THE MILLIE'S LOVE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 11870, 23 January 1902, Page 3

THE MILLIE'S LOVE.

I ..WAS; courting Bessie, White—l thirty-eight, arid she eighteen. I lived at the mill, and she with her widowed mother down in the village, "across' the flood hatches and,'the meadows, which were wont to be like a miniature sea during the heavy autumn rains, when what we called the let-hatch, behind the mill, chanced to be drawn.

A tale was told by the old folk of the place of a woman losing her life, once upon a time, in attempting to cross during one of: these floodings. I say this, because it has to do with my story. ...

I loved Bessie first when she came fresh tc the, village a slip of a winsome girl of twelve i sweet little flower of a maiden she was whom I then in my own mind likened to £ speedwell, and it was" speedwells she .'was gathering on the mill stream banks when ] saw her for the first time. I loved her then in. a way, as I say, but I never thought 11 would ripen into the love of a lifetime as ii did, I being full twenty years her senior, anc a plain, homely, steady-going Isaac Jay— very name being against me, as I told mysel many times over, as I watched her day by day, growing up into maidenly beauty. Well I worshipped her afar, and by-and-bye then came a marplot to the village in the shape of a dashing fellow, who began paying hoi attentions, which I could see turned the pretty little thing's head, if not her heart, whili the dream lasted. But Gentleman Giles —a: ho was called— into unsteady ways, anc at last enlisted for a soldier. People said i was a good thing for Bessie "White, and ] know I was glad, while yet I pitied her going about with her pale, smiling face, aftei lie was —yes, she still smiled, but the roses faded from her cheek all the same. Soon after this her .father fell ill, and died Then I took heart and wont tip to the little farmstead, aye, and even before John White died, I went and promised him, as he wor ried about leaving his .wife and daughter that my homo > should be-' theirs, and that ] would do for. them all that man could, i Bessie would but come to me and bo my wife Even now I see the look of peace which stole into his eyes at my promise, and feel the grij of that dying hand upon my own, and —well I have kept my word, none can say that 3 have not kept my word. It was, moreover, at his grave, month; after, that I put the matter to the test. " Bessie," I said, " will you oome to the mill as my: own little 'wife? You and youi mother together, I mean, for I would no! wish to part you, and there is room enougl for both. Will you come, darling?" Sho bowed her head, and her face grew crimson, and though she said not a word, ] knew she meant "Yes," and presently ii grew to bo an understood thing that I was to marry her. I never, however, saw a mai den so shy and bashful as sho was, during oui courtship, starting and blushing, at this ant that, and like the fool I was, I loved hei for it all the more. Still, I sometimes wondered whether •or no she at all regrettec Gentleman Giles? When I sometimes men; tioned his name.in a casual way, she wincec and shrank into herself, 1 which I scarcely liked, but that was all, and so the summei time of our courtship wont by, like untc some happy dream, until the late autumn, when she promised soon to come to the mil as its mistress, and I began, lover-like, to gel ready the rooms, and brighten up, as best ] knew how, the old place to receive her. I mind the autumn rains set in early thai year, such deluges of rain falling, day by day, that we could not always keep the mill going, even with the let-hatch drawn. So at time; the floods were very high, and I could nof help it. Not that I noticed them much, foi I was, as I have said, getting ready for Bessie, and I assure you I had little thought jusl then for anything else. Yet she seemed nof to be what a happy bride oughtperhaps ii was her shyness, or, perhaps I, in my stupidity, expected too much of her. Whc can tell? Folk were talking in the village though, and saying that Gentleman Giles had written to her. Olio day I asked -her if it was true, She turned deadly pale, , but denied it all the same, and 'I thought her pretty speedwell eyes could not have looked so unshrinkingly into mino if there had been aught of guilt in her heart. I believed her, and put the thought of .wrong from me, till one day, when I had taken her to the mill to see what alterations I was making, in taking hei handkerchief from her pocket she dropped £ paper, which I, in my jealousy, picked up and kept till she was gone. Then, thinking only to tease her as to its contents, I read: — " Come at seven, at the cry of the corn : crake. You know where." There was no signature, nothing whatevei to enlighten me. One thought only clutchec at my heart- and held jno in its deadly grip— tho note was ' ,from Gentleman Giles, ant Bessie was meeting him in secret, and playinj mo'false! .