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Otago Witness, Issue 2545, 24 December 1902, Page 26 (Supplement)

} J E stood outside the old mill, a ~° solitary', lonely figure, in the fast gathering gloom of the October day. The great black mass stood out in bold relief on the top of the hill, its sombreness relieved by the large white wings that, now the day was over, rested silently, looking down on the miller with passive resignation. He it was who, in the new light of each day, set them in motion, and forced them round and round in a dull monotonous circle ; against such a fate protest was useless. This had been going on ever since the miller was a young man, and now the years were heavy upon him. How old he actually was none could tell, for he lived entirely alone, without human companionship, in the little cottage on the other side of the hill. The people of the nearest village surmised the whys and wherefores for old John's eccentricities, that were, as is usually the way with gossip, whether bandied over dainty tea-cups in pretty drawing rooms or the low palings dividing cottage gardens, very far from the truth. The mill itself and old John were inseparable ; he was as much a part of the place as were the fat, ungainly sacks of grain that stood clustering together in the dark little room at the basement. Folks in passing had often stepped inside the black door and gazed curiously round ; but no one was ever known to have ascended the stairs that led above save the mill-wright, now and then, when the wheels needed repairing. Still higher, up a cranky pair of steps, steps only worn by the miller's feet, was a small, round room lighted by a tiny window. This was old John's favourite nook. Here, with his face close to t,he window, and his eyes eagerly scanning the broad expanse of water rolling in on the flat beach at the foot of the hill, he spent many lonely hours. On this particular evening in October, he stood for a few minutes, his gaze fixed intently on the sea below ; then, with a lingering look at the old mill, he turned and walked slowly down the green hillside. One would need the " pen of a ready writer " to describe him accurately, artistically, and as he should be described. In the far background the delicate greys of a soft bank of clouds dipped loweringly, until they seemed to touch the darker grey mass of water, lit here and there with a long streak of shimmering light as the clouds parted and the moon struggled to escape from their soft, clinging embrace. Then the hill, rising boldly from the level ground, studded with grand old trees ; whilst above them all, on the summit, like a gaunt, hungry figure, proud and defiant, was the mill. Slowly along the winding path over the soft grass he came, a bowed, yet grand old figure. From beneath his cap the long straggling grey hairs had escaped, which the wind caught and tossed lightly over his furrowed face. His eyes were deep set under the thick bushy eyebrows, and the mouth, with its thin lips, receded neath his straight nose, had long ago forgotten the way to smile. There was a mournful sadness about the strong, fine face that made one wish to know something of the man whose life was so solitary and unusual. He was dressed in an old light fustian suit, the large overlapping double-breasted waistcoat had sleeves, thus a coat was unnecessary. Knee-breeches, fastening below the knee with a strap, coarse woollen stockings, thick shoes, and a scarlet neckcloth tied in a loose knot, completed this picturesque dress. Now and again he stopped, looking back at the mill or straight ahead at the sea. Nothing could be heard in the silence save the sobbing of the disappointed waves as they met the resisting force of the boulders and the harsh cries of the seagulls, but John was deaf to these things. When he reached the beach he drew himself together, the bent back seemed to straighten, and a change came over his face. The mournful look of apathy gave place to an almost excited eagerness, whilst the light, as of a glow from a nickering fire, leapt up into his dark eyes. He peered out over the dark water listening intently, and soon a faint " There, John," came to him from out the darkness. " Aye ! Aye ! " the old man replied, and on the crest of the next wave a boat ran silently in, and five sturdy looking men jumped ashore.

" Late," said old John, somewhat testily ; " you saw the signal ? " This was a white light shown three times from the little window at the top of the mill, and the miller was the signalman. Perhaps it will be as well for the good character of old John to mention that the smuggling business on the Sussex coast was practically winked at in those times. A keg of spirits was always discreetly left at the parson's door, and the men who engaged in this unlawful pursuit were not I running any very great risk as long as they had the signal i for landing when the coast was clear. j " Yes," we saw the signal right enough," said the eldest of the party, " but our chaps had been rowing a bit. Here ! " to the other men, " get the stuff ashore and be sharp about it, , The tide's on the turn." I When the boat was emptied they turned to John, who had been watching them in silence. He it was who always 1 led the way by the safest and quickest route to the " Hollow " where the goods were stored. i So the little procession started, the men with the bales on their shoulders and John in front with a small keg of rum. They spoke little, old John preserving a stubborn silence until the goods were safely stowed away and they had reached the boat again ; then bidding them " Good-night " he went painfully up the hill towards home. The men stood looking after him as he toiled along, then they shook their heads. " He's breakin' up fast, poor old chap," said David Wright, the man who had spoken before.

