the parson returned, and endeavoured with Christian patience to bring consolation and calmness where all now was woe and lamenting. It is hard to believe that all works for good, when nothing but evil is present; so they thought and they felt, when he prayed them to say: "Whatever Thou doest, O Lord, it is good; for Thy mercy endureth for aye." "We know," said the pastor, his eyes streamed as he spoke, for Ruth was to him as a daughter. "We know the great wonders He works for our good, and in all things a blessing is hidden. Who knows what a joy may come out of affliction, tough in this case at present 'tis hid? Yet, sometimes, when peace has softened your hearts, a gleam of bright you may come to you, borne of this very affliction. Great troubles come to us, but while we are brooding, and black melancholy sits still in our hearts, a star shines through the clouds; at first 'tis but small, but ere long it illumines the darkness, and we bask in the light and rejoice in the brightness, forgetting the clouds, and loving the light better, because we at first had the darkness. The darkness is round you to-day; well I know it; have faith in God and His goodness. If Ruth has gone, 'tis but a while; you too will go sometime to join her. Think how brightly for you that morning will dawn, when, after the pain and sorrow, you close your eyes on the earth below, and join your loved daughter in heaven. And you, brother Philip, is your faith so weak that you need me to tell you your duty? You preach to your people the goodness of God, the need of faith and submission. Where is your faith? Can it not sustain you, and help you to bear this affliction? God has thought fit to lay His hand heavily on you, to chasten and teach you, to make you more humble. In love hath He done it, for those whom He loves doth He chasten. Bend down to the yoke and wear it, with faith, on your shoulders."
"'Tis easy to talk," said Philip, "of faith: I have, and thought I possessed it. Yet now, when I need it, I find it a word empty and devoid of meaning. When she stood beside me my faith was unbounded; this life, the next, all eternity opened before me. Not a doubt or a fear overshadowed my mind. Ruth lived; my knowledge of that gave me a foundation to build on. I loved God all the better, because I loved her, because she lived and loved me. She is dead, and for ever, as far as I know, I never again shall behold her. The future is black to my eyes as the starless midnight of winter. And I know that I never had faith. I was only happy in knowledge; taking for granted all that was preached, not using my reason; contented to hang my hopes upon other's talk; think, act, as did others. Now all is changed; when I need faith I find it is wanting. You are older then I an - help me to find it; give me something to hold on. Give proof that my darling is sleeping; that she will some day awake, and my eyes shall behold her, as though nothing had happened to part us. Do you know it for certain? Say you do. I'll believe you. I know you're a good man and true. If you know it, oh help me to learn it as well. Teach me faith, teach me life is immortal!"
With horror the old man looked down on his friend, his friend whom he thought almost saintly. "God help you, my brother! I fear that I cannot. No faith! A, how can I help you? Faith cannot be tanght, it comes of itself, a breath from the angels in heaven. It comes not by logic, nor reason, not thought, it is inspiration from heaven."
It was the day that had been set for the wedding; the sun had gone to its rest. The house was still; its inmates slept - all slept, save Philip; he alone was awake. The old folks, weary with grief, had gone to their beds, entreating him to do likewise. Still he sat by the fire with gloomy eyes fixed on its embers, watching the flickering lights gleam and then expire anon to rise up more brightly.
Unconscious his thoughts, which erstwhile had been fixed on his troubles, were turned and absorbed by the fanciful shapes of the embers. Two flames danced together, now rising, now falling, now steady, now waving, but always keeping together, and childlike, he named them - one Ruth and one Philip; and he watched them intently, feeling strange interest in every moment; Philip the larger, more steady and stable, Ruth smaller and brighter, more waving. Like a child ha endowed them with fictitious life, weaving a future before them, as once he had woven for Ruth and himself; when, crash! falls the coal with so sudden a sound, he starts from his seat with a groan. Remorseful, his thoughts from his troubles had wavered, to weave such pictures fantastic. When again he glanced at the fire, the flame he called Ruth was lost in the blackness of coal; not spark nor a gleam of it left. Ruth was dead, the light from the embers had fallen; only the flame he called Philip was left.
Again his wandering fancy endowed it with being; he watched it quiver and tremble, and hang o'er the blackness into which the other had fallen. And he bitterly said to himself: "So must my life be henceforward, striving with vain endeavour to pierce the darkness before me; to see beyond death and the grave which engulfed her; longing myself to die, and solve the mystery, yet clinging to life, and fearing the end of existence, fearing that this is the whole, and the end to be found in the graveyard. How can preach life immortal to men, when I myself cannot believe it! O God! give me faith! nay more, give me knowledge; grant me one inspiration from heaven. Not for myself do I ask it alone, but for those who call me their teacher. Send light in my darkness! O God! give me truth to lighten the burden of others!"
So he prayed, and he wrestled, like Jacob of old, for knowledge and wisdom to guide him. His breast was torn with conflicting emotions; with grief for his loss and gloomy forebodings, distrust for the future, remorse for the past, doubts and fears of the life everlasting. Long he fought, long he prayed, as one fighting a battle that ends either in life or in death; till worn out and weary, his strength all exhausted, from weakness itself a calmness came o'er him; and he sobbed as a child sobs to sleep, and he dreamed.
