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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT
 
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 THE MILL OF SILENCE.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 B. E. J. CAPES. 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, 
 
 MDCCCXCVII.
 
 A PRIZE STORY 
 
 In The Chicago Record's series of " Stories of Mystery." 
 
 THE MILL OF vSILENCE 
 
 BV 
 
 B. E. J. CAPES, 
 
 Author of "The Uttermost Farthing," "The 
 Haunted Tower," etc. 
 
 (This story — out of 8i6 competing — was awarded the second prize in The 
 Chicago Record's " $30,000 to Authors" competition.) 
 
 Copyright, 1896, by B. E. J. Capes.
 
 O (HI yi^ 
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Yesterday came a knock at the door — a faint, tentative 
 knock as from childish knuckles — and I went to see 
 who it was. A queer little figure stood outside in the 
 twilight — a dainty compendium of skirt and cape and 
 frothy white frills — and a small elfish face looked up 
 into mine through shimmering of hair, like love in a 
 mist. 
 
 "If you please," she said, "Zyp's dead and will you 
 take care of poor Zyp's child?" 
 
 Then at that moment the hard agony of my life broke 
 its walls in a blessed convulsion of weeping, and I 
 caught the little wanderer to my heart and carried her 
 within doors. 
 
 "And so poor Zyp is dead?" said L 
 
 "Yes," answered the elfin; "and, please, will you give 
 me back to her some day?" 
 
 "Before God's throne," I whispered, "I will deliver up 
 my trust; and that in such, wise that from His mercy 
 some little of the light of love may, perhaps, shine upon 
 me also." 
 
 That night I put my signature to the last page of the 
 narrative here unfolded. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE INMATES OF THE MILL. 
 
 My story begins like a fairy tale. Once upon a time 
 there was a miller who had three sons. Here, however, 
 the resemblance ceases. At this late date I, the last 
 stricken inmate of the Mill of Silence, set it down for a 
 
 9SS724
 
 B THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 warning and a menace; not entirely in despair, perhaps, 
 but with a fitful flickering of hope that at the last mo- 
 ment my soul may be rent from me into a light it has 
 never yet foreseen. 
 
 We were three brothers, sons of a gray, old man, 
 whose father, and his father before him, had owned and 
 run a flour mill in the ancient city of Winton in Hamp- 
 shire. This mill stood a little back from the north side 
 of the east and more deserted end of the High street, and 
 faced a little bridge — wooden in those days, but stone 
 now — through which raced the first of the mill fall that 
 came thundering out from under the old timber 
 building, as though it had burst at a push some 
 ancient dam and were hurrying ofT to make up 
 for lost ages of restraint. The house, a broad 
 single red-tiled gable, as seen from the bridge, stood 
 crushed in between other buildings, and in all my mem- 
 ory of it was a crazy afifair in appearance and ever in 
 two minds about slipping into the boisterous water be- 
 low and so flushing all tliat quarter of the town with an 
 overflow, as it were, of its own ancient dropsy. It was 
 built right across the stream, with the mill wheel buried 
 in its heart; and I can recall a certain childish specula- 
 tion as to the results which would follow a possible re- 
 laxing of the house pressure on either side; in which 
 case I hopefully assumed the wheel would slip out of its 
 socket, and, carrying the frail bridge before it, roll cheer- 
 fully down stream on its own axle to the huge delight of 
 all adventurous spirits. 
 
 Our reputation in Winton was not, I am sorry to say, 
 good. There was a whispered legend of uncanniness 
 about the mill itself, which might mean little or nothing, 
 and a notoriety with regard to its inmates which did 
 mean a good deal. The truth is, not to mince matters, 
 that my father was a terrible drunkard, and that his three 
 sons — not the eldest of whom retained more than a shad- 
 owy remembrance of a long-departed mother's . influ- 
 ence — were from early years fostered in an atmosphere 
 that reeked with that one form of moral depravity. A 
 quite youthful recollection of mine is the sight of my
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE, 7 
 
 father, thin, bent, gray bearded, and with a fierce, not 
 uncomely face, jerking himself to sudden stoppages at 
 points in the High street to apostrophize with menacing 
 fury the devils born of his disease. 
 
 To the world about us my father was nothing but a 
 worthless inebriate, who had early abandoned himself to 
 profligate courses, content to live upon the little fortune 
 left him by his predecessors and to leave his children to 
 run to seed as they listed in the stagnant atmosphere of 
 vice. What the world did not know was the secret side 
 of my father's character — the wild, fierce imagination of 
 the man; the creative spirit of his healthier moods and 
 the passionate reverence of beauty which was as ha- 
 bitual to him as the craze for strong waters. 
 
 He exercised a despotic influence over us, and we 
 subscribed admiringly to his rule with the snarling sub- 
 missiveness of young tiger cubs. I think the fragmen- 
 tary divinity that nests in odd, neglected corners of each 
 and every frame of life, took some recognition of a higher 
 type from which it had inherited. Mentally, at his best, 
 my father was as much above us as, by some cantrip of 
 fate, he was superior to the sullen, plodding stock of 
 which he was born. 
 
 Three days out of the week he was drunk; vision- 
 haunted, almost unapproachable; and this had been so 
 from time that was immemorial to us. The period of com- 
 pulsory education had not yet agitated the community at 
 large, and our intellects he permitted to run to grass 
 with our bodies. On our pursuits, pastoral, urban, and 
 always mischievous if occasion ofifered, he put no re- 
 straint whatever, yet encouraged a sort of half-savage 
 clannishness among us that held the mill for fortress and 
 the world for besiegers. 
 
 Perhaps it was not until I was rising i8 that any spec- 
 ulation as to the raison d'etre of our manner of life be- 
 gan to stir in my brain. My eldest brother, Jason, was 
 then a tall, handsome fellow' of 19, with a crisp devil in 
 his corn-colored hair and a silent one in his eyes, that 
 were shot with changing blue. Modred, the youngest, 
 some eighteen months my junior, was a contrast to
 
 8 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Jason in every way. He was a heavy, pasty boy, with an 
 aggravating droop in his hds and a large unspeculative 
 face. He was entirely self-contained, armored against 
 satire and unmoved of the spirit of tears. A sounding 
 smack on the cheek, delivered in the one-sided heat of ar- 
 gument, brought his face, like a stolid phantasm, projected 
 toward the striker's in a wooden impassivity that was in- 
 finitely more maddening than abuse. It showed no 
 more resentment than a battered Aunt Sally's, but rather 
 assumed a mockery of curiosity as to the bullying meth- 
 ods of the strong against the weak. Speaking of him, I 
 have no object but to present a portrait, unprejudiced 
 alike of regard or disfavor. This, I entreat, may be borne 
 in mind. 
 
 One afternoon, in late April weather, Jason and I were 
 loitering and idling about some meadows within rifle 
 shot of the old city outskirts. We lay upon our faces in 
 the long grass beside a clear, shallow burn, intent upon 
 sport less lawful than exciting. The country about Win- 
 ton is laced with innumerable streams and freshets and 
 therein without exception are trout in great quantity, 
 though mostly shy to come at from the little depth and 
 extreme transparency of the water. That the fishing is 
 everywhere "preserved" goes without saying, and it fol- 
 lows in order that poaching is pretty general. 
 
 We were poaching, in truth, and extremely enjoying it 
 as usual. Jason held in his hand a willow wand, fitted 
 with a line, which was baited with a brandling fat from 
 the manure heap. This it was essential to swing gently, 
 ourselves crouching hidden as far as possible, into the 
 liveliest streaks of the current where it ran cleanly over 
 pebbles, and to let it swim naturally downstream the 
 length of the rod's tether. Occasionally, if not so often 
 as one could wish, the plump bait would lure some 
 youngling, imperfect in guile, from security of the stones 
 and a sudden jerking of the tough willow would com- 
 municate a galvanic thrill of excitement to our every 
 fiber. The experience did not stale by a too-frequent 
 repetition, and was scarcely marred in our eyes by the 
 ever-present necessity of keeping a vigilant lookout for
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 9 
 
 baleful intruders on our privacy. Our worst foe, in this 
 respect, was a great bosom of chalk and turf, known as 
 St. Catherine's hill, which rose directly in front of us 
 some short distance on the further side of the stream, and 
 from which it was easy for any casual enemy to detect 
 our every movement. However, as fortune would have 
 it, the hill was but comparatively little favored of the 
 townsfolk. 
 
 "Ware!" said I, suddenly. 
 
 Jason drew his line swiftly and horizontally from the 
 water and dropped it and the rod deftly under the fringe 
 of the bank. 
 
 We turned on our backs, lazily blinking at the sky. 
 
 A figure was sauntering along by the side of the little 
 river toward us. It was that of an ill-dressed man of 
 45 or so, ball-jointed and cadaverous, with a wet, wan- 
 dering blue eye and light brick-colored hair brushed 
 back into rat-tails. His mouth was one pencil mark 
 twitched up at the corners, and his ears, large and shape- 
 less, stood up prominently like a bat's. He carried his 
 hands behind his back and rolled his head from side to 
 side as he walked. He espied us a long way off and 
 stopped presently, looking down upon us. 
 
 "Sinews of whipcord/' he said, in a voice thin as his 
 lips, "and hearts of cats! What tomfoolery now?" 
 
 My brother raised his head, yawning lazily. 
 
 "Tom Fool hisself," said he. 
 
 "I am not," said the newcomer, "near such a fool as I 
 look. I can tell the likeliest place for tickling trouts, 
 now, anywhere." 
 
 Jason grunted. 
 
 "And that's the Itchen," went on the other with an en- 
 joying chuckle. 
 
 We vouchsafed him a patronizing laughter. 
 
 "Too good," he said; "too good for lob worms and 
 sand-hoppers. Where's the best place to find trouts, 
 now — the little speckled trouts?'' 
 
 "Where?" said I. 
 
 "Caught!" he cried, and pounced upon Jason. 
 
 There was a short, bitter struggle between them, and
 
 10 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 the man, leaving the boy sitting panting on the grass, 
 leaped apart with a speckled trophy held aloft in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Give it back!" cried my brother, rising, white and 
 furious, "or I'll brain you!" He seized up a great lump 
 of chalk as he spoke and balanced it in his hand. 
 
 "Softly," said the other, very coolly slipping the trout 
 into the wide pocket of his coat. Jason watched him 
 with glittering eyes. 
 
 "Give it back to him, Dr. Crackenthorpe," I cried, "or 
 he'll do you a hurt!" 
 
 In one moment the doctor dropped on his knees at the 
 instant that the missile spun over him and splashed 
 among the marigolds far in the meadow beyond; in the 
 next Jason was down on his back again, with the tall 
 man's knuckles at his throat and his bony knee planted 
 on his chest. 
 
 "Puppy of Satan!" he hissed in grim fury. "D'ye dare 
 to pursue me with murderous hate!" 
 
 Tooth and nail I fell upon the victor like a wild cat 
 and tore at him. His strength was marvelous. Holding 
 my brother down with his left hand, he swung his right 
 behind his back, clutched me over, and rolled us both to- 
 gether in a struggling heap. 
 
 "Now," said he, jumping to his feet and daring us, 
 "move a muscle to rise and I'll hold your mouths under 
 water for the frogs to dive in." 
 
 It was the only sort of argument that appealed to us — 
 the argument of resourceful strength that could strike 
 and baffle at once. 
 
 When he had recovered his breath sufficiently to laugh, 
 Jason tittered. From the first the fateful charm of my 
 brother was the pleasant music of his voice and the pliant 
 adaptability of his moods. 
 
 "Keep the fish, doctor," he said; "we give in." He al- 
 ways answered for both of us. 
 
 "Well," said Dr. Crackenthorpe, "that's wise." He 
 stepped back as he spoke to signify that we might get on 
 our feet, which we did. 
 
 "I keep the trout," he said, grandly, "in evidence, and
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 11 
 
 shall cast over in my mind the pros and cons of my duty 
 to the authorities in the matter." 
 
 At this, despite our discomfiture, we laughed like 
 young hyenas. The trout, we knew, was destined for the 
 doctor's own table. He was a notorious skinflint, to 
 w^hom sixpence saved from the cooking pot was a coin 
 redoubled of its face value. 
 
 He made as if to continue his way, but paused again, 
 and shot a question at Jason. 
 
 "Dad had any more finds?'' 
 
 "No," said Jason, "and if he had you wouldn't get 
 'em." 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe looked at the boy a minute, 
 shrugged his shoulders and moved off. 
 
 And here, at this point, his question calls for some ex- 
 planation. 
 
 One day, some twelve months or so earlier than the 
 incident just described, we of the mill being all collected 
 together for dinner and my father just coming out of one 
 of his drunken fits, a coin tinkled on the floor and rolled 
 into the empty fireplace, where it lay shining yellow. 
 yiy father, who had somehow jerked it out of his pocket 
 from the trembling of his hand, walked unsteadily across 
 the room and stood looking down upon it vacantly. 
 There he remained for a minute or two, we watching 
 him, and from time to time shot a stealthy glance round 
 at one or other of us. Twice or thrice he made as if to 
 pick it up, but his heart apparently failed him, for he de- 
 sisted. Suddenly, however, he had it in his hand and 
 stood fingering it, still watchful of us. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, "there it is for all the world to 
 see," and placed it on the mantelpiece. Then he turned 
 round to us expectant. 
 
 "That coin," he said, slowly, "was given me by a man 
 who dug it up in his garden hereabouts when he was 
 forking potatoes. It's ancient and a curiosity. There 
 it remains for ornament." 
 
 Now whether this was only some caprice of the mo- 
 ment or that he dreaded that had he then and there 
 pouched it some boyish spirit of curiosity might tempt
 
 12 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 one or other of us to turn out his pockets in search of 
 the treasure when he was in one of his hquorish trances, 
 and so make further discoveries, we could never know. 
 Anyhow, on the mantelpiece the coin lay for some 
 weeks; a contemptible little disk to view, with an odd 
 figure of an ill-formed mannikin stamped on one side of 
 it, and no one of us offered to touch it, until one day Dr. 
 Crackenthorpe paid us a visit. 
 
 This worthy had only recently come to Winton, 
 tempted hither, I think, more by lure of antiquities than 
 by any set determination to establish a practice in the 
 town. Indeed, in the result, as I have heard, his fees 
 for any given year would never have quarter filled a 
 wineglass unless paid in pence. He had a small private 
 income and two weaknesses — one a craze for coin col- 
 lecting, the other a feverish palate, which brought him 
 acquainted with my father, in this wise — that he en- 
 countered the old man one night when the latter was 
 complacently swerving into the Itchen at a point known 
 as "The Weirs," where the water is deep, and conducted 
 him graciously home. The next day he called, and, it 
 becoming apparent that fees were not his object, a 
 rough, queer acquaintance was struck up between the 
 two men, which brought the doctor occasionally to our 
 mill at night for a pipe and a glass. He was the only 
 outsider ever admitted to our slightest intimacy, with 
 the single exception of a baneful old woman, known as 
 Peg Rottengoose, who came in every day to do the 
 cooking and housework and to steal what scraps she 
 could. 
 