"He won't be able to signal for us much longer. Pity he's so queer like ; a man can't get on with him anyways, but he knows his business." Yes I there was no doubt about it, John was breaking up fast. He knew this himself. The vigour and strength of manhood had left him, and the dull listlessness of old age had taken its place. Every time he went down to the beach he felt the walk home longer, the hill steeper, and the mill, when he reached it, more of a friend than ever. He would always linger awhile by its side, sitting on the wooden bench he had put up just outside the little black door, and although he never spoke his heart clung to it as to nothing else on earth. To-night he stayed so long that his poor old bones were chilled through and through by the time he reached his ccttage. It was a pretty place, with ivy and creeper covering the frcnt and drooping over the porch. At the back was a small orchard, unkempt and wild. Here a row of brokendown beehives were almost hidden by the long grass, whilst old and gnarled fruit trees gave evidence of what a delightful place, an orchard, if neglected, will become. The flower garden went its own sweet wayward way in rich, wild confusion, which the thick, un trimmed hedge strove in vain to hide from view.

The flagstones that led from the low, unfastenable gate to the porch, were rugged and broken, interspersed with bright green grass and soft tinted mosses, who would not say they gained by being deprived of the weekly scouring and hearthstone. The red tiled roof was a "thing of beauty," with its varied shades of colours — reds, yellows, greens, and greys all harmonising perfectly, as Nature's colours always do. On the top of the dilapidated sty, where years before the contented old sow had sojourned until that dreadful | day came, and she was turned into bacon, the fronds of I different species of ferns grew as they can never be coaxed 1 to in a garden fernery. i But to look at his cottage from an artistic point of , view never occurred to the miller. The place was like himself, "getting old; it would do well enough, and last him out." So its beauties, and in fairness it must be said itsmany discomforts also, were not noticed by him. The house was in darkness as John lifted the latch of the door and groped his way to the mantel shelf. He found the flint and tinder and soon got a light. It was a large, old-fashioned kitchen, and by the lightof the spluttering candle looked empty and dreary. Naax the open fireplace stood the only chair the room could boast of, a stiff-backed much be-patched and mended oak. In a far corner was an old ' grandfather's clock " with only one hand, its gaudily painted face strangely out of keeping with its age and solemnity. People were not in such haste when the old clock wasmade; minutes did not count. To know each hour as it passed was surely enough for mortal man. Perhaps the old: clock was right, and those old-fashioned ancestors of ours, too. We live too hurriedly at the close of this present century. We have no time in the rush and worry pf the days to stay and see the beauty that surrounds us. If we only lingered sometimes and rested awhile the dry prosaic things would develop hidden unsuspected loveliness, and the poetry of life would once more beat in our hearts, throwingits divine radiance over the ugly gaping defects of poor weak human nature. But " time is money " we say, and the beauty, we will not look at, fades away and comes to us no more; and we grow old and sad, without, maybe, having even tasted the joy of real living. It was inside the clock case the miller kept his accounts on long strips of paper pasted down each side. Every month when the button was turned and the case flew open, the old clock felt its position " an honorary one, 1 ' and forgot, for that one day, to be proud of the four golden balls that adorned its case in the pleasure of being so important to John in his laboured efforts at keeping accounts. The stone paved floor was worn into hollows in places, and bare, save for a well-worn sheepskin lying in front of the hearth. A heavy carved oak chest and an old blunderbuss were the only other things worthy of note in the dingy kitchen. The miller sank heavily into his chair, resting his knotted oiu hands together on the top of his stick. There was the fire to light and supper to get, but he was too worn out to do anything ; only his poor enfeebled brain had been busy. His mind had been wandering, as it so often did now, into the almost forgotten past. Those early days, when he left boyhood behind him and first started to work at the mill. Once he' raised his eyes and looked at an oil painting that hung on the opposite wall. It was an awful thing as far as portraits can be awful — a painting of his mother. Although it was nearly seventy years since she had died, and he had forgotten her in the days of health and strength, now that mind and body were weak and failing, he had gone back to the old love and thought of her. It was a new, sweet comfort to the old man, this mother's love, and he clung to the remembrance that now came back to him so vividly of her tenderness and goodness, as he had in the far-away time when they were necessary to his happiness, and made up his little life completely. The thoughts of this silent, reserved old man travelled slowly backwards, and his heart grew soft as a little child's once more under the tender influence of that dead mother's memory. In the old chest he kept his papers, but amongst them were no treasures in the shape of love-letters, locks of sunny hair, or miniatures of lovely girl faces. There was no buried love story that had softened and subdued the old man's life, keeping him always true to a woman's memory. No; it seemed as if John had passed the love of women by unheedingly, unlongingly. He had chosen his solitary life perhaps because his soul needed no companionship, being self-contained always. When strangers saw him, and connected with his striking individuality a past, over which the storms of life had passed vehemently, they were altogether mistaken. Nothing singular had happened, and yet he was cut off from his fellows, as a man who had sinned and suffered deeply, might be. The next morning dawned fine and bright, so bright that old John made up his dim, changeable mind for a walk as far as the " Hollow " before going to the mill. Formerly the " Hollow " was a chalk pit, and although used