He dreamed that a bright form came near him with looks full of love and compassion, that soft tender hands were laid light on his brow! And, lifting his head from his bosom, he saw the figure of Ruth there beside him! his Ruth, as of yore, though strangely transfigured, and light with heavenly radiance. Was he mad? Was he dreaming? Did his eyes not deceive him? Was it really his darling beside him, or had reason deserted its throne? He gasped for breath, with an agonised cry, his hands outstretched in appealing: "Ruth! Ruth! is it you? 'tis not madness, not dreaming? oh, speak! my heart hungers to hear you!"
Then accents familiar fell soft on his ear, words of love and tender compassion, of warning, of teaching, and gentle upbraiding, bidding him master his grief and go forth on his mission: "Teach men their duty to God, and themselves; teach mercy and kindness and goodness of heart, to bear with the failing of others. teach them they are the seed in the garden of earth, that must afterward open in heaven. Nay more - teach them this - that every vile thought, bad action, or vicious desire, will rest like a blight on the seed, and canker-like eat of its substance till only the heart of it is left, - the life which no worm can destroy. Then, when this life is done, and the seed is removed, the work of the earth-life is wasted in sorrow, in pain, in useless remorse, vain regrets, and wearying longings. The work must be done that on earth once was committed; not by repentance alone, but by work, as one who has builded a house, and finds its foundation unsteady, finds it vain to endeavour by building it higher to make it more safe and secure; the whole superstructure must come to the ground, the fault rooted out and repaired. If the seed be not good, then the plant must be stunted and weak in its growing. Cheer them on in their troubles, help them carry their burdens; tell them the lost ones still live and hover about them; tell them they die not, nor sleep not, but ever are waiting to help them, with love and with sympathy, longing to greet them not far away, but just by a veil separated, trying to guide them, and urge them with beckoning finger, onwards, into regions of knowledge and light."
So she talked, and he listened, not daring to speak, while into his soul came a calmness as came on the waves of Galilee's sea, when the voice of the Lord had said, "Peace!" Many wondered thereafter, who looked on his face, and said: "He was not greived to lose her," for the light had returned to his eyes; to his cheek had come back the colour. But his voice it was softer, his manner more mild, forbearing and gentle. Grief had all vanished, hope dwelt in its place, and faith that had come there by knowledge.
....
When the winter was over and springtime had come, the ice and the snow had all melted; then they found what they sought - the body of Ruth - that lay 'neath the rushing mill-waters. Then those that were watching him say a few tears crept down his cheek, but he smiled to himself as he said, "Not lost, only changed, yet ever my own, my teacher, my helper, my friend."
Since then years have flown. The miller has gone, and his wife, full of years rejoicing, has joined him. Only Philip is left, and old man and grey, with the burden of years on his shoulders; a seed almost ripe for the planting. In his church on a Sabbath, he preaches to men, tells them of the life everlasting.
Right dearly they love him, the kindly old man, whose life to their troubles come children and men, and make him their father confessor; tell him their follies and trials, and feeling the better because of the love that he bears them. Their burdens grow light when he, with kind sympathy, helps them. 'Tis said in a whisper, that when all is still, he talks with the spirits from heaven; that the spirit of Ruth ever wits by his side; young Ruth, who was drowned in the stream. Some say they have seen her, some say they have heard her, conversing in soft tones with Philip. But they love him no less, but rather the more, that he holds close communion with heaven.
He teaches the doctrine of love to the world, he frights not with terror and darkness. "God is love" is the creed that he teaches; and further - that, as all men from God are forthcoming, and ever to God are returning, their lives and their actions, every one, should be to His honour and glory.
There he lives in the house by the stream; the Mill-Stream they call it, for a little higher there stands the remains of a mill. And through it comes rushing, the stream, whirring and churring along, making strange sounds as it goes; but no longer the wheels and machinery turn, nor the stones revolve, as in the days of the miller of old; the mill is deserted, and another is built where the vorn is ground for the farmers. Still the stream goes raring and foaming; twisting and truning and clashing, twirling and curling and eddying round, as though in vexation of spirit; splashing and crashing and rushing along, with a dash and a roar like the distant verberation of thunder.
Lower down it widens and opens into a lagoon, bordered with larches and willows. It smiles in the air of the heavens, reflection the glory of sunlight. Peaceful and smooth is its surface, undisturbed by the tumult above it. Calm and serene, it flows gently along towards the end of the journey. Peaceful and happy, content with its lot and its station. Like one who has passed through the troubles of life; experienced all of life's evils - overcome them; and now, content with his work, is gliding along to the haven.
***
Read other stories here.
Pages - Titles
9 - Introductory
24 - Northern Lights
96 - The warning spirit
108 - Hans Hauptmann’s warning
120 - Pepi
139 - The mill stream
168 - Harald Arnhult
188 - Together
198 - Strange excursions
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