 Now, on one of these visits, the doctor's eye was 
 casually caught by the glint of the coin on the mantel- 
 piece. He clawed it at once, and as he examined it the 
 man's long, gaunt face lighted from inward with en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "Where did you get this?" he cried, his hands shaking 
 with excitement. 
 
 "A neighbor dug it up in his garden and gave it me. 
 Let it be, can't you?" said my father, roughly. 
 
 "Pooh, man! Such things are not given without
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 13 
 
 reason. What was the reason? Stay — tell me the name 
 of the man." 
 
 I thought my father paled a little and shifted uneasily 
 in his chair. 
 
 "I tell you," he said, hoarsely, "he gave it me.'' 
 
 "And I don't believe it," cried the other. "You found 
 it yourself, and where this came from more may be." 
 
 My father sprung to his feet. 
 
 "Get out of my house!" he shouted, "and take your 
 'may be's' to the foul fiend !" 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe placed his pipe and the coin very 
 gently on the table and walked stiffly to the door. He 
 had almost reached it when my father's voice, quite 
 changed and soft, stopped him. 
 
 "Don't take ofifense, man. Come and talk it over.'' 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe retraced his steps, resumed his 
 chair, and sat staring stonily at my father. 
 
 "It's true," said the latter, dropping his eyes, "every 
 word. It's true, sir, I tell you," 
 
 The doctor never spoke, and my father stole an anx- 
 ious glance up at him. 
 
 "Well," he said, with an effort; "anyhow, it's a small 
 matter to separate cronies. I don't know the value of 
 these gimcracks, but as you take pleasure in collecting 
 'em, I'll — I'll — come now, I'll make you a present of it." 
 
 The doctor became human once more, and for a sec- 
 ond time clutched the coin radiantly. My father heaved 
 a profound sigh, but he never moved. 
 
 "Well," he said, "now you've got it, perhaps you'll 
 state the particular value of that old piece of metal." 
 
 "It's a gold Doric!" cried the doctor; "as rare a " 
 
 he checked himself suddenly and went on with a ludicrous 
 affectation of indifference — "rare enough just to make it 
 interesting. No intrinsic value — none whatever." 
 
 A little wicked smile twitched up my father's bearded 
 cheeks. Each man sat forward for some minutes pulling 
 at his pipe; but it was evident the effort of social com- 
 monplace was too much for Dr. Crackenthorpe. Pres- 
 ently he rose and said he must be going. He was ob- 
 viously on thorns until he could secure his treasure in a
 
 14 , THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 safe place. For a quarter of an hour after the door had 
 closed behind him, my father sat on gloomily smoking 
 and muttering to himself. Then suddenly he woke to 
 consciousness of our presence and ordered us, savagely, 
 almost madly, ofT to bed. 
 
 This explains the doctor's question of Jason and is a 
 necessary digression. Now to the meadows once more 
 and a little experience that befell there after the intruder's 
 departure. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A NIXIE. 
 
 My brother tired of his fishing for the nonce, and for 
 an hour we lay on our backs in the grass chatting desul- 
 torily. 
 
 "Jason," said I, suddenly, "what do we live on?" 
 
 "What we can get," said my brother, sleepily. 
 
 "But I mean — where does it come from ; who provides 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh, don't bother, Renny. We have enough to eat 
 and drink and do as we like. What more do you want?" 
 
 "I don't know. I want to know, that's all. I can't tell 
 why. Where does the money come from?" 
 
 "Tom Tiddler. He was our grandfather." 
 
 "Don't be a fool. Dad never worked the mill that we 
 remember," 
 
 "But Tom Tiddler did before him." 
 
 "Not to the tune that would keep four loafers in idle- 
 ness for sixteen years." 
 
 "Well, I don't care. Perhaps dad's a highwayman." 
 
 I kicked at the grass impatiently. 
 
 "It must end some day, you know." 
 
 Jason tilted his cap from his eyes and blinked at me. 
 
 "What d'ye mean, piggy?" 
 
 "Suppose dad died or went mad?" 
 
 "We'd sell the mill and have a rare time of it." 
 
 "Oh, you great clown! Sell it for what? Driftwood? 
 And how long would the rare time last?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 15 
 
 "You're mighty particular to-day. I hate answering 
 questions. Let me alone." 
 
 "I won't," I said, viciously. "I want your opinion." 
 
 "Well, it's that you're a precious fool!" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To bother your head with what you can't answer, 
 when the sun's shining." 
 
 "I can't help bothering my head," I said. "I've been 
 bothering it, I think, ever since dad gave old Cracken- 
 thorpe that medal last year." 
 
 Jason sat up. 
 
 "So you noticed it, too," he said. "Renny, there's 
 depths in the old man that we sha'n't plumb." 
 
 "Well, I've taken to thinking of things a bit," said I. 
 
 Jason — so named, at any period (I never saw a register 
 of the christening of any one of us) because of his golden 
 fleece, shook it and set to whistling softly. 
 
 His name — Modred's, too — mine was Renalt, and more 
 local — were evidence of my father's superior culture as 
 compared with most of his class. They were odd, if you 
 like, but having a little knowledge and fancifulness to 
 back them, gave proof of a certain sum of desultory read- 
 ing on his part; the spirit of which was transmitted to his 
 children. 
 
 I was throwing myself back with a dissatisfied grunt, 
 when of a sudden a shrill screech came toward us from a 
 point apparently on the river path fifty yards lower down. 
 We jumped to our feet and raced headlong in the direc- 
 tion of the sound. Nothing was to be seen. It was not 
 until the cry was repeated, almost from under our very 
 feet, that we realized the reason of it. 
 
 All about Winton the banks of the main streams are 
 pierced at intervals to admit runlets of clear water into 
 the meadows below. Such a boring there was of a good- 
 ish caliber at the point where we stopped; and here the 
 water, breaking through in a little fall, tumbled into a 
 stone basin, some three feet square and five deep, that 
 was sunk to its rim in a rough trench of the meadow 
 soil. Into this brimming trough a young girl had 
 slipped and would drown in time, for, though she clung
 
 IG THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 on to the edge with frantic hands, her efforts to escape 
 had evidently exhausted her to such an extent that she 
 could now do no more than look up to us, as we stood 
 on the bank above, with wild, beseeching eyes. 
 
 I was going to jump to her help, when Jason stayed 
 me with his hand. 
 
 "Hist, Renny!" he whispered. "I've never seen a body 
 drown." 
 
 "Nor shall," said I, hoping he jested. 
 
 "Let me shove her hands off," he said, in the same 
 wondering tone. One moment, with a shock, I saw the 
 horrible meaning in his face; the next, with a quick 
 movement I had flung him down and jumped. He rose 
 at once with a slight cut on his lips, but before he could 
 recover himself I had the girl out by the hands and had 
 stretched her limp and prostrate on the grass. Then I 
 pavised, embarrassed, and he stood above looking down 
 upon us. 
 
 "You'll have to pay for that, Renny," he said, "sooner 
 or later" — and, of course, I knew I should. 
 
 "Turn the creature on her face, you dolt!" he con- 
 tinued, "and let the water run out of her pipes." 
 
 I endeavored to comply, but the girl, always keeping 
 her eyes shut, resisted feebly. I dropped upon my 
 knees and smoothed away the sodden tresses from her 
 face. Thus revealed it seemed an oddly pretty one; the 
 skin half transparent, like rice paper; the forehead round- 
 ing from the nose like a kitten's. But she never opened 
 her eyes, so that I could not see what was their color, 
 though the lashes were black. 
 
 Presently a horror seized me that she was dead, and I 
 shook her pretty roughly bv the shoulder. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, with a whimper, "don't!" 
 
 I was so rejoiced at this evidence of life that I gave a 
 whoop. Then I bent over her. 
 
 "It's all right, girl," I said; "you're safe; I saved you." 
 
 Her lips were moving again and I stopped to listen. 
 "What did he want to drown me for?" she whispered. 
 
 She was thinking of my brother, not of me. For a
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 17 
 
 flash her eyes opened, violet, hke lightning, and glanced 
 up at him standing above; then they closed again. 
 
 "Come," I said, roughly; "if you can talk, you can get 
 up." 
 
 The girl struggled into a sitting posture and then rose 
 to her feet. She was tall, almost as tall as I was, and 
 about my age, I should think. Her dress, so far as one 
 could judge, it being sopped with water, was a poor 
 patched affair, and rough country shoes were on her 
 feet." 
 
 "Take me somewhere, where I can dry," she said, im- 
 periously. "Don't let him come — he needn't follow." 
 
 "He's my brother," I said. 
 
 "I don't care. He wanted to drown me; he didn't know 
 I can't die by water." 
 
 "Can't you?" I said. 
 
 "Of course not. I'm a changeling!" 
 
 She said it with a childish seriousness that confounded 
 me. 
 
 "What made you one?" I asked. 
 
 "The fairies," she said, "and that's why I'm here.'' 
 
 I was too bewildered to pursue the subject further. 
 
 "How did you fall in there?" I asked. 
 
 "I saw some little fish, like klinkents of rainbow, and 
 wanted to catch them; then I slipped and soused." 
 
 "Well," I said, "where are you going now?" 
 
 "With you," she answered. 
 
 I offered no resistance. I gave no thought to results, 
 or to what my father would say when this grotesque 
 young figure should break into his presence. Mechani- 
 cally I started for home and she walked by my side, chat- 
 ting. Jason strode in our rear, whistling. 
 
 "What a brute he must be!" she said once, jerking her 
 head backward. 
 
 "Leave him alone," I said, "or we shall quarrel. What's 
 a girl like you to him?" 
 
 I think she hardly heard me, for the whistle had 
 dropped to a very mellow note. To my surprise I no- 
 ticed that she was crying. 
 
 "I thought changelings couldn't cry?" I said.
 
 18 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "I tell you water does not affect me," she answered, 
 sharply. "What a mean spy you are — for a boy." 
 
 I was very angry at that and strode on with black 
 looks, whereupon she edged up to me and said, softly: 
 "Don't be sore with me, don't." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 "Let's kiss and be friends," she whispered. 
 
 For the first time in my life I blushed furiously. 
 
 "You beast," I said, "to think that men would kiss !" 
 
 She gave me a sounding smack on the shoulder and I 
 turned on her furiously. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she cried, "hit out at me, do! It's like you." 
 
 "I won't touch you!" I said. "But I won't have any- 
 thing more to do with you," and I strode on, fuming. 
 She followed after me and presently I heard her crying 
 again. At this my anger evaporated and I turned round 
 once more. 
 
 "Come on," I said, "if you want to, and keep a civil 
 tongue in your head." 
 
 Presently we were walking together again. 
 
 "What's your home, Renny?" she asked, by and by. 
 
 "A mill," I answered, "but nothing is ground there 
 now." 
 
 She stopped and so did I, and she looked at me curi- 
 ously, with her red lips parted, so that her teeth twinkled. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said I. 
 
 "Nothing," she said, "only I remember an old, old 
 saying that the woman told me." 
 
 "What woman?" I asked, in wonder, but she took no 
 notice of my question, only repeated some queer dog- 
 gerel that ran somewhat as follows: 
 
 "Where the mill race is 
 Come and go faces. 
 Once deeds of violence; 
 Now dust and silence. 
 Thither thy destiny- 
 Answer what speaks to thee."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE, 19' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MILL AND THE CHANGELING. 
 
 The outer appearance of the old mill in which we lived 
 and grew up I have touched upon ; and now I take up my 
 pen to paint in black and white the old, moldering in- 
 terior of the shell. 
 
 The building stood upon a triple arch of red brick that 
 spanned the stream, and extended from shore to shore, 
 where, on each side, a house of later date stood cheek to 
 jowl with it. It looked but an indififerent afifair as viewed 
 from the little bridge aforesaid, which was dedicated to 
 St. Swithun of watery memory, but in reality extended 
 further backward than one might have suspected. More- 
 over, to the east side a longish wing, with a ridged roof 
 of tiles, ran ofT at right angles and added considerably to 
 the general dimensions. To the west stood a covered 
 yard, where once the mill wagons were packed or un- 
 loaded; but this, in all my memory of it, yawned only a 
 dusty spave, given over to the echoes and a couple of 
 ancient cart wheels whose rusty tires and worm-pierced 
 hubs were mute evidence of an inglorious decay. 
 
 These were for all to see — but behind the walls! 
 
 Was the old mill uncanny from the first, or is it only 
 the ghosts with which our generation of passions has 
 peopled it that have made it so? This I can say: That 
 I never remember a time when Jason or I, or even Zyp, 
 dared to be in the room of silence alone — and in company 
 never for more than a few minutes. Modred had not the 
 same awe of it, but Modred's imagination was a swaddled 
 infant. For my father I will not speak. Maybe he was 
 too accustomed to specters to dread them. 
 
 This room was one on the floor above the water, and 
 the fact that it harbored the mill wheel, whose booming, 
 when in motion, shook the stagnant air with discordant
 
 20 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 sounds, may have served as some explanation of its eeri- 
 ness. It stood against the east wing and away from the 
 yard, and was a dismal, dull place, like a loft, with black 
 beams above going off into darkness. Its only light 
 came from a square little window in front that was 
 bleared with dust and stopped outside with a lacework of 
 wire. Against its western wall was reared a huge box 
 or cage of wood, which was made to contain the upper 
 half of the wheel, with its ratchet and shaft that went up 
 to the great stones on the floor above; for the mill race 
 thundered below, and when the great paddles were re- 
 volving the water slapped and rent at the woodwork. 
 
 Now it behooves me to mention a strange fancy of my 
 father's — which was this, that though no grain or husk 
 in our day ever crumbled between the stones, the wheel 
 was forever kept in motion, as if our fortunes lay in grind- 
 ing against impalpable time. The custom was in itself 
 ghostly, and its regularity was interrupted only at odd 
 moments, and those generally in the night, when, lying 
 abed upstairs, we boys would become conscious of a 
 temporary cessation of the humming, vibrating noise that 
 was so habitual to the place. To this fancy was added a 
 strange solicitude on the part of my father for the well- 
 being of the wheel itself. He would disappear 
 into the room of silence twice or thrice a day to 
 oil and examine it, and if rarely any tinkering was called 
 for we knew it by the sound of the closing of the sluice 
 and of the water rush swerving round by another chan- 
 nel. 
 
 Now, for the time I have said enough, and with a sigh 
 return to that May afternoon and little Zyp, the change- 
 ling. 
 
 She followed me into the mill so quietly that I hardly 
 heard her step behind me. When I looked back her eyes 
 were full of a strange speculation and her hands crossed 
 on her breast, as if she prayed. She motioned me for- 
 ward and I obeyed, marveling at my own submission. 
 I had no slightest idea what I was to say to my father or 
 what propose. We found him seated by the table in the 
 living room upstairs, a bottle and glass before him. The
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 21 
 
 weekly demon was beginning to work, but had not yet 
 obtained the mastery. He stared at us as we entered, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 Then, to my wonder, Zyp walked straight up to the 
 old man, pulled his arms down, sat upon his knee and 
 kissed his rutted cheek. I gave a gasp that was echoed 
 by Jason, who had followed and was leaning against the 
 lintel of the open door. Still my father said nothing and 
 I trembled at the ominous silence. At last in despera- 
 tion I stammered, and all the time Zyp was caressing the 
 passive face. 
 