-at the time of our story as a storage for smuggled goods, "the place well deserved the name it is now known by — "*"' Eden," or " Paradise " — so delightful a spot is it. To one passing along the road nothing can be seen but the tops of the trees that grow there, and it seems an impossibility to discover any means of entering; but there is -still the old road used long ago by the carts in removing the chalk. It slopes down imperceptibly, and is so overgrown and hidden that old John alone knew of its existence, and it was at his suggestion the place was conaverted into a " smuggler's cave." Following this track one emerges suddenly into a veritable fairyland. The ground is thickly strewn with dead leaves. All the summer when the trees are covered with -fresh green leaves they lie there, forming a strange contrast to the life and brightness of the various shades of green •on every side. No stirring, blustering wind can reach them, and so undisturbed they lie, until the trees shake off their latest autumn garments and a new richly-hued carpet hides "them from sight. It is in the cosy sheltered nooks of this -world that the dead worthless lives find room to lie; after -all, the strong winds of adversity have their good results. The miller entered by the old path and passed into the .almost oppressive silence of the " Hollow." The leaves of the birch trees had changed from green to warm golds and russet Tjrowns. The melancholy sadness that autumn infuses into "the atmosphere filled the place, making it a singularly fitting --spot for the old man. There was always a peace and restful loveliness about this fairy world that endeared it to John Adams; it had l)een his haunt for many, many years, and his silent, lonely soul found its counterpart in the silence of Nature that always •dwelt there. At one end the road lost its regularity, in fact it really ended, but a little path branched off, twisting and turning into amazing little intricacies. Here the flowers bloomed undisturbed, delicate fern fronds peeped •out questioningly from their soft mossy beds, wild briars and ivy overran the •dead leaves with sturdy determined force of growing life, and with a wish, or so it seemed, to cover up the unwelcome thought of dying that the dried leaves forced on them Still farther and a tangled mass of brushwood and small shooting trees appeared to block the way entirely, but •John knew better; for pushing these aside he disclosed a dark opening in the -almost perpendicular wall of chalk. With faltering steps he entered, and when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he was able to count the kegs of spirit and bales of goods that were concealed there. This done, he stood regarding the smuggled booty with a weary, listless air. " Why should he trouble himself with the business any more ? He was past it; he had lived his life " — these were the thoughts that crowded into his mind. An old man does not need the excitement of smuggling. He remembered when first he had joined in it he had been young and vigorous. It had been a break in the deadening monotony of life at the mill, and he was easily pressed into the business. Something to make the blood course quicker through his strong healthy frame and to stir his sluggish pulse ; but now he had had enough, and there were other things to do before he left the world — the world that to him had been so quiet, so empty. Why ! there was nothing to leave in it, nothing to make him wish to live. The smuggling ! Bah ! He would finish with it now and for ever, and under the influence of this sudden resolution he turned and left the cave in tottering hildish haste, without one backward glance. He breathed more freely outside ; there was one weight laid aside, and the old man rubbed his chilled hands gleefully, and one would almost have expected to see a smile on his wrinkled face, were that not impossible. He sat down on an old tree stump, a patient, pathetic figure, surrounded by the dying and dead leaves. He picked them up idly in his hands and let them fall slowly between j his fingers, whilst one or two dropped from the trees and j fell on his shoulders, as if to say " Good-bye " to the one man j who had grown familiar to them through the warm, happy ! summer months. He felt it was a " good-bye," and his sadly mournful eyes spoke a mute eloquent farewell to the different objects of the place. They had become identified with him and his life in something the same way as the old mill had. Then in a subdued, droning voice, like that of a boy repeating a lesson, swaying his body to and fro, he began : — Death, why so fast? Pray, stop your hand, And let my glass Bun out its sand. As neither death nor time will stay, Let us improve the present day. Why start you at that skeleton? 'Tis your own picture which you shun, Alive it did resemble thee, And thou when dead like that shall be. But tho' death must have his will, Yet old time prolongs the date, Till the measure we shall fill, That's allotted us by fate ; When that's done then time and death ] Both agree to take our breath. | These lines he repeated over two or three times, nodding approvingly at the finish. Then, resting his chin on his hands, he knit his brows together and started again : — I " Why should my fancy anyone annoy ? Annoy, no !" '