-; ' ; . { That evening, though sheets of rain wen falling at tho time, 1 made my way ove: to the little'-homesteadfor once I let tin floods have it all their own way, even th< let-hatch was not drawnno matter abou floods, or hatches either, so long as I knew whether Bessie was false or true. Thoro was no. Bessie at homo. Important business had taken her abroad, so her mothei said. She expected her in soonsho herscl looked pale and ill; indeed, as time passed and Bessie did not come, she at length became so unwell that I persuaded her to go to bed leaving Jenny, the maid, to sit up for Bessie while X with a deadly fear clutching at my heart, resolved to watch and wait likewise. In time, however, Bessie returned, and wa: more than surprised to find mo there to re ceive her. She would not say, though , where she had been— insisted on knowing but sho refused to tell— promise, how over, I'wrung from 1 her; she would be mint in three weeks' time, and though tho wording of my request was more like a threat thai anything else, and her reply was scarcely more pleasant, I was fain to be content, am on those terms wo parted. ■We were married. A white snowdrop of ; bride she was,' about the "house. I hac fancied she would brighten the old place uj with her smiles, whereas she never evei smiled at all, and to my mind the house grev duller day by day. She was often crying . too. At first I bore with her, then I grev angry and wrangledaye, and actually threw the contents of tho note I had picked u{ and read into her woebegone face. It wa< then the poor, pitiful, childish thing trioc to explain, but 1" wouldn't let her—l actually fused to hear. One day, like the mean coward I was, ] searched the pockets of one of her gowns and found just such another note. This J kept to myself, watching her so narrowly ; however, that I scarce had time to see tc my business. The rainy season was not over yet, and the I floods were still up, when one day, late ir the afternoon, she left the house, sending word to the mill, where I then was, that she would be back in time for tea —but she was not, and I didn't wait. I just made tea foi myself, and sat down and drank it, while 3 thought and thought of one thing and an other, the rain beating against the window and maddening me all the time. Should I—ought I to go and search for her' Poor little ill-advised thing! She might evei lose her way in the dark, and get caught by floods, then it would be good-bye to her— and good-bye to everything for me! The let-hatch was ' not drawn. Should ! • brave tho weather, and go and draw it ? A night-marc seemed to hold me to my armchair I could not move, and it almost seemed to me that I —slept, with Bessio abroad, I knew not where !—till the voice of the mar who worked the mill for me came shouting hoarsely in. my car. " Master, tho lot-hatch ain't a-draw'd, an' there's a woman in the foods. I've a-gol her bonnet. See here !" A pretty, bluequilted thing he held, and I knew it at once, as the firelight revealed it. ft was Bessie's, andheaven, help me ! She was in tho flood ! Perhaps she was already dead ! Perhaps still struggling, and fighting for life, dear life, and I, like the old fool I was, sitting by the fire, as though I did not caa-e. Not care ! When God knew she was all the world to me; faithless oi faithful, she was my wife, the only woman I had,over loved, or ever would love, let me live till I was a hundred ! " 'Tis hers !" I screamed. "Not the missis's?" cried tho man. But I pushed him aside, and, like a madman, leaped, away on my errand to the waste of wafers, surging and moaning, with the wild wind and rain beating mo back, as it were, and rendering mo almost as help less as a child. At least, so it seemed, as I fought my way, thinking the while of my dear one's pale, sweet face rising above the foam of the waters, with the moon bopeeping over and anon from behind the dense clouds, just to reveal to me the dreadful sight,: and then, ero I could do' aught to recover even her dead body, hiding hoi again in tho black darkness. of the storm. But old Mat and I did roach her aftoi awhile, ayo, and we dragged her into land too. She'looked just as I had pictured hei when wo carried her home and laid hei down in the her speedwell eyes were half closed, and her pretty brown hair all tangled and dripping, and—and—she hac "ceased to breathe, forshe was dead. V "Oh, my love! my lovo !" I groaned in my agony. ... , Isaac ! Sweetheart ! What is it?' • It was her voice, aye, and her touch upon my arm. I was at her mother's, and all thoso. horrors of mino were but a dream after all. ' ■ , .' , I told her I thought sho was drowned, whereat sho; gleefully laughed, though ! hoi eyes said plainly' that she had been crying not long before. ■ *• '

"Whore have you been, Bessie 1" I asked, taking her fondly in my arms. _ "I'll tell you now, Isaac, for 'tis a secret no 'longer, and I am very, very glad. You never knew I had a brother, but I base, and ho has been a deserter from the English army for years. Lately he found? his way down here to mother and me. ; He has been in hiding, of course, and I had to go to him and do for him what I coukl, andand , though to-night ho has gone abroad, and I shall never see him again, I am. more than glad to have it over (though j it is harder still for mother, I know); but j oh, Isaac, I never, never want to havo a J secret from you. again." .*• And she • didn't:— and"! never told her of my mean, "suspicions and jealousy, ami I think I may say, with other story-tellers I have heard of, that we got married and were happy ever after. As' for the brother —well, he prospered and was steady; and as I was, or rather tried to be, a "good son to Bessie's mother, I don't think she fretted after him as much as we expected. So all's well that ends well, I think you will say. And my tale ends as well, I'm sure, as here and there one. ■ - • |