 "Dad, the girl fell into the water and I pulled her out, 
 and here she is." 
 
 Then at length my father said in a harsh, deep voice: 
 
 "You pulled her out? What was Jason there doing?", 
 
 "Waiting for her to drown," my brother answered for 
 himself, defiantly forestalling conviction. 
 
 My father put the girl from him, strode furiously across 
 the room, seized Jason by one arm and gave him several 
 cruel, heavy blows across his shoulders and the back of 
 his head. The boy was half stunned, but uttered no cry, 
 and at every stroke Zyp laughed and clapped her hands. 
 Then, flinging his victim to the floor, from which he im- 
 mediately rose again and resumed his former posture by 
 the door, pale but unsubdued, my father returned to his 
 seat and held the girl at arm's length before him. 
 
 "Who are you?" he said. 
 
 She answered, "A changeling," in a voice soft as 
 flowers. 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 Zyp. 
 
 "Your other name?" 
 
 ">s'ever mind; Zyp's enough." 
 
 "Is it? Where do you come from? What brings you 
 here?" 
 
 "Renny brought me here because I love him.'' 
 
 "Love him? Have you ever met before?" 
 
 "No; but he pulled me out of the water." 
 
 "Come — this won't do. I must know more about 
 you."
 
 22 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 She laughed and pnt out her hand coaxingly. 
 
 "Shall I tell you? A little, perhaps. I am from a big 
 forest out west there, where wheels drone like hornets 
 among the trees and black men rise out of the ground. 
 I have no father or mother, for I come of the fairies. 
 Those who stood for them married late and had a baby 
 and they delayed to christen it. One day the baby was 
 gone and I was there. They knew me for a changeling 
 from the first and didn't love me. But I lived with them 
 for all that and they got to hate me more and more. 
 Not a cow died or a gammer was wryed wi' the rheuma- 
 tics but I had done it. Bit by bit the old man lost all 
 his trade and loved me none the more, I can tell you. 
 He was a Beast Leech, and where was the use of the 
 forest folk sending for him to mend their sick kine when 
 he kept a changeling to undo it all? At last they could 
 stand no more of it and the woman brought me away and 
 lost me." 
 
 "Lost you?" echoed my father. 
 
 "Oh," said Zyp, with a little cluck, "I knew all along 
 how the tramp was to end. There was an old one, a 
 woman, lived in the forest, and she told me a deal of 
 things. She knew me better than them all, and I loved 
 her because she was evil, so they said. She told me some 
 rhymes and plenty of other things." 
 
 "Well?" said my father. 
 
 "We walked east by the sun for days and days. Then 
 we came to the top of a big, soft hill, where little beetles 
 were hopping among the grass, and below us was a great 
 town like stones in a green old quarry, and the woman 
 said: 'Run down and ask the name of it while I rest here.' 
 And I ran with the wind in my face and was joyful, for I 
 knew that she would escape when I was gone, and I 
 should never see her again." 
 
 "And then you tumbled into the water?" said my 
 father, 
 
 Zyp nodded. 
 
 "And now," she said, "I belong to nobody, and will 
 you have me?" 
 
 My father shook his head, and in a moment sobs most
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 23 
 
 piteous were shaking the girl's throat. So forlorn and 
 pretty a sight I have never seen before or since. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if nobody comes to claim you, you 
 may stop.'' 
 
 And stop Zyp did. Surely was never an odder coming, 
 yet from that day she was one of us. 
 
 What was truthful and what imaginative in her story 
 I have never known, for from first to last this was the 
 most we heard of it. 
 
 One thing was certain. Zyp was by nature a child of the 
 open air and the sun. Flowers that were wild she loved 
 — not those that were cultivated, however beautiful, of 
 which she was indifferent — and she had an unspeakable 
 imagination in reading their fanciful histories and a 
 strange faculty for fondling them, as it were, into sentient 
 beings. I can hardly claim belief when I say that I have 
 seen a rough nettle fade when she scolded it for stinging 
 her finger, or a little yellow rock rose turn from the sun 
 to her when she talked to it. 
 
 Zyp never plucked a flower, or allowed us to do so if 
 she could prevent it. I well remember the first walk I 
 took with her after her establishment in the mill, when I 
 was attracted by a rare little blossom, the water chick- 
 weed, which sprouted from a grassy trench, and pulled 
 it for her behoof. She beat me savagely with her soft 
 hands, then fell to kissing and weeping over the torn 
 little weed, which actually appeared to revive a moment 
 under her caresses. I had to promise with humility never 
 to gather another wild flower so long as I lived, and I 
 have been faithful to my trust. 
 
 The afternoon of her coming old Peg rigged her up 
 some description of sleeping accommodation in a little 
 room in the attic, and this became her sanctuary when- 
 ever she wished to escape us and be alone. To my father 
 she was uniformly sweet and coaxing, and he for his part 
 took a strange fancy to her, and abated somewhat of his 
 demoniacal moodiness from the date of her arrival. 
 
 Yet it must not be imagined, from this description of 
 her softer side, that Zyp was all tender pliability. On the 
 contrary, in her general relations with us and others as
 
 24 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 impure human beings, she was the veritable soul of 
 impishness, and played a thousand pranks to prove her 
 title to her parentage. 
 
 At first she made a feint of distributing her smiles 
 willfully, by turn, between Modred and me, so that neither 
 of us might claim precedence. But Jason was admitted 
 to no pretense of rivalry; though, to do him justice, he 
 at once took the upper hand by meeting scorn with indif- 
 ference. In my heart, however, I claimed her as my espe- 
 cial property; a demand justified, I felt no doubt, by her 
 manner toward me, which was marked by a peculiar 
 rebellious tenderness she showed to no other. 
 
 The day after her arrival she asked me to take her 
 over the mill and show her everything. I complied when 
 the place was empty of all save us. We explored room 
 by room, with a single exception, the ancient building. 
 
 Of course Zyp said: "There's a room you haven't shown 
 me, Renny." 
 
 "Yes," said I; "the room of silence." 
 
 "Why didn't we go there?" 
 
 "Never mind. There's something v/icked in it." 
 
 "What? Do tell me! Oh, I should love to see!" 
 
 "There's nothing to see. Let it alone, can't you?" 
 
 "You're a coward. I'll get the sleepy boy to show 
 me." 
 
 "Come along then," I said, and, seizing her hand, 
 dragged her roughly indoors. 
 
 We crossed a dark passage, and, pushing back a heavy 
 door of ancient timber, stood on the threshold of the 
 room of silence. It was not in nature's meaning that the 
 name was bestowed, for, entering, the full voice of the 
 wheel broke upon one with a grinding fury that shook 
 the moldering boards of the floor. 
 
 "Well," I whispered, "have you seen enough?" 
 
 "I see nothing," she cried, with a shrill, defiant laugh ; 
 "I am going in" — and before I could stop her, she had 
 run into the middle of the room and was standing still in 
 the bar of sunlight, with her arms outspread like wings, 
 and her face, the lips apart, lifted with an expression on 
 it of eager inquiry.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 25, 
 
 What happened? I can find an image only in the 
 poison bottle of the entomologist. As some shining, 
 flower-stained butterfly, slipped into this glass coffin, 
 quivers, droops its wings and fades, as it were, in a mo- 
 ment before its capturer's eyes, so Zyp faded before mine. 
 Her arms dropped to her sides, her figure seemed as if 
 its whole buoyancy were gone at a touch, her face fell 
 to a waxen color and "Oh, take me away!'' she wailed in 
 a thin, strangled voice. 
 
 I conquered my terror, rushed to her, and, dragging 
 her stumbling and tripping from the room, banged to the 
 door behind us and made for the little platform once 
 more and the open air. 
 
 She revived in a wonderfully short space of time, and, 
 lifting up her head, looked into my eyes with her own 
 wide with dismay. 
 
 "It was hideous," she whispered ; "why didn't you stop 
 me?" 
 
 Zyp, it will be seen, was not all elf. She had some- 
 thing in common with her sex. 
 
 "I warned you," I said, "and I know what you felt." 
 
 "It was as if a question was being asked of me," she 
 said, in a low voice. "And yet no one spoke and there 
 was no question. I don't know what it wanted or what 
 were the words, for there were none; but I feel as if I 
 shall have to go on thinking of the answer and struggling 
 to find it forever and ever." 
 
 "Yes," I whispered, in the same tone; "that is what 
 everybody says." 
 
 She begged me not to follow her, and crept away 
 quite humbled and subdued, and we none of us saw more 
 of her that day. But just as she left me she turned and 
 whispered in awe-stricken tone, "Answer what speaks to 
 thee," and I could not remember when and where I had 
 heard these words before.
 
 26 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ZYP BEWITCHES. 
 
 In the evening Dr. Crackenthorpe paid us a visit. He 
 found my father out, but elected to sit with us and smoke 
 his pipe expectant of the other's return. 
 
 He ahvays treated us boys as if we were so much dirt, 
 and we respected his strength just sufficiently to try no 
 pranks on him in the absence of the ruling power. But 
 nevertheless we resented his presumption of authority, 
 and whenever he sat with us alone made an exaggerated 
 affectation of being thick in whispered confidences among 
 ourselves. 
 
 Zyp was still upstairs and the doctor had not as yet 
 seen her, but he was conscious, I think, in some telepathic 
 way, of an alien presence in the house, for he kept shift- 
 ing his position uneasily and looking toward the door. 
 A screech from his lips suddenly startled us, and we 
 turned round to see the long man standing bolt upright, 
 with his face gone the color of a meal sack, and his bold 
 eyes staring prominent. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Jason. 
 
 Gradually the doctor's face assumed a dark look of 
 rage. 
 
 "Which of you was it?" he cried in a broken voice; 
 "tell me, or I'll crack all vour fingers up like fire 
 sticks!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Jason, again: "you see for 
 yourself weVe been sitting by the table all the time you've 
 been there." 
 
 "Something spoke — somebody, I tell you, as I sat here 
 in the chimney corner!" He was beside himself with 
 fury and had great ado to crush his emotion under. But 
 he succeeded, and sat down again trembling all over. 
 
 "A curse is on the house!" he muttered; then aloud:
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 27 
 
 "I've had enough of your games, you black vermin! I 
 won't stand it, d'ye hear? Let there be an end !" 
 
 We stared, dropped into our seats and were beginning 
 our confidences once more, when the doctor started up a 
 second time with a loud oath, and leaped into the middle 
 of the room. 
 
 "Great thunder!" he shouted; "d'ye dare!" 
 
 This time we had all heard it — a wailing whisper that 
 seemed to come from the neighborhood of the chimney 
 and to utter the words: "Beware the demon that sits in 
 the bottle," and of the whole company only I was not 
 confounded. 
 
 As to the doctor, he suddenly turned very white again, 
 and muttered shakingly: "Can it be? I don't exceed 
 as others do. I swear I have taken less this month than 
 ever before." 
 
 With the terror in his soul he stumbled toward the door 
 and was moving out his hand to reach it, when it opened 
 from the other side and Zyp, as meek and pure looking 
 as a young saint, met him on the threshold. 
 
 Now, I had that morning, in the course of conversation 
 with the changeling, touched upon Dr. Crackenthorpe 
 and his weaknesses, and that ghostly mention of the 
 bottle convinced me on the moment that only she could 
 be responsible for the mystery — a revelation of impish- 
 ness which, I need not say, delighted me. The method 
 of her prank I may as well describe here. The embra- 
 sure for a fireplace in her room had never been fitted 
 with a grate, and the hearthstone itself was cracked and 
 dislocated in a dozen places. By removing some of these 
 fragments she had actually discovered a broken way into 
 the chimney of the sitting room below, down which it 
 was easy to slip a hollow rail of iron which with other 
 lumber lay in the attic. This she had done, listened for 
 her opportunity, and thereupon spoken the ominous 
 words. 
 
 I think her appearance was the consummation of the 
 doctor's terror, for a shuddering "Oh!" shook from his 
 lips, and he seemed about to drop. And indeed she was 
 somewhat like a spirit, Vv'ith her wild white face looking
 
 28 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 from a tangle of pheasant-brown hair and her solemn 
 eyes like water glints in little wells of shadow. 
 
 She walked past the stricken man all stately, and then 
 Modred and I jumped up and greeted her. At this the 
 doctor's jaw dropped, but his trembling ceased and he 
 watched us with injected eyes. Holding my two hands, 
 Zyp looked coyly round, leaning backward. 
 
 "I love a tall man," she whispered; "he has more in 
 him than a short one." 
 
 The doctor pulled himself together and came straggling 
 across to the table. 
 
 "Who the pestilence is this?" he said, in a voice not yet 
 quite under his command. 
 
 Zyp let go my hands and curtsied like a wild flower. 
 
 "Zyp, the orphan, good gentleman," she said; "shall I 
 fill your pipe for you?" 
 
 It had fallen on the floor by the chimney, and she 
 picked it up and went to him with a winning expression. 
 
 "Where is your tobacco, please?" 
 
 IMechanically he brought a round tin box from his 
 pocket and handed it to her. Then it was a study in elfin 
 coquetry to see the way in which she daintily coaxed 
 the weed into the bowl and afterward sucking at the pipe 
 stem with her determined little red lips to see if it drew 
 properly. This done, she presented the mouthpiece to 
 the doctor's consideration, as if it were a baby's "com- 
 forter." 
 
 "Now," she said, "sit down and I'll bring you your 
 glass." 
 
 But at this the four of us, including Dr. Crackenthorpe, 
 drew back. My father was no man to allow his pleasures 
 to be encroached upon unbidden, and we three, at least, 
 knew it as much as our skins were worth to oflfer practical 
 hospitality in his absence. 
 
 Zyp looked at our faces and stamped her foot lively, 
 with a toss of disdain. 
 
 "Where is the strong drink?" she said. 
 
 Modred tittered. "In that cupboard over the mantel 
 shelf, if you must know," he said. 
 
 Zyp had the bottle out in a twinkling and a glass with
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 29 
 
 it. She poured out a stiff rummer, added water from a 
 stone bottle on a corner shelf, and presented the grateful 
 offering to the visitor, who had reseated himself by the 
 table. 
 
 His scruples of conscience and discretion grew faint in 
 the near neighborhood of the happy cordial. He seized 
 the glass and impulsively took half the grog at a breath. 
 Zyp clapped her hands joyfully, whereupon he clumped 
 down the glass on the table with a dismayed look. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you're an odd little witch, upon my 
 word. What Robin Goodfellow fathered you, I should 
 like to know?" 
 
 "He's no father," said Zyp. "He's too full of tricks 
 for a family man. I could tell you things of him." 
 
 "Tell us some then," said the doctor. 
 