him at the shadows thrown by the light of the moon through the uncurtained window. His patient wrinkled face framed by the soft grey hair resting on the pillow, and the poor weak brain trying in vain to get his verses to rhyme, reiterating them again and again in the darkness, bravely overcoming each difficulty (the greatest, a memory no longer retentive), as it came by force of will and a fixed purpose. To get his coffin and verses finished — that was all he lived for now, and his daily visits to the mill grew shorter and shorter, as the worn out brain could occupy itself only with the two longings of the old man's heart. One's pity would have been wasted for he needed neither pity nor sympathy ; eager to accomplish his desires and then to rest. He would have met help had it been offered him with incredulous surprise. There are natures to whom offers of help or gifts, even when needed, come ever with a smart, and the hand that gives is, as Emerson has it, " in danger of being bitten." Old John had lived his life alone, depending on his own hands for everything ; so in death and after must he depend on no one. Thus it was that the evenings found him busy working at his coffin, and the oak chest kept guard over the finished and unfinished verses for his tomb, with the deed of gift from the squire for the small piece of land where he wished to be buried. Even after death he shrank from the thought of his body being in close contact with others in a crowded churchyard, j After all the idea was not so foolish. Some of us have a lingering fondness for these bodies of ours, and if we do give a thought to the place where we should like them laid is it to be wondered at? But, alas! we cannot all have our

Shaking his hand, " anyone offend ; offend will go with spend, send, attend, lend. Let me see," raising his perplexed face to the sky that he could dimly see from between the branches of the trees. After a short silence : — " Ah ! yes," shaking his head gravely, " that'll do " : — Why should my fancy anyone offend, Who's good or ill on it does not depend. Evidently this pleased him much, for he said it over and over until he knew it by heart ; then rising from his seat he walked slowly along the pathway and soon emerged into the outside world, leaving " Paradise " behind him for ever. That night, had one peeped into the miller's bedroom they would have been considerably startled. On the old four-posted bed, with its faded remains of tapestry hangings dangling disconsolately, was a roll of papers. Beneath the window, whose diamond panes were thickly coated with dirt, stood, not a looking-glass to mirror back the image of youth and beauty, or otherwise ; no, the light was not needed for that, but a rough unfinished coffin resting on two trestles, and it was over this John Adams was bending. The old man was working with feverish haste, muttering to himself as he did so : — " I must get it done, in case, in case " " Death why so fast? Pray stop your hand." " I'll get it done in time, I will, but there's them verses," and he glanced anxiously over to the papers on the bed. Presently, with a petulance born of his excessive anxiety and weariness, he threw down his tools, and undressing himself, crept into bed, not before he had slipped the precious verses under his pillow. There was a pathos in the sight, an awesome sadness. The old man lying with wide open eyes staring out straight before