 What Zyp would have answered I don't know, for at 
 that moment my father walked into the room. If he had 
 had what is vulgarly called a skinful, he was not drunk, 
 for he moved steadily up to the little group at the table 
 with a scowl contracting his forehead. The half-emptied 
 tumbler had caught his eye immediately and he pointed to 
 it. I was conscious that the doctor quaked a little. 
 
 "Pray make yourself at home,'' said my father, and 
 caught up the glass and flung its contents in the other's 
 face. In a moment the two men were locked in a savage, 
 furious embrace, till, crashing over a chair, they were 
 flung sprawling on the floor and apart. Before they 
 could come together again Zyp alone of us had placed 
 herself between them, fearless and beautiful, and had 
 broken into a quaint little song: 
 
 "Smooth down her fur, 
 
 Rub sleep over her eyes, 
 Sweet, never stir. 
 Kiss down the coat of her 
 
 There, where she lies 
 
 On the bluebells." 
 
 She sung, and whether it was the music or the strange- 
 ness of the interruption, I shall never know; only the 
 wonderful fact remains that, with the sound of her voice,
 
 30 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 the great passion seemed to die out of the two foes and 
 to give place to a pleasant conceit, comical in its way, 
 that they had only been rollicking together. 
 
 "Well," said my father, without closer allusion to his 
 brutality, "the liquor was choice Schiedam, and it's gone." 
 
 He sat down, called for another glass, helped himself 
 to a noggin and pushed the bottle roughly across to Dr. 
 Crackenthorpe, who had already reseated himself oppo- 
 site. 
 
 "Sing again, girt," said my father, but Zyp shook her 
 head. 
 
 "I never do anything to order," she said, "but the 
 fairies move me to dance." 
 
 She blew out the lamp as she spoke and glided to a 
 patch of light that fell from the high May moon through 
 the window on to the rough boards of the room. Into 
 this light she dipped her hands and then passed them 
 over her hair and face as though she were washing her- 
 self in the mystic fountain of the night ; and all the time 
 her murmuring voice accompanied the action in little 
 trills of laughter and words not understandable. Pres- 
 ently she fell to dancing, slowly at first and dividing her 
 presence between glow and gloom; but gradually the 
 supple motion of her body increased, step by step, until 
 she was footing it as wildly as a young hamadryad to her 
 own leaping shadow on the floor. 
 
 Suddenly she sprung from the moonlit square, danced 
 over to Dr. Crackenthorpe and, whispering awfully in 
 his ear, "Beware the demon that sits in the bottle," ran 
 from the room. 
 
 My father burst into a fit of laughter, but I think from 
 that day the doctor fully hated her.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 31 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A TERRIBLE INTERVIEW. 
 
 Zyp had been with us a month, and surely never did 
 changeHng happen into a more congenial household. 
 
 Jason she still held at arm's length, which, despite my 
 admiration of my brother, I secretly congratulated my 
 heart on, for — let me get over it at the outset — from first to 
 last, I have never wavered in my passion of love for this 
 v/ild, beautiful creature. The unexpectedness of her com- 
 ing alone was a romance, the delight of which has never 
 palled upon me with the deadening years. Therefore it 
 was that I early made acquaintance with the demon of 
 jealousy, than whom none, in truth, is more irresistible 
 in his unclean strength and hideousness. 
 
 Zyp and I were one day wandering under the shadow 
 of the mighty old cathedral of Winton, 
 
 "I don't like it, Renny," she said, pressing up close to 
 me. "It's awful and its grand, but there are always faces 
 at the windows when I look up at them." 
 
 "Whose?" I said, with a laugh. 
 
 "I don't know," she said; "but think of the thousands 
 of old monks and things whose home it was once and 
 whose ghosts are shut up among the stones. There!" 
 she cried, pointing. 
 
 I looked at the old leaded window she indicated, but 
 could see nothing. 
 
 "His face is like stone and he's beckoning," she whis- 
 pered. "Oh, come along, Renny" — and she dragged me 
 out of the grassy yard and never stopped hurrying me 
 on till we reached the meadows. Here her gayety re- 
 turned to her, and she fell at home among the flowers at 
 once. 
 
 Presently we wandered into a grassy covert against 
 a hedge on the further side of which a road ran, and
 
 32 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 threw ourselves among the "sauce alone" and wild pars- 
 ley that grew there. Zyp was in one of her softest moods 
 and my young heart fluttered within me. She leaned 
 over me as I sat and talked to me in a low voice, with 
 her fair young brow gone into wrinkles of thoughtfulness. 
 
 "Renny, what's love that they talk about?" 
 
 I laughed and no doubt blushed. 
 
 "I mean," she said, "is it blue eyes and golden hair 
 or brown eyes and brown hair? Don't be silly, little boy, 
 till you know what I mean." 
 
 "Well, what do you mean, Zyp?" 
 
 "I want to know, that's all. Renny, do you remember 
 my asking to kiss and be friends that day we first met, 
 and your refusing?'' 
 
 "Yes, Zyp,'' I stammered. 
 
 "You may kiss me now, if you like," and she let her- 
 self drop into my arms, as I sat there, and turned up her 
 pretty cheek to my mouth. 
 
 My blood surged in my ears. I was half-frightened, 
 but all with a delicious guilt upon me. I bent hastily 
 and touched the soft pink cui*ve with my trembling lips. 
 
 She lay quite still a moment, then sat up and gently 
 drew away from me. 
 
 "No," she said, "that isn't it. Shall I ever know, I 
 wonder?" 
 
 "Know what, Zyp?" 
 
 "Never mind, for I shan't tell you. There, I didn't 
 mean to be rude," and she stroked the sleeve of my jacket 
 caressingly. 
 
 By and by she said: "I wonder if you will sufifer, Ren- 
 ny, poor boy? I would save you all if I could, for you're 
 the best of them, I believe." 
 
 Her very words were so inexplicable to me that I 
 could only sit and stare at her. I have construed them 
 since, with a knife through my heart for every letter. 
 
 As we were sitting silent a little space, steps sounded 
 down the road and voices with them. They were of two 
 men, who stopped suddenly, as they came over against 
 us, hidden behind the hedge, as if to clinch some argn-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 33 
 
 ment, but we had already recognized the contrary tones 
 of my father and Dr. Crackenthorpe. 
 
 "Now, harkee!" the doctor was saying; "that's well 
 and good, but I'm not to be baffled forever and a day, 
 Mr. Ralf Trender. What does it all amount to? 
 You've got something hidden up your sleeve and I want 
 to know what it is." 
 
 "Is that all?" My father spoke in a set, deep manner. 
 
 "That's all, and enough." 
 
 "Then, look up my sleeve. Dr. Crackenthorpe — if vou 
 can." \ 
 
 "I don't propose to look. I suggest that you just 
 shake it, when no doubt the you-know-whats will come 
 tumbling out." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" 
 
 "There are laws, my friend, laws — iniquitous, if you 
 like; but, for what they are, they don't recognize the 
 purse on the highway as the property of him that picks 
 it up." 
 
 "And how are you going to set these laws in motion?" 
 
 "We'll insert the end of the wedge first — say in some 
 public print, now. How would this look? We have it 
 on good authority that Air. Trender, our esteemed fellow- 
 townsman, is the lucky discoverer of " 
 
 "Be silent, you!" My father spoke fiercely; then 
 added in a low tone: "D'ye wish all the world to know?'' 
 
 "Not by any means," said the other, quietly, "and they 
 shan't if you fall in with my mood." 
 
 "If I only once had your head in the mill wheel," 
 groaned my father, with a curse, "Now, barken! I 
 don't put much value on your threat; but this I'll allow 
 that I court no interference with my manner of life. Take 
 the concession for what it is worth. Come to me by and 
 by and you shall have another." 
 
 "A couple," said the doctor. 
 
 "Very well — no more, though I rot for it — and take 
 my blessing with them." 
 
 "When shall I come?" said the doctor, ignoring the 
 very equivocal benediction.
 
 34 THE MILL OF SILENCE, 
 
 "Come to-night — no, to-morrow," said my father, and 
 turning on his heel strode heavily off toward the town. 
 
 I heard the doctor chuckling softly with a malignant 
 triumph in his note. 
 
 I clenched my teeth and fists and would have risen had 
 not Zyp noiselessly prevented me. It was wormwood 
 to me; the revelation that, for some secret cause, my 
 father, the strong, irresistible and independent, was under 
 the thumb of an alien. But the doctor walked off and I 
 fell silent. 
 
 On our homeward way we came across Jason lying on 
 his back under a tree, but he took no notice of us nor 
 answered my call, and Zyp stamped her foot when I 
 offered to delay and speak to him. Nevertheless I noticed 
 that more than once she looked back, as long as he was in 
 view, to see if he was moved to any curiosity as to our 
 movements, which he never appeared to be in the least. 
 
 Great clouds had been gathering all the afternoon, and 
 now the first swollen drops of an advancing thunderstorm 
 spattered in the dust outside the yard. Inside it was as 
 dark as pitch, and I had almost to grope my way along 
 the familiar passages. Zyp ran away to her own den. 
 
 Suddenly, with a leap of the blood, I saw that some 
 faintly pallid object stood against the door of the room 
 of silence as I neared it. It was only with an effort I 
 could proceed, and then the thing detached itself and was 
 resolved into the white face of my brother Modred. 
 
 "Is that you, Renny?" he said, in a loud, tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, very shakily myself. "What in the 
 name of mystery are you doing there?" 
 
 "I feel queer," he said. "Let's get to the light some- 
 where." 
 
 We made our way to the back, opened the door leading 
 on to the little platform and stood looking at the stringed 
 rain. Modred's face was ghastly and his eyes were 
 awakened to an expression that I had never thought 
 them capable of. 
 
 "You've been in there?" I said. 
 
 "Yes," he whispered.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 35 
 
 "More fool you. If you like to tempt the devil you 
 should have the brass to outface him. Why, you've got 
 it!" I cried, for he suddenly let fall from his trembhng 
 hand a little round glittering- object, whose nature I could 
 not determine in the stormy twilight. 
 
 He had it in his clutch again in a moment, though I 
 pounced for it, and then he backed through the open 
 doorway. 
 
 "Its naught that concerns you," he said; "keep off, 
 you beast!" 
 
 "What is it?" I cried. 
 
 "Water-parings," said he, and clapped to the door in 
 my face as I rushed at him, and I heard him scuttie up- 
 stairs. The latch caught me in the chest and knocked 
 my breath out for a bit, so that I was unable to follow, 
 and probably he ran and bolted himself into his bedroom. 
 In any case, I had no mind for pursuit, my heart being 
 busy with other affairs; and there I remained and 
 thought them out. Presently, being well braced to the 
 ordeal, I went indoors and upstairs to the living room, 
 where I was persuaded I should find my father. And 
 there he sat, pretty hot with drink and with a comfortless, 
 glowering devil in his eyes. 
 
 "Well!" he thundered, "what do you want?" 
 
 I managed to get out, with some firmness, "A word 
 with you, dad," though his eyes disquieted me. 
 
 "Make it one, then, and a quick one!" 
 
 "Zyp and I were sitting behind a hedge this afternoon 
 when you and Dr. Crackenthorpe were at words on the 
 other side." 
 
 His eyes shriveled me, but the motion of his lips seemed 
 to signify to me that I was to go on. 
 
 "Dad, if he has any hold over you, let me share the 
 bother and help if I can." 
 
 He had sat with his right hand on the neck of the 
 bottle from which he had been drinking, and he now 
 flung the latter at me, with a snarl like that of a mad dog. 
 Fortunately for me, in the very act some flash of impulse 
 unnerved him, so that the bottle spun up to the ceiling 
 and crashed down again to the floor, from which the
 
 36 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 scattered liquor sent up a pungent, sickening odor. Then 
 he leaped to his feet and yelled at me. I could make 
 nothing of his words, save that they clashed into one an- 
 other in a torrent of furious invective. But in the midst 
 his voice stopped, with a vibrating snap; he put his hand 
 to his forehead, which, I saw with horror, was suddenly 
 streaked with purple, and down he sunk to the floor in a 
 heap. 
 
 I was terribly frightened, and, running to him, endeav- 
 ored in a frantic manner to pull him into a sitting posture. 
 I had half succeeded, when, lying propped up against the 
 leg of the table, he gave a groan and bade me in a weak 
 voice to let him be; and presently to my joy I saw the 
 natural color come back to his face by slow degrees. By 
 and by he was able to slide into the chair he had left, 
 where he lay panting and exhausted, but recovering. 
 
 "Renalt, my lad," he said, in a dragging voice, "what 
 was that you said just now? Let's have it again." 
 
 I hesitated, but he smiled at me and bade me not to 
 fear. Thus encouraged, I repeated my statement. 
 
 "Ah," he said; "and the girl— did she hear?" 
 
 "She couldn't help it, dad. But she can't have noticed 
 much, for she never even referred to it afterward." 
 
 "Which looks bad, and so much for your profound 
 knowledge of the sex." 
 
 He looked at me keenly for some moments from under 
 his matted eyebrows; then muttered as if to himself: 
 
 "Here's a growing lad, and loyal, I believe. What if 
 I took him a yard into my confidence?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, dad," I said, eagerly. "You can trust me, 
 indeed you can. I only want to be of some use." 
 
 He slightly shook his head, then seemed to wake up all 
 of a sudden. 
 
 "There," he said; "be ofif. like a good boy, and don't 
 worry me a second time. You meant well, and I'm not 
 ofipended." 
 
 "Yes, dad," I said a little sadly, and was turning to go, 
 when he spoke to me again : 
 
 "And if the girl should mention this matter — you know 
 what — to you, say what I tell you now — that Dr. Crack-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 37 
 
 enthorpe thinks your father can tell him where more 
 coins are to be found like the one I gave him that night; 
 but that your father can't and is under no obligation to 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe — none whatever." 
 
 So I left him, puzzled, a little depressed, but proud to 
 be the recipient of even this crumb of confidence on the 
 part of so reserved and terrible a man. 
 
 Still I could not but feel that there was something 
 inconsistent in his words to me and those I had heard 
 him address to the doctor. Without a doubt his utter- 
 ances on the road had pointed to a certain recognition of 
 the necessity of bribing the other to silence. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE. 
 
 Full of dissatisfaction I wandered into the shed and 
 loitered aimlessly about. As I stood there Jason came 
 clattering homeward, his coat collar turned up and his 
 curly head bowed to the deluge. 
 
 "So you got home before me?" he said, shaking him- 
 self and squeezing his cap out as he spoke. 
 
 "Yes; we came straight." 
 
 "It was lovely in the meads, wasn't it?" said he, with 
 an ©dd glance at me. 
 
 "It's been lovely all this May," said I. 
 
 "And that means a fat churchyard. Old Rottengoose 
 says: 'A cold May and windy makes a full barn and 
 findy.' A queer one, old Peg is. She'd die if she cast a 
 woolen before the first of June. I wonder what she'd 
 think of sitting under a hedge in a northeaster?" 
 
 I started a little and shot a look askance at my brother. 
 Could he have seen us? But his next words reassured 
 me. 
 
 "Or of falling asleep in the shade, as I did, till the rain 
 on my face woke me up." 
 
 "Then you didn't see us pass " I began and stopped.
 
 38 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "See what? I saw nothing but my eyelids and the sky 
 through 'em." 
 
 I gave a sigh of relief. My feelings toward Zyp were 
 boyish and bashful and innocent enough, heaven knows; 
 but in the shadow of my rough past they were beginning 
 to glimmer out so strange and sweet that the merest 
 suspicion of their incurring publicity filled me with a 
 shame-faced terror of ridicule that was agony. 
 
 Freed from this dread, I fell into an extreme of gar- 
 rulity that landed me in a quagmire of discomfiture. 
 
 After I had thus talked for a while, rather disconnected- 
 ly, he interrupted me. 
 
 "Renny," he said, "you're pretty fond of the girl, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 I heard him with a little shock of surprise. 
 
 "Not that I care," he went on, airily, "except for your 
 sake, old boy." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said. 
 
 "We're up to a thing or two, aren't we?" said he, "but 
 she's fifty tricks to our one." 
 
 "She has her good points, Jason." 
 
 "Oh, yes; lots of them. So many that it hardly seems 
 worth while noticing her setting you up against me." 
 
 "She's never done anything of the sort!" I cried, 
 hotly. 
 
 "Hasn't she? Well, that's all right, and we can be 
 chums again. I only wanted to warn you against putting 
 faith in a chit that can wear a new face easier than her 
 dress, to you, or Modred, or — or any one." 
 
 "Modred!" I cried, in astonishment. 
 
 "Oh, don't suppose," he said, "that you're sole lord of 
 her heart. 
 
 "I never did suppose it," I answered, thickly. "Why 
 should I? She's free to fancy whom she likes" — but my 
 heart sunk within me. 
 
 "Yes; that's the way to look at it," he said. "You 
 wouldn't think she could find much to admire in that 
 fatty, now, would you?" 
 
 "How do you know she does?^ 
 
 "I do know — that's enough."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 39 
 
 "Well, isn't he a sort of brother to her?" I said — with 
 a courageous effort — "as we all are." 
 
 "Of course. That's it." 
 
 "And I don't know wliat you mean by 'any one' else." 
 
 "Don't you?" He laughed and flung away a stone he 
 had been idly playing with. "Well, I meant Modred, or 
 — or any one else." 
 
 "Who else?" 
 
 "Dad, say — or Dr. Crackenthorpe." 
 
 "Oh, you're an idiot!" I cried; "I won't talk to you"— 
 and I left him and ran indoors. 
 
 But he had driven the sting home and the poison 
 already worked furiously in me. How can I explain 
 why? It was true, what he had said, every word of it. 
 She had set me against him, Jason — not in words, but 
 by a tacit conviction of him as one who had of his own 
 act bared his soul momentarily, and revealed a sinister 
 brand across it hitherto unguessed at. 
 
 W^ell, this was the first waking from the boyish dream, 
 and should I ever dream it again? I had said we were 
 all in a manner her brothers, and that she was free to 
 smile on whom she chose. What a pitiful handful of 
 dust for all eyes but my own ! I felt the passibn of long- 
 ing for her single love surge in me as I spoke. I had 
 never till that moment dreamed of combating another 
 for possession of it. She had seemed mine by right of 
 fortune's gift from the first, nor had she by her behavior 
 appeared to question the right. We had confidences, 
 discussions, little secrets together, which none but we 
 might share in. We walked and talked and leaned toward 
 one another, with a sense of mutual understanding that 
 was pathetic, I am sure — at least as to my share in it — in 
 God's eyes. 
 
 And now to find that all the time she was on like 
 secret terms with Modred — with Jason, too, perhaps, 
 judging by his sidelong innuendoes, though it made my 
 heart sick to think that she could play so double faced a 
 game between me and one whom she professed to hate 
 and despise.
 
 40 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 What a drama of dolls it was! And how soon the 
 drama was to turn into a tragedy! 
 
 I went indoors and upstairs to the room which Jason 
 and I shared and flung myself on the bed. Then I was 
 properly shocked and hon-ified to find that my cheeks 
 were suddenly wet with tears — a humiliating discovery 
 for a tough-sinewed young barbarian to make. What an 
 admirable sight, indeed! Renalt Trender, sniffing and 
 snuffling for a girl's favor! 
 
 Pride, however, is everywhere indigenous, and this 
 came to my assistance. If the minx played sham with 
 me I would meet her with her own tactics and afifect indif- 
 ference. What a triumphant picture this: 
 
 Zyp — "Why have you been dififerent to me of late, 
 Renny? Aren't you fond of me now?" 
 
 Renny — "My good little Zyp, the fact is I have tired a 
 bit of the novelty. It has been my first experience of 
 the society of a girl, you know, and very pleasant while 
 it lasted ; but I confess to a little longing for a resumption 
 of the old independence and freedom. Perhaps some 
 day again we will walk and converse together as of 
 old." 
 
 Atop of this imaginary question and answer rose a 
 smugly anguishing picture of Zyp flushed and in tears 
 (my imagination insisted on these in bucketsful, to out- 
 flood my own temporary weakness); of Zyp hurt and 
 sorrowing, but always striving by ever}'^ means in her 
 power to win back my lost favor. 
 
 Alas, poor little clown! I fear it is just those who have 
 the fancy to conjure up such pictures who suffer most 
 cruelly from the non-realization of the hopes of youth. 
 Braced to the test, however, and not knowing myself in 
 weak armor, I came down to supper that evening prick- 
 ling all through with resolve. 
 
 Jason was in the room alone, as I entered, and was 
 walking feverishly up and down. 
 
 "Hist!" he said, softly, seizing me by the arm; "come 
 here and look for yourself." 
 
 He dragged me to the little square window, which was
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 41 
 
 open. It looked out at the back, and beneath was the 
 railed platform before mentioned. 
 
 I knew that I was urged to act the spy, and yet — -so 
 demoralizing is jealousy — like a dog I Avent. Softly we 
 craned our necks through the opening and looked down. 
 Trees all about here bordered the river banks, so as to 
 make the rear of our mill quite secret and secluded. 
 
 She, Zyp, was standing on the platform with her arm 
 round Modred's neck. She seemed trying to coax some- 
 thing from him which he was reluctant to part with. As 
 he evaded her efforts I saw what it was — the little round 
 yellow object I had noticed in his hand earlier in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 "Darling," she said, in a subdued voice, "do let me 
 have it." 
 
 He laughed and looked at her loutishly. 
 
 "You know the condition, Zyp." 
 
 "I have let you kiss me over and over again." 
 
 "But you haven't kissed me yet." 
 
 She stamped her foot. "Nor ever shall!" she cried. 
 
 "Then here goes," he said, and slipped it into his 
 pocket. 
 
 At that she rushed at him and wound her arms about 
 him like a young panther. 
 
 "Shall I tear you with my teeth?" she said, but instead 
 she smoothed his face with one hand disengaged and 
 murmured to him: 
 
 "Modred, dear, you got it for me, you know; you 
 said so." 
 
 "And precious frightened I was, Zyp." 
 
 "Well, it is mine, isn't it?" 
 
 "If you give me the kiss." 
 
 My father's step on the stairs brought our heads in 
 with a clatter. We heard them scuttle into the house, 
 and a moment later they appeared in the room. Modred's 
 face was flushed and bore a heavy, embarrassed expres- 
 sion, but Zyp looked quite cool and self-possessed. 
 
 I took no notice of her during the meal, but talked, 
 daring in my misen,% to my father, who condescended to
 
 42 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 answer me now and again, and I could see that she won- 
 dered at me. 
 
 Supper over, I hurried to my room, and shutting my- 
 self in, went and sat by the window and gave my tor- 
 mented soul to the night. Had I never met Zyp, I doubt 
 if I should ever in my manhood have realized what the 
 grown-up, I think, seldom do, the amount of torture and 
 wrong the young heart may endure without bursting — 
 with no hope of sympathy, moreover, except that half- 
 amused tolerant form of it which the old think it sufficient 
 to extend to youth's elastic grievances. 
 
 By and by Jason stole in. For some little time he sat 
 upon his bed, silent; then he said in a soft voice: 
 
 "Let's cry quits, Renny. I think I've paid you out for 
 that little accident of the meads," 
 
 "I hate you!" I said, quietly, and indeed it seemed to 
 me that his cruelty deserved no better a reward. 
 
 He laughed, and was silent again, and presently began 
 to undress for bed, whistling softly all the time. 
 
 I took no notice of him; but long after when he was 
 breathing peacefully asleep, I laid my own aching head, 
 tired with misery, on the pillow, and tried to follow his 
 example. I was not to succeed until faint daylight came 
 through the casement and the birds were twittering out- 
 side — was never, indeed, to know sleep in its innocence 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 THE POOL OF DEATH. 
 
 Morning brought a pitcher of comfort with it on its 
 gossamer wings. Who, at 17, can wake from restoring 
 sleep to find the June sun on his face and elect to break- 
 fast on bitter wormwood, with the appetizing fry of good 
 country bacon caressing his nostrils through every chink 
 of the boards? Indeed, T was not born to hate, or to any 
 decided vice or virtue, but was of those who, taking a
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 43 
 
 middle course, are kicked to the wall or into the gutter 
 as the Fates have a fancy. 
 
 I was friendly with myself, with Jason — almost with 
 Zyp, who had so bedeviled me. After all, I thought, the 
 measure of her regard for me might be more in a win- 
 ning friendliness than in embraces such as she had be- 
 stowed upon Modred. 
 
 Therefore I dressed in good heart, chatting amiably 
 with Jason, who, I could not help noticing, was at some 
 pains to study me curiously. 
 
 Such reactionary spirits are the heritage of youth. 
 They decline with the day. My particular relapse hap- 
 pened, maybe, ungenerously early, for it was at break- 
 fast I noticed the first tremulous vibrations of Zyp's war 
 trumpet. Clearly she had guessed the reason of the 
 change in my manner toward her yesterday evening and 
 was bent upon disabusing my mind of the presumptuous 
 supposition that I held any monopoly whatsoever of her 
 better regard. To this end she showered exaggerated 
 attentions upon Modred and my father — even Jason 
 coming in for his share. She had little digs at my silence 
 and boorishness that hugely delighted the others. She 
 slipped a corner of fat bacon into my tea and spilled salt 
 over my bread and jam, and all the time I had to bear 
 my sufifering with a stoic heart and echo the merriment, 
 which I did in such sardonic fashion as to call down fresh 
 banter for my confusion. At our worst, it must be con- 
 fessed, we were not a circle with a refined sense of humor. 
 But when w^e rose, and Zyp brushed rudely by me with 
 a pert toss of her head, I felt indeed as if life no longer 
 held anything worth the striving after. 
 
 I walked out into the yard to be alone, but Jason fol- 
 lowed me. Some tenderness for old comradeship sake 
 stirred in him momentarily, I think, for his blue eyes 
 were good as they met mine. 
 
 "What an ass you are, Renny," he said; "to make such 
 a to-do about the rubbish!" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," I said, in miserable 
 resentment. "I'm making no to-do about anything."
 
 44 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 My chest felt like a stone, and I could have struck him 
 or any one. 
 
 "Oh, I can see," said he. 
 
 "See what you like," I replied, furiously, "but don't 
 bother me with it. I've nothing to do with your fancies." 
 
 "Oh, very well," he said, coolly; "I don't want to inter- 
 fere, I'm sure." 
 
 I bounced past him and strode out of the yard. My 
 blood was humming in my veins ; the sunny street looked 
 all glazed with a shining gray. I walked on and on, 
 scarcely knowing whither I went. Presently I climbed 
 St. Catherine's hill and flung rnyself down on the summit. 
 Below me, a quarter of a mile away, the old city lay in 
 the hollow cup of its down. Who, of all its 17,000 souls, 
 could ever stir my pulses as the little stranger from the 
 distant shadowy forest could? We had no forests round 
 Winton. Perhaps if we had the spirit of the trees would 
 have colored my life, too, so that I might have scorned 
 "the blind bow-god's butt shaft." 
 
 No doubt I was young to make such capital out of a 
 little boyish disappointment. Do you think so? Then 
 to you I must not appeal. Oh, my friend ! We are not 
 all jack-o'-lanterns at 17, and the fire of unrequited affec- 
 tion may burn fiercer in the pure air of youth than in 
 the vitiated atmosphere of manhood. Anyhow believe 
 me that to me my misery was very real and dreadful. 
 Think only, you who have plucked the fruit and found 
 it bitter — you whose disenchantment of life did not begin 
 till life itself was waning- — what it must be to feel hopeless 
 at that tender age. 
 
 All day long I lay on the hill or wandered about the 
 neighboring downs, and it was not till the shadows of the 
 trees were stretching that I made up my mind to return 
 and face out the inevitable. 
 
 I Avas parched and feverish, and the prospect of a 
 plunge in the river on my way home came to me with a 
 little lonely thrill as of solace to my unhappiness. 
 
 There was a deep pool at a bend of the stream, not 
 far from where Zyp and I had sat yesterday afternoon 
 (was it only yesterday?) which we three were much in
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 45 
 
 the habit of frequenting on warm evenings ; and thither 
 I bent my steps. This part of the water lay very private 
 and soHtary, and was only to be reached by trespassing 
 from the road through a pretty thick-set blackthorn 
 hedge — a necessity to its enjoyment which, I need not 
 say, was an attraction to us. 
 
 As I wriggled through our individual "run" in the 
 hedge and, emerging on the other side, raised my face, 
 I saw that a naked figure was already seated by the side 
 of the running pool, which I was not long in identifying 
 as Modred's. 
 
 I hesitated. What reason had I for hobnobbing with 
 mine enemy, as, in the bitterness of my heart, I called 
 him? I could not as yet speak to him naturally, I felt, 
 or meet him without resentment. Where was the object 
 in complicating matters? I turned, on the thought, to 
 go, and again hesitated. Should he see me before I had 
 made my escape, would he not attribute it to embarrass- 
 ment on my part and crow triumphant over my discom- 
 fiture? Ah, why did I not act on my first impulse? 
 Why, why? The deeps of perdition must resound with 
 that forlorn little word. 
 
 When a second time the good resolve came to me, it 
 was too late. He rose and saw me and, under his shad- 
 ing hand, even at that distance, I could mark the silent 
 grin of mockery on his face. I walked deliberately 
 toward him, my hands in my pockets, my cap shading 
 my eyes. 
 
 "Aren't you coming to bathe?" he said, when I drew 
 near. "It'll cool your temper." 
 
 I could have struck him, but I answered nothing and 
 only began to undress. 
 
 "Where have you been all day? We were wondering, 
 Zyp and I, as we lay in the meadow out there." 
 
 Still I answered nothing, but I knew that my hands 
 trembled as I pulled off my coat and waistcoat. 
 
 He stood watching me a little while in silence, then 
 said: "You seem to have lost your tongue, old Renny. 
 Has it followed your heart because Zyp talks for two?" 
 