wishes carried out ; if we could, who would not choose a spot similar to the lovely place where Louis Stevenson lies. November came, and loth to leave the mill entirely John would totter towards it, not to work : his toiling days were over, and even had he the strength, be no longer cared to feed with the golden grain those unsatiable wheels and watch it turned into flour. Neither could he climb the steep steps to the little signalling room ; he was too feeble, and the exertion was too great for him. He would sit in the room on the ground floor amongst the sacks. Though they were almost bursting with fine white flour, still they waited for the hands that would never lift them more. He was uneasy away from his cottage, the verses bothered him, and the warmth of the fire was so alluring. So he would sigh gently and get back after a little while looking apologetically at the mill as he left it. It was death, not life and work, that filled his thoughts. The long road he had traversed alone lay stretching far away behind him, and the land marks he had set up on the way were fast disappearing from his heart and memory. There was left, after a few more weary steps, the mystery of death to know ; nothing more in world, and that mystery unfolded would take him through to the other side, into the dim unknown, where with childish faith he looked to find rest and endless peace. The dreary November month passed away, and December with its biting cold threw its chilling mantle on the earth. It was unusually severe, even then, when December was not the mild timid month we have learnt to look for lately. The snow lay thick on the ground, and the old mill looked if possible more picturesque in the stillness of its bleak environment, as it stood in sullen blackness on the summit of the snow-clad hill. There was no sign of a footpath leading to the miller's cottage ; uninterrupted quiet reigned. It was best it should be so. Only the solitude of that wintry scene was rendered more intense. The trees, bare and naked, looked as if death had claimed them, never more to burst out in tender shoots and soft green leaves again. Save for the howling blasts that shook their skeleton branches with almost a deathly rattle there would have been no stir of life for miles around. The huge white wings of the mill trembled as the cold winds struck them. No longer could they look disdainfully on the ugly blackness against which they rested, for beneath them lay that unending stretch of pure snow, whiter and purer than anything else in Nature. Away down on the other side of the hill tho miller's cottage stood in its loneliness, as it had done for nearly a hundred years, braving the storms of winter with tho same calm cheerfulness with which it welcomed the firs!/ warm kiss of spring. Down in the orchard the snow had drifted in heaps, covering the old beehives tenderly, and whispering to the dull patient earth as it nestled close all those sweet delicious secrets that make her break forth when the winter has gone into blushing loveliness and beauty. A faint blue wreath of smoke from the chimney showed there was still life within, but it was life that was ebbing slowly and surely away into the shadows "of the silent land." It was nearly eight o'clock, and John was sitting in the light thrown from the logs of pine wood that filled the kitchen with their delicate aroma. His eyes were closed, and a look of peace and quiet rest pervaded the whole of the aged figure. The toil-worn hands, resting on his knees, would never busy themselves about the house or mill again. The gleams of light threw out in bold relief against the dusky shadows that lurk mysteriously in the corners the neatly finished coffin standing on its trestles. It was finished at last, and the old man had sighed with relief when the hammer slipped from his trembling fingers after the last nail had been driven in, and he ft It free from the burden that had weighed so heavily on his heart. He had managed to get it downstairs, and there it stood in readiness for the coming of the poor old frame that lingered on till the time when the verses should be ready. This evening, when the world outside was occupied with its affairs of business and pleasure, when the villagers were safely housed and the work of the day was over, John had finished the last of the lines. In a weak, quavering voice he had read them aloud to himself ; the last set he had been very proud of, saying they " Were good, very good." They ran as follows : — Why should my fancy anyone offend, Who's good or ill on it doe 3 not depend. T\s at my own expense, except the land, A generous gift in which my tomb doth stand. This is the very spot that I have chose, Wherein to take my lasting long repose. Here in the dust my body lyeth down, You'll say it is not consecrated ground, I grant ye same! but where shall we e'er find A spot that e'er can purify the mind. Nor to the body any lustre give, This more depends upon what a life we live. For when ye trumpet shall begin to sound, 'Twill not avail c'en when ye body's found. Then with the help of his stick he had stumbled across the room, and from the old chest had taken his other papers. A will, primitive indeed, that chiefly concerned the burying of his body on the land that had been given him close to the old mill, under the clump of trees, where each succeeding Sunday he had loved to go and pass the quiet hours away ; there he wished to lie for his last long sleep. The verses were to be engraved on the tombstone. Heading the lines: —

The old mill stands on the hill top no longer. It was pulled down soon after the miller's death ; but under the trees, in the spot he had chosen, the miller's body was laid to rest. The quaint epitaph is engraved on a heavy slab of stone that covers the grave. It stands there to this day, not so very far from the sound of the restless sea, sheltered by the group of trees under which, in life, he had so often rested.

[Spkciallv Writtrn for the Otago Daily Timks and Witness Christmas Annual, 1902.]