 I sprung up, but he eluded me and, with a hateful
 
 46 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 laugh, leaped on the moment into the deep center of the 
 pool. A horrible tightness came round my throat. Half- 
 undressed as I was I plunged after him all mad with 
 passion. He rose near me, and seeing the fury of my 
 face, dived again, and I followed. It took but an instant, 
 and my life was wrecked. We met among the weeds at 
 the bottom, and he jumped from me. As he rose I 
 clutched him by one foot, and swiftly passed a great 
 sinew of weed three or four times around his ankle. It 
 held like a grapnel and would hold; for, though he was 
 a fair swimmer, he was always frighted and nervous in 
 the face of little difficulties. Then swerving away, I rose 
 again, with laboring lungs, to the surface. 
 
 Barely had my drenched eyes found the daylight again, 
 when the hideous enormity of my crime broke into my 
 brain like the toll of a death bell. The water near me 
 was heaving slightly and some welHng bubbles swayed 
 to the surface. They were the drowning gasps of my 
 brother — my own brother, whom I was murdering. 
 
 I gave a thin, wretched scream and sunk again into the 
 deep hole beneath me. He was jerking convulsively, 
 and his hands clutched vainly at his feet and slipped away 
 in a dying manner. I tore at the weed to unwind it — only 
 to twist it into new fetters. I pulled frantically at its 
 roots. I felt that I should go mad if it did not yield. In 
 a moment it came away in my hands and I shot upward, 
 struggling. But the other poor body followed me slug- 
 gishly, and I seized it by the hair, with all my heart gone 
 crazy, and towed it ashore. 
 
 His face, I thought, looked fallen away already and 
 was no longer loutish or malicious. It seemed just a 
 white, pathetic thing freed from suffering — and I would 
 have given my life — ay, and my love — ten times over to 
 see the same expression come back to it it had worn as 
 it turned to me before he dived. 
 
 I fell on my knees beside him and broke into a passion 
 of tears. I kissed, with no shame but a murderer's, the 
 wet forehead, and beat and pressed, in a futile agony too 
 terrible for words, the limp unresisting hand against my 
 breast. It seemed that he must wake if I implored him
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 47 
 
 SO franticall3\ But he lay quiet, with closed eyes, and 
 the water ran from his white skin in trickling jerks and 
 pauses. 
 
 In the midst of my useless anguish some words of 
 Jason's recurred to me, and, seizing my coat for a pillow 
 to his forehead, I turned him, with a shuddering horror 
 of his limpness, upon his face. A great gush of water 
 came with a rumble from his mouth, but he did not stir; 
 and there I stood looking down upon him, my hand to my 
 forehead, my mad eyes staring as Cain's must have stared 
 when he wrought the deed of terror. 
 
 And I was Cain — I who yesterday was a boy of loving 
 impulses, I think; whose blackest crime might be some 
 petty rebellion against the lesser proprieties; who had 
 even hugged himself upon living on a loftier plane than 
 this poor silenced victim of his brutality. 
 
 As the deadly earnest of my deed came home to my 
 stunned mind, I had no thought of escape. I would face 
 it out, confess and die. My father's agony — for he loved 
 us in his way, I believe; Jason's condemnation; Zyp's 
 hatred; my own shame and torture — I put them all on 
 one side to get full view of that black crossbeam and rope 
 that I felt to be the only medicine for my sick and 
 haunted soul. 
 
 As I stood, the sound of wheels on the road beyond 
 woke me to some necessity of action. Stumbling, as in 
 a nightmare; not feeling my feet, but only the mechanical 
 spring of motion, I hurried to the hedge side and looked 
 over, 
 
 A carter with a tilt wagon was urging his tired team 
 homeward. 
 
 "Help!" I cried. "Oh, come and help me!'' And my 
 voice seemed to me to issue from under the tilt of the 
 wagon. 
 
 lie "woa'd" up his horses, raised his hat from his fore- 
 head, wrinkled with hot weariness, and came toward me, 
 his whip over his shoulder. 
 
 "What's toward?" said he. 
 
 "My brother!" I gasped. "We were bathing together 
 and he's drowned."
 
 48 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 The man's boorish face hghted up Hke a farthing rush- 
 Hght. Here was something horribly sordid enough for 
 afl the excitement he was worth. It would sweeten many 
 a pot of swipes for the week to come. 
 
 "Wheer be the body?'' said he, eagerly. 
 
 "Over yonder, on the grass. Oh, won't you help me 
 to carry it home?" 
 
 He looked at the hedge critically. 
 
 "Go, you," he said, "and drag 'en hither. We'll gat 'en 
 over hedge together." 
 
 I ran back to where it lay. It had collapsed a little to 
 one side, and for an instant my breath caught in a wild 
 thrill of hope that he had moved of himself. Butthe waxen 
 hue of the face in the gathering dusk killed my emotion 
 on its very issuing. 
 
 A strange loathing of the thing, lying so unresponsive, 
 had in mv race backward and forward sprung upon me, 
 but before it could gain the mastery' I had seized it under 
 the arm-pits and was half-dragging, half-carrying it 
 toward the road. 
 
 I was at the hedge before I knew it, and the red face of 
 the carter was peering curiously down at the white heap 
 beneath. 
 
 "Harned 'en up," he said. "My, but it's cold. Easy, 
 now. Take the toes of 'en. Thart's it — woa!" and he 
 had it in his strong arms and shuffling heavily to the rear 
 of his wagon, jerked back the fiap of the tilt with his 
 elbow and slid the body like a package into the interior. 
 
 "Get your coat, man," he cried, "and coom away." 
 
 I had forgotten in the terror of it all my own half- 
 dressed state, for I had stripped only to my underclothes, 
 and my boots were still on my feet. Mechanically I re- 
 turned to the riverside, and hastily donning my coat and 
 trousers, snatched up the other's tumbled garments and 
 ran back to the road.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 49 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE WAKING. 
 
 The carter was holding the curtain back and critically 
 apostrophizing the thing within. 
 
 "Ay, he be sound enough. Reckon nought but the 
 last trump'll waken yon. Now, youngster, where may 
 you live?" 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "Sure," he said, "the old crazed mill?" Then I thought 
 he muttered: "Well, 'tis one vermin the less," but I was 
 not sure and nothing mattered — nothing. 
 
 He asked me if I would like to ride with it inside. The 
 mere suggestion was terror to me, and I stammered out 
 that I would rather walk, for I had tried my best already 
 and had given up hope. 
 
 So we set off slowly through the dumb, haunted twi- 
 light. Thoughts would not come to me in any definite 
 form. I imagined the cathedral bells were ringing, till 
 I found it was only a jangling in my brain, discordant and 
 unearthly. People came toward us who on nearing were 
 resolved into distorted rags of mist; voices croaked with 
 laughter, and they were only the swung branches of 
 trees. 
 
 Suddenly I heard an exclamation — real enough this 
 time — and saw the carter run to the head of his team and 
 stop them. 
 
 "Woa, then!" he cried, in a frightened voice; and then 
 with terrified impatience: "Coom hither, marn; I tell 'ee. 
 Don't 'ee stand theer gawking at the air. Dang it, the 
 ghost walks!" He stamped his heavy foot, seeing me 
 motionless; then cried again: "Take thee foul burden 
 out o' the wain and dang me for a fool ever to have 
 meddled wi't!" 
 
 A gush of wondrous hope flooded my breast. I tore
 
 50 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 to the rear of the wagon, dashed back the curtain — and 
 there was Modred sitting up and swaying feebly from 
 side to side. 
 
 I leaped ; I caught him in my arms ; my breath came in 
 laughter and sobs. "Oh, Modred, Modred!" I cried. "I 
 didn't mean it — it wasn't me — I'm not like that!" and 
 then I broke down and wept long and convulsively, 
 though I would never let him out of my clutch. 
 
 "Where am I?" he said, faintly; "oh, it hurts so. Every 
 vein in my body is bursting with pain." 
 
 At this I beat under my hysterical outburst and set 
 to rubbing him all over in frantic eagerness. It seemed 
 to ease him a little and I blessed him that he lay pass- 
 ively against me and did not offer to push me away. 
 Poor fellow, he was far too weak as yet for any resist- 
 ance. 
 
 Presently I heard the carter bawl in tremulous tones: 
 "Art gone, the two of 'ee?" 
 
 "Come here," I called back, with a tearful laugh. "He's 
 better; he's recovered!" 
 
 The fellow came round gingerly and stood a little dis- 
 tance off. 
 
 "Eh?" he said, dubiously. 
 
 "See for yourself!" I cried. "He wasn't drowned after 
 all. He's come round!" 
 
 The man spat viciously in the road and came sullenly 
 forward. He was defrauded of an excitement and he felt 
 the injury grievously. 
 
 "You young varmint!" he growled. "Them's your 
 tricks for to get a free lift." 
 
 "Nonsense!" I said, buoyantly; "you yourself thought 
 him dead. Carry us on to the mill and I'll promise you 
 a proper skinful of liquor." 
 
 He was crabbed and undecided, but presently he went 
 forward and whipped up his horses with a surly oath. 
 As the wagon pitched, Modred opened his eyes, which 
 he had shut, and looked up at me. 
 
 "Are you feeling better, old boy?" I said, tenderly. 
 
 "The pain isn't so bad, but I'm tired to death," said he. 
 
 "Rest, and don't talk. You'll be stronger in a bit."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 51, 
 
 He closed his eyes again and I tried to shield him as 
 much as I could from the jolting. I had already wrapped 
 him up warm in some old sacks that were heaped in a 
 corner of the wagon. So all the way home I held him, 
 counting his every breath, loving him as I had never 
 done before. 
 
 It was dark when we reached the mill and I laid him 
 gently back and leaped down. 
 
 "Dad! Dad!" I shouted, running down the yard and 
 into the house; but he was already standing at the head 
 of the stairs, with a candle in his hand. 
 
 "Modred's had an accident!" I cried, in a subdued 
 voice — I could not keep the lie back. It seemed so 
 dreadful at the outset to confess and stand aside con- 
 demned — while others helped. Jason and Zyp came out 
 on the landing and my father ran down the stairs hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 "What's that?" he said— "Modred!" 
 
 "He got caught in the weeds and was nearly drowned, 
 but he's getting better." 
 
 "Where is he?" He seized me by the arm as he spoke, 
 and dragged me to the mill door. I could feel the pulses 
 in his finger tips through my coat, 
 
 "He's in a wain outside, and I promised the man a 
 long drink for bringing us home." 
 
 "There's a full bottle in the cupboard — bring it down," 
 shouted my father to Jason. Then he hurried to the 
 wagon and lifted out the breathing figure and looked 
 into its face. After all, it was his youngest. 
 
 "Not much harm, perhaps," said he. "Rtm and tell 
 them to heat some water and the blankets." 
 
 While I was finding old Peg and explaining and giv- 
 ing the order, they carried him upstairs. I did not dare 
 follow them, but, the reaction over, leaned, feeling sick 
 and faint, in the passage outside the little kitchen. Per- 
 haps even now he was telling them, and I dreaded more 
 than I can describe the sentence which a first look at any 
 one of their faces might confirm. 
 
 Presently old Peg came out to me with a can of boil-
 
 52 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 ing- water and flung an armful of warm blankets over 
 my shoulder. 
 
 "There's for you, Renalt," she cried in her thin, rusty 
 voice; then muttered, clawing her hips like a monkey: 
 "'Tis flying in the Lord's face o' Providence, to me a old 
 woman; like as restoring a froze snake on the hearth." 
 
 I had no heart for retort, but sped from the sinister 
 old witch with my burden. I saw Zyp and Jason in the 
 living-room as I passed, but, though they called to me, 
 I ran on and upstairs to the door of Modred's room, 
 which was next ours. 
 
 My father came out to my knock and took the things 
 from me. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I want nobody here but myself and 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe. Go you and fetch him, if he's to 
 be found.'' 
 
 Happy to be employed in any useful service, I hurried 
 away on my errand. The door of the sitting-room was 
 shut, at which I was glad. Very little respite gave me 
 fresh lease of hope. 
 
 The doctor's home was close by, in a straggling street 
 of old buildings that ran off our end of the High street, 
 and the doctor himself was, I was told, within. 
 
 I found him seated in a musty little parlor, with some 
 ugly casts of murderers' heads facing him from the top 
 of a varnished bookcase. 
 
 "Ah, my friend!" he screeched, cracking his knuckles; 
 "those interest you, eh? Well, perhaps I shall have the 
 pleasure of adding your picture to them some day." 
 
 An irrepressible shudder took me and he laughed, not 
 knowing the reason of it. 
 
 "Now, what's your business?" said he. 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "Eh," he said, and bent forward and looked at me 
 narrowly. "Near drowned, eh? Why, what were you 
 doing, you young limb?" 
 
 "I went after him," I answered, faintly, " but I couldn't 
 get the weeds loose." 
 
 "Dressed, too?" he said, for the sop of my under- 
 clothes had come through the upper, and nothing es-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 53 
 
 caped his hawk's eye; "why, vou're a hero, upon my 
 word." 
 
 He hade me begone after that and he would follow im- 
 mediately. And I returned to the mill, and, softly climb- 
 ing the stairs, shut myself into my room and sat upon 
 the edge of the bed listening — listening for every breath 
 and sound in the old eerie house. I heard the doctor 
 come up the stairs and enter the room next door. I 
 heard the low murmur of voices and strained my ears to 
 gather what was said, but could not make out a word. 
 And the darkness grew into my soul and shut out all 
 the old light of happy reason. Should I ever feel inno- 
 cent again? And would jModred, satisfied with his 
 knowledge of the dreadful heritage of remorse I had 
 laid up for myself, forego his right to denounce me and 
 to forever make me an outcast and alone? I hardly 
 dared to hope it, yet clung with a strenuous longing to 
 thought of his mercy. 
 
 It may have been hours I sat there. I do not know. 
 I had heard footsteps go up and down the stairs many 
 times. And then a silence fell. What was the mean- 
 ing of it? Was it possible that life had only rallied in 
 him momentarily, like the flame of a dying candle and 
 had suddenly sunk for good and all into endless dark- 
 ness? Had he told? Why did no one come near me? 
 I could stand it no longer. 
 
 As I sprung to my feet I heard a footstep again on the 
 stairs and Jason walked into the room and shut the 
 door. He took no notice of me, but began to undress. 
 
 "Jason!" I cried, and the agony in my voice I could 
 not repress. "How is he? Has he spoken? Oh, don't 
 keep me in this torture." 
 
 "What torture?" said my brother, looking at me with 
 a cold, unresponsive eye. "Why should you be upset 
 more than the rest of us? He's asleep all right, and not 
 to be bothered with any questions." 
 
 Thank God ! Oh, thank God ! I took no notice of his 
 looks or tone, for I was absorbed in great gratitude to 
 heaven that mv worst fears were idle ones. 
 
 "Where's dad?" I said.
 
 54 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Drinking downstairs with the doctor. They'll make 
 high revel of it, I expect." 
 
 He was already in bed; but I sat on and on in the 
 darkness. I had only one thought — one longing to wait 
 till Jason was fast in slumber, and then to creep to 
 Modred's side and implore his forgiveness. 
 
 Presently the deep, regular breathing of my brother 
 announced to me the termination of my vigil. With 
 my heart beating in a suffocating manner, I stole to the 
 door, opened it and stood outside that of Modred's room. 
 I listened a moment. A humming noise of garrulous 
 voices below was the only sound that broke the silence 
 of the house. Softly I turned the handle and softly crept 
 into the room. There was light in it, for on the wash 
 hand stand a rush candle burned dimly in an old Ian- 
 thorn. 
 
 He gave a start, for he was lying awake in his bed, 
 then half-rose on his elbow and looked at me with fright- 
 ened eyes. 
 
 "Don't come near," he whispered. "What do you 
 want? You aren't going to try to kill me again?" 
 
 I gave a little strangled, agonized cry, and, dropping 
 on my knees where I stood, stretched out my arms to 
 him imploringly. 
 
 "Oh, Modred, don't! Don't! You can't think I meant 
 it! It was only a horrible impulse. I was mad, and I 
 nearly drowned myself directly afterward in saving you." 
 
 The fright went from his face and something like its 
 familiar look returned to it. 
 
 "Are you sorry?'' he said. 
 
 "Sorry? Oh, I will do anything you like if you will 
 only believe me." 
 
 "Come here, Renny," he said, "and stand by me. I 
 want to see you better." 
 
 I obeyed humbly — lovingly. 
 
 "You want me to forgive you?" 
 
 "If you could, Modred — if you only could." 
 
 "And not to peach?" 
 
 I hung my head in shame and the tears were in my 
 eyes again.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 55 
 
 "Well, I'll agree, on one condition." 
 
 "Make any you like, Modred. I'll swear to keep it; 
 I'll never forget it." 
 
 "Zyp's it," he said, looking away from me. 
 
 "Yes," I said, gently, with a prescience of what was 
 coming. 
 
 "You'll have to give her up for good and all — keep 
 out of her way ; let her know somehow you're sick of her. 
 And keep Jason out of the way. You and he were chums 
 enough before she came." 
 
 "I swear for myself, and to do what I can with Jason," 
 I said, dully. What did it matter? One way or another 
 the buoyant light of existence was shut to me for good 
 and all. 
 
 "It's the only way," said Modred, and he gave me a 
 look that I dare not call crafty. "After all, it isn't much," 
 he said, "considering what you did to me, and she seems 
 to be getting tired of you — now, doesn't she?" 
 
 "Yes," I said in a low voice. 
 
 "Then, that's settled. And now let me be, for I feel 
 as if I can sleep. Hand me my breeches first, though. 
 There's something in the pocket I want." 
 
 "Shall I get it out for you, old boy?" 
 
 "No, no!" he answered, hurriedly. "Give them to me, 
 can't you ?'' 
 
 I did as he wanted and crept from the room. What 
 did it matter? Zyp had already cast me off, but for the 
 evil deed I was respited. A moment ago the girl had 
 seemed as nothing, set in the scale against my brother's 
 forgiveness. Could it be the true, loving spirit of for- 
 giveness that could make such a condition? Hush! I 
 must not think that thought. What did it matter? 
 
 I did not go back to my room, but sat on a stair at the 
 head of the downward flight, with a strange, stunned feel- 
 ing. Below the voices went on spasmodically — now a 
 long murmur — now a snatch of song — now an angry 
 phrase. By and by, I think, I must have fallen into a 
 sort of stupor, for I seemed to wake all at once to a 
 thunderous uproar. 
 
 I started to my feet. Magnified as all sounds are in 
 the moment of recovered consciousness, there was yet
 
 56 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 noise enough below to convince me that a violent quarrel 
 between the two men was toward. I heard my father's 
 voice in bitter denunciation. 
 
 "You've been hawking over my quarry this long 
 while. I'll tear the truth out of your long throat! Give 
 me back my cameo — where is it?" 
 
 "A fig for your cameo!" cried the other in a shrill 
 voice, "and I tell you this is the first I've heard of it." 
 
 "You've been watching me, you fiend, you! Dogging 
 me — haunting me! I'll have no more o't! I'm not to be 
 bribed or threatened or coaxed any more; least of all 
 thieved from. Where is it?" 
 
 "You aren't, aren't you?" screeched the doctor. "You 
 leave me here and I fall asleep. You're away and you 
 come storming back that I've robbed you. It's a trap, 
 by thunder, but you won't catch me in it!" 
 
 "I believe you're lying!" cried my father. His voice 
 seemed strained with passion. But the other answered 
 him now much more coolly. 
 
 "Believe what you like, my friend. It's beneath my 
 dignity to contradict you again; but take this for certain 
 — if you slander me in public, I'll ruin you!" 
 
 Then silence fell and I waited to hear no more. I 
 stole to my room and crept to bed. I had never changed 
 my drenched clothes and the deadly chill of my limbs 
 was beginning to overcome the frost in my heart. 
 
 It seemed hours before the horrible coldness relaxed, 
 and then straightway a parching fever scorched me as 
 if I lay against a furnace. I heard sounds and dull foot- 
 steps and the ghostly creaking of stairs, but did not know 
 if they were real or only incidents in my half-delirium. 
 
 At last as day was breaking I fell into a heavy, ex- 
 hausted sleep. It merged into a dream of my younger 
 brother. We walked together as we had done as little 
 children, my arm around his neck. "Zenny," he said, like 
 a baby paraphrasing Zyp's words, "what's 'ove . dat 'ey 
 talk about?" I could have told him in the gushing of 
 my heart, but in a moment he ran from me and faded. 
 
 I gave a cry and woke, and Jason was standing over 
 me, with a white, scared face. 
 
 "Get up!" he whispered; "Modred's dead!"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 57 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FACE ON THE PILLOW. 
 
 Often the first shock of some unexpected mental blow 
 shakes from the soul, not its corresponding emotion, but 
 that emotion's exact antithesis. Thus, when Jason spoke 
 I laughed. I could not on the moment believe that such 
 hideous retribution was demanded of my already writhed 
 and repentant conscience, and it seemed to me that he 
 must be jesting in very ugly fashion. 
 
 Perhaps he looked astonished; anyhow he said: 
 
 "You needn't make a joke of it. Are you awake? 
 Modred's dead, I tell you." 
 
 I sprung from the bed; I clutched him and pulled 
 him to and fro. 
 
 "Tell me you lie — you lie — you He!'' I cried. 
 
 He did not. I could see it in his face. There and then 
 the drought of Tophet withered and constricted my life. 
 I was branded and doomed forevermore ; a thing to shud- 
 der at and avoid. 
 
 "I will dress and come!" I said, relaxing from my hold 
 on him, and turned away and began to hurry on my 
 clothes. I had not felt so set in quietness since the morn- 
 ing of two days past. I could even think calmly and bal- 
 ance the pros and cons of my future behavior. 
 
 Each man must be his own judge, his own plaintifif, 
 his own defendant — an atom of self-contained equity. 
 By his own ruling in matters of right and wrong he must 
 abide, suffer his own punishments, enjoy his own rewards. 
 He is a lonely organism, in whom only himself took an 
 interest, and as such he must be content to endure with 
 calmness the misinterpretations of aliens. 
 
 Modred had forgiven me. Whatever was the condi- 
 tion, whatever the deed, it was too late now to convince 
 me that no justification existed for my rebellion against 
 fate.
 
 58 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 My elder, my only brother now, watched me in silence 
 as I dressed. 
 
 "Where is he?" I said, when I had finished. 
 
 "In bed as he was left," said Jason. "I went in this 
 morning, while you were asleep, and found him — ah, he 
 looks horrible," he cried, and broke oiif with a shudder. 
 
 I did not shrink ; I felt braced up to any ordeal. 
 
 They were all in the room when we entered it. My 
 father. Dr. Crackenthorpe, Zyp — even old Peggy, who 
 was busying herself, with the vulture relish of her kind, 
 over the little artificial decencies of dress and posture 
 that seem such an outrage on the solemn unresistance of 
 the dead. 
 
 Directly we came in Zyp ran to Jason and clung to him 
 sobbing. I noticed it with a sort of dull resignation, and 
 that was all; for Peggy, who had drawn a sheet over the 
 lifeless face, pulled it down that I might look. 
 
 Then, for all my stoicism, I gave a cry. 
 
 I had left my brother the night before tired, needing 
 rest, but, save for the extra pallor of his complexion that 
 never boasted a great deal of color, much like his usual 
 self. Now the dead face lying back on the pillows was 
 awful to look upon. Spots and bars of livid purple dis- 
 figured its waxen whiteness — on the cheeks, the ears, the 
 throat, where a deep patch was. It was greatly swollen, 
 too, and the mouth so rigidly open that it had defied all 
 effort to bind it close. A couple of pennies, like a hideous 
 pair of glasses, lay, one over each eye, where they could 
 only be kept in position by means of a filament drawn 
 tightly round the head. The hands, stiffly crossed, with 
 the fingers crooked like talons, lay over the breast, fast- 
 ened into position with a ligature. 
 
 I turned away, feeling sick and faint. I think I reeled, 
 for presently I found that Dr. Crackenthorpe was sup- 
 porting me against his arm. 
 
 "Oh, why is he like that?" I whispered. 
 
 *"Tis a common afterclap in deaths by drowning," said 
 he, speaking in a loud, insistent voice, as if not for the 
 first time. "A stoppage — a relapse. During the weak 
 small hours, when the patient's strength is at its lowest.
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 59 
 
 the overwrought lungs refuse to work — collapse, and he 
 dies of suffocation.'' 
 
 He looked at my father as he spoke, but elicited no 
 response. It was palpable that the heavy potations of 
 the night had so deadened the latter's faculties as to make 
 him incapable for the moment of realizing the full enorm- 
 ity of the sight before him. 
 
 "Mark me," said the doctor; "it's a plain case, I say, 
 nothing out of the way ; no complications. The wretched 
 boy to all intents and purposes has been drowned." 
 
 "Who drowned him?" said my father. He spoke 
 thickly, stupidly; but I started, with a dreadful feeling 
 that the locked jaws must relax and denounce me before 
 them all. 
 
 Seeing his hopeless state, the doctor took my father's 
 arm and led him from the room. Zyp still clung to my 
 brother. 
 
 "Cover it up," whispered Jason. "He isn't a pretty 
 sight!" 
 
 "He wasn't a pretty boy," muttered Peggy, reluctantly 
 hiding the dreadful face; "To a old woman's view it 
 speaks of more than his deserts. Nobody'U come to look 
 at me, I expect." 
 
 "You heard what the doctor said?" asked Jason, look- 
 ing across at me. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Drowned — you understand? Drowned, Renny?" 
 
 "Drowned," I repeated, mechanically. 
 
 "Come, Zyp," he said; "this isn't the place for you any 
 longer." 
 
 They passed out of the room, she still clinging to him, 
 so that her face was hidden. 
 
 I did not measure his words at that time. I had no 
 thought for nice discriminations of tone; what did I care 
 for anything any longer? 
 
 Presently I heard old Peg muttering again. She 
 thought the room was emptied of us and she softly re- 
 moved the face cloth once more. 
 
 "Ay, there ye lies, Modred — safe never to spy on poor
 
 60 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 old Rottengoose again ! Ye were a bad lot, ye were ; but 
 Peg's been more'n enough for yon, she has, my lad." 
 
 Suddenly she saw me out of the tail of her eye, and 
 turned upon me, livid with fury. 
 
 "What are ye listening to, Renalt? A black curse on 
 spies, Renalt, I say!" 
 
 Then her manner changed and she came fawning at 
 me fulsomely. 
 
 "What a good lad to stay wi' his brother! But Peg'll 
 do the tending, Renalt. She be a crass old body and apt 
 to reviling in her speech, but she don't mean it, bless 
 you; it's the tic doldrums in her head." 
 
 I repelled the horrible old creature and fled from the 
 room. What she meant I neither knew nor cared, for 
 we had always looked upon her as a feckless body, with a 
 big worm in her brain. 
 
 All the long morning I wandered about the house, 
 scarcely knowing what I did or whither I went. Once 
 I found myself in the room of silence, not remembering 
 when I had com.e there or for what reason. The fact, 
 merely, was impressed upon me by a gradual change in 
 the nature of my sensations. Something seemed to be 
 asking a question of me which I v/as striving and striv- 
 ing to answer. It didn't distress me at first, for a nearer 
 misery overwhelmed everything, but by and by its in- 
 sistence pierced a passage through all dull obstacles, and 
 the something took up its abode in me and reigned and 
 grew. I felt myself yielding, yielding; and strove now 
 to beat off the inevitable horror of the answer that was 
 rising in me. I did not know what it was, or the ques- 
 tion to which it was a response — only I saw that if I 
 yielded to it and spoke it, I should die then and there of 
 the black terror of its revelation. 
 
 I sprung to my feet with a cry, and saw, or thought I 
 saw, Modred standing by the water wheel and beckoning 
 to me. If I had strength to escape, it was enough for 
 that and no more, for everything seemed to go from me 
 till I found myself sitting at the foot of the stairs, with 
 Jason looking oddly down upon me.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 61 
 
 "I needn't get up," I said. "Modred isn't dead, after 
 all." 
 
 I think I heard him shout out. Anyhow, I felt myself 
 lifted up and carried somewhere and put down. If they 
 had thought to restrain me, however, they should have 
 managed things better; for I was up in a moment and 
 out at the window. I had often thought one wanted only 
 the will to forget gravity and float through the air, and 
 here I was doing it. What a glorious sensation it was! 
 I laughed to think how long I had remained like a reptile, 
 bound to the plodding miserable earth, when all the time 
 I had power to escape from myself and float on and on 
 far away from all those heart-breaking troubles. If I 
 only went very swiftly at first I should soon be too dis- 
 tant for them to track me, and then I should be free. I 
 felt a little anxious, for there was a faint noise behind me. 
 I strove to put on pace; if my limbs had responded to 
 my efforts no bird could have outstripped me. But I 
 saw with agony that the harder I fought the less way I 
 made. I struggled and sobbed and clutched myself 
 blindly onward, and all the time the noise behind grew 
 deeper. If I pushed myself off with a foot to the ground 
 I only floated a very little way now. Then I saw a rail- 
 ing and pulled myself along with it toilsomely, but some 
 great pressure was in front of me and my feet slipped into 
 holes at every step. Panting, straining, slipping, as if on 
 blood — why! It was blood! I had to yield at last. 
 
 My passion of hope was done with. I lay in a white 
 set horror, not daring to move or look. How deadly 
 quiet the room was, but not for long, for a little stealthy 
 rustle of the sheet beside me prickled through my whole 
 being with its ghastly stirring. Then I knew it had se- 
 cretly risen on its elbow and was leaning over and look- 
 ing down upon me. If I could only perspire, I thought, 
 my bonds would loosen and I could escape from it. But 
 it was cunning and knew that, too, and it sealed all the 
 surface of my skin with its acrid exhalations. Suddenly 
 it clutched me in its crooked arms and bore me down, 
 down to the room of silence. There was a sick- 
 ening odor there and the covering of the wheel was open.
 
 62 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Then, with a shudder, as of death, I thought I found the 
 answer; for now it was plain that the great wheel was 
 driven by blood, not water. As I looked aghast, strain- 
 ing over, it gave me a stealthy push and, with a shriek, 
 I splashed among the paddles and was whirled down. 
 For ages I was spun and beaten round and round, 
 mashed, mangled, gasping for breath and choked with 
 the horrible crimson broth that fed the insane and furi- 
 ous grinding of the wheel. At the end, glutted with tor- 
 ture, it flung me forth into a parching desert of sand, 
 and, spinning from me, became far away a revolving 
 disk of red that made the low-down sun of that waste 
 corner of the world. 
 
 I was alone, now — always alone. No footsteps had 
 ever trod that trackless level, nor would, I knew, till time 
 was ended. I had no hope; no green memory for oasis; 
 no power of speech even. Then I knew I was dead; had 
 been dead so long that my body had crackled and fallen 
 to decay, leaving my soul only, like the stone of a fruit, 
 quick with wretched impulse to shoot upward but dread- 
 fully imprisoned from doing so. 
 
 Sometimes in the world the massive columns of the 
 cathedral had suggested to me a like sensation; a moral 
 impress of weight and stoniness that had driven me to 
 bow my head and creep, sweating away from their inex- 
 orable stolidity. Now I was built into such a body — 
 more, was an integral part of it. Yet could my pinioned 
 nerves never assimilate its passionless obduracy, but 
 jerked and struggled in agony to be free. Oh, how 
 divine is the instinct that paints heaven all light and airi- 
 ness, and innocent forevermore of the sense of weight! 
 
 Suddenly I heard Zyp's voice, singing outside in the 
 world, and in a moment tears, most blessed, blessed tears, 
 sprung from my eyes and I was free. The stone cracked 
 and fell asunder, and I leaped out madly shrieking at my 
 release. 
 
 She was sitting under a tree in a beautiful meadow and 
 her young voice rose sweetly as she prinked her hat with 
 daisies and yellow king-cups. She called me to her and 
 gave me tender names and smoothed away the pain from
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 63 
 
 my forehead with kisses and the cunning of her elfish 
 brown hand. 
 
 "Come, drink," she said, "and you will be better." 
 
 I woke to life and looked up. She was standing by my 
 bed, holding a cup toward my lips, and at the foot Jason 
 leaned, looking on. 
 
 "Have I been ill?" I said, in a voice so odd to me that 
 I almost laughed. 
 
 "Yes, yes — a little; but you have come out of the black 
 pit now into the forest." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JASON SPEAKS. 
 
 For some three weeks I had lain racked and shriveled 
 in a nervous, delirious fever. It left me at last, the ghost 
 of my old self, to face once more the problems of a ruined 
 life. For many days these gave me no concern, or only 
 in a fitful, indifferent manner. I was content to sip the 
 dew of convalescence, to slumber and to cherish my ex- 
 haustion, and the others disturbed me but little. My 
 recovery once assured, they left me generally to myself, 
 scarce visiting me more often than was necessary for the 
 administering of food or medicine. Sometimes one or 
 other of them would come and sit by my bedside awhile 
 and exchange with me a few desultory remarks; but this 
 was seldom, and grew, with my strength more so, for the 
 earth was brilliant with summer outside and naturally 
 fuller of attractions than a sick-room. 
 
 Their neglect troubled me little at first; but by and by, 
 when the first idle ecstasy of convalescence was beginning 
 to deepen into a sense of responsibilities that I should 
 soon have to gather up and adjust, it woke day by day 
 an increasing uneasiness in my soul. As yet, it is true, the 
 immediate past I could only call up before my mental 
 vision as a blurred picture of certain events the signifi- 
 cance of which was suggestive only. Gradually, how-
 
 64 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 ever, detail by detail, the whole composition of it con- 
 centrated, on the blank sheet of my mind, and stood 
 straight before me terribly uncompromising in its stern- 
 ness of ovitline. Had I any reason to suppose, in short, 
 that my share in Modred's death was known to or 
 guessed at by my father, Jason or Zyp? On that pivot 
 turned the whole prospect of my future ; for as to myself, 
 were the secret to remain mine alone, I yet felt that I 
 could make out life with a tolerable degree of resigna- 
 tion in the certain knowledge that Modred had forgiven 
 me before he died, for a momentary mad impulse, the 
 provocation to which had been so bitter — the reaction 
 from which had been so immediate and so equally im- 
 pulsive. 
 
 Of my father, I may say at once, I had little fear. His 
 manner toward me when, as he did occasionally, he came 
 and sat by me for a half-hour or so, was marked by a 
 gentleness and affection I had never known him to ex- 
 hibit before. Pathetic as it was, I could sometimes almost 
 have wished it replaced by a sterner mood, a more dubi- 
 ous attitude; for my remorse at having so bereaved him 
 became a barbed sting in presence of his new conde- 
 scension to me that dated from the afternoon of my ap- 
 peal to him, and was intensified by our common loss. 
 
 Of Zyp I hardly dared to think, or dared to do more 
 than tremulously hover round the thought that Modred's 
 death had absolved me from my promise to him to avoid 
 her. Still the thought was there and perhaps I only 
 played with self-deception when I affected to fly from it 
 out of a morbid loyalty to him that was gone. I could 
 not live with and not long for her with all the passion 
 1 was capable of. 
 
 Therefore it was that I dreaded any possible disclos- 
 ure of a suspicion on her part — dreaded it with a fever 
 of the mind so fierce that it must truly have retarded my 
 recovery indefinitely had not a counter-irritant occurred 
 to me, in certain moods, in the form of a thought that 
 perhaps, after all, my deed might not so affright one 
 who, on her own showing, found a charm in the con- 
 templation of evil.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 65 
 
 But it was Jason I feared most. Something — I can 
 hardly give it a name — had come to me within the last 
 few weeks that seemed to be the preface to an awakening 
 of the moral right on my part. In the unfolding of this 
 new faculty I was startled and distressed to observe de- 
 formities in my brother where I had before seen nothing 
 but manly beauty and a breezy recklessness that I de- 
 lighted in. Beautiful bodily, I and all must still think 
 him, though it had worried me lately to often observe an 
 expression in his blue eyes that was only new to my new 
 sense. This I can but describe, with despair of the melo- 
 dramatic sound of it, as poisonous. The pupils were as 
 full and purple as berries of the deadly nightshade. 
 
 It was not, however, his eyes only that baffled me. I 
 saw that he coveted any novelty of sensation greedily, 
 and that sooner than forego enjoyment of it he would 
 ruthlessly stamp down whatever obstacle to its attain- 
 ment crossed his path. 
 
 Now I knew in my heart that his hitherto indifference 
 to Zyp was an affectation born only of wounded vanity, 
 and that such as he could never voluntarily yield so 
 piquant a prize to homelier rivals. I recalled, with a 
 brooding apprehension, certain words of his on that 
 fatal morning, that seemed intended to convey, at least, 
 a dark suspicion as to the manner of Modred's death. 
 Probably they were bolts shot at random with a sinister 
 object-^for I could conceive no shadow of direct evidence 
 against me. In that connection they might mean mucli 
 or little ; in one other I had small doubt that they meant 
 a good deal — this in fact, that, if I got in his way with 
 Zyp, down I should go. 
 
 Daily probing and analyzing such darkly dismal 
 problems as these, I slowly crawled through convales- 
 cence to recovery. 
 
 It was a sweltering morning in early July that I first 
 crept out of doors, with Zyp for my companion. It was 
 happiness to me to have her by my side, though as yet 
 my weak and watery veins could prickle to no ghost of 
 passion. I had thought that life could hold nothing for 
 me ever again but present pain and agonized retrospects. 
 
 5
 
 66 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 It was not so. The very smell of the freshly watered 
 roads woke a shadowy delight in me as we stepped over 
 the threshold. The buoyant thunder of the river, as it 
 leaped under the old street bridge seemed to gush over 
 my heart with a cleansing joyousness that left it white 
 and innocent again. 
 
 We crossed the road and wandered by a zig-zag path to 
 the ancient close, where soft stretches and paddocks of 
 green lawn, "immemorial elms" and scattered buildings 
 antique and embowered wrought such an harmonious 
 picture as filled my tired soul with peace. 
 
 Here we sat down on an empty bench. I had much 
 to question Zyp about — much to reflect on and put into 
 words — but my neglected speech moved as yet on rusty 
 hinges. 
 
 "Zyp," I said presently, in a low voice; "tell me — where 
 is he buried?" 
 
 "In the churchyard — St. John's, under the hill, Renny." 
 
 Not once until now had I touched upon this subject 
 or mentioned Modred's name to any one of them, and 
 a great longing was upon me to get it over and done 
 with. 
 
 "Who went?" 
 
 "Dad and Jason and Dr. Crackenthorpe." 
 
 "Zyp, nobody has asked me anything about it. Don't 
 you all want to know how — how it happened?" 
 
 "He was caught in the weeds — you said so yourself, 
 Renny." 
 
 Vainly I strove to get under her words; intuition was, 
 for the time being, a sluggish quantity in me. 
 
 "Yes; but " I began, when she took me up softly. 
 
 "Dad said it was all clear and that we were never to 
 bother you about it at all." 
 
 A sigh of gratitude to heaven escaped me. 
 
 "And I for one," said Zyp, "don't intend to." 
 
 Something in her words jarred unaccountably on my 
 sick nerves. 
 
 "At first," she said, just glancing at me, "Dad thought 
 there ought to be an inquest, but Dr. Crackenthorpe was 
 so set against it that he gave in."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 67 
 
 "Dr. Crackenthorpe? Why was "• 
 
 "He said that juries took such an idiotic view of a 
 father's responsibiUties; that dad might be censured for 
 letting the boy run wild; that in any case the family's 
 habits of life would be raked over and cause a scandal 
 that might make things very uncomfortable; that it was 
 a perfectly plain case of drowning, and that he was quite 
 willing to give a certificate that death was due to a rup- 
 ture of some blood vessel in the brain following exhaus- 
 tion from exposure — or something of that sort," 
 
 "And he did?" 
 
 "Yes, at last, after a deal of talk, and he was buried 
 quietly and there was an end of it." 
 
 Not quite an end, Zyp — not quite an end! 
 
 She was very gentle and patient with me all the morn- 
 ing, and my poor soul brimmed over with gratitude. My 
 pulses began even to flicker a little with hope that things 
 might be as they were before the catastrophe. After all 
 she was a very independent changeling and, if there ex- 
 isted in her heart any bias in my favor, Jason might find 
 himself quite baffled in his efforts to control her inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 Presently I turned to the same overclouding subject. 
 
 "What happened the day I was taken bad, Zyp?" 
 
 "Jason found you on the stairs, talking rubbish. They 
 carried you to bed and you hardly left off talking rub- 
 bish for weeks. Don't you remember anything of it?" 
 
 "Nothing, after — after I saw him lying there so dread- 
 ful." 
 
 "Ah, it was ugly, wasn't it? Well, you must haye 
 wandered ofif somewhere — anywhere; and the rest of us 
 to the parlor. There dad and the doctor fell to words. 
 They had spent all the night over that stupid drink, 
 sleeping and quarreling by fits and couldn't remember 
 much about it. They had not heard any noise upstairs, 
 either of them; but suddenly the doctor pointed to some- 
 thing hanging out of dad's pocket. 'Why, you must have 
 gone to the boy's room some time,' he said. 'Look there!' 
 Dad took it out and it was Modred's braces, all twisted 
 up and stuffed into his pocket."
 
 68 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Modred's braces?" 
 
 "Yes; they all knew them, for they were blue, you 
 know — the color he liked. Dad afterward thought he 
 must have put them there to be out of the way while 
 he was carrying Modred upstairs, but at the time he was 
 furious. 'D'ye dare to imply I had a hand in my son's 
 death?' he shrieked. 'I imply nothing; I mean no of- 
 fense ; they are plain for every one to see,' said the doctor, 
 going back a little. I thought he was frightened and that 
 dad would jump at his throat like a weasel, and I clapped 
 my hands, waiting for the battle. But it never came, for 
 dad turned pale and called for brandy, and there was an 
 end of it." 
 
 This story of the doctor's horrible suggestion wrought 
 only one comfort in me — it warmed my heart with a 
 great heat of loyalty to one who, I knew, for all his 
 faults, could never be guilty of so inhuman a wickedness. 
 
 "I should like to kill that doctor,'' I said, fiercely and 
 proudly. 
 
 "So should I," said Zyp. "I believe he would bleed 
 soot like a chimney." 
 
 Zyp was my companion during the greater part of that 
 day and the next. Her manner toward me was uniformly 
 gentle and attentive. Sometimes during meals I would 
 become conscious of Jason's eyes fixed upon one or other 
 of us in a curious stare that was watchful and introspec- 
 tive at once, as if he were summing up the voiceless argu- 
 ments of counsels invisible, while never losing sight of 
 the fact that we he sat in judgment on were already con- 
 victed in his mind. This, for the time being, did not 
 much disturb me. I was lulled to a sense of false se- 
 curity by the gracious championship I thought I now 
 could rely upon. 
 
 It was the evening of the second day and we three were 
 in the living-room together; Jason reading at the window. 
 Zyp had been so kind to me that my heart was. very full 
 indeed, and now she sat by me, one hand slipped into 
 mine, the other supporting her little pointed chin, while 
 her sweet, flower-stained eyes communed with other, it 
 seemed than affairs of earth. A strange wistful tenderness
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 69 
 
 had marked her late treatment of me ; a pathetic solicitude 
 that was inexpressibly touching to one so forlorn. Sud- 
 denly she rose and I heard Jason's book rustle in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Now, little boy," she said, "'tis time you were in bed." 
 Then she leaned toward me and whispered: 
 "Is he so unhappy? What has he done for Zyp's sake?" 
 In a moment she bent and kissed me, with a soft kiss, 
 on the forehead, and shooting a Parthian glance of de- 
 fiance at Jason, who never spoke or moved, ran from 
 the room. 
 
 All my soul thrilled with a delicious joy. Zyp, who 
 had refused to kiss him, had kissed me. The ecstasy of 
 her lips' touch blotted out all significance her words 
 might carry. 
 
 Half-stunned with triumphant happiness, I cHmbed the 
 stairs and, getting into bed, fell into a luminous dream 
 of thought in which for the moment was no place for 
 apprehension. 
 
 I did not even hear Jason enter or shut the door, and 
 it was only when he shook me roughly by the shoulder 
 that I became conscious of his presence in the room. 
 
 He was standing over me, and the windows of his soul 
 were down, and through them wickedness grinned like 
 a skull. 
 
 "I've had enough of this," he said in a terrible low 
 voice. "D' you want to drive me to telling that I know 
 it was you who killed Modred?" 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 CONVICT, BUT NOT SENTENCED. 
 
 So the blow had fallen! 
 
 Yet a single despairing effort I made to beat ofif or at 
 least postpone the inevitable. 
 
 I sat up in bed and answered my brother back with, 
 I could feel, ashen and quivering lips.
 
 70 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said. "How dare you say 
 such a thing?" 
 
 "I dare anything," he said, "where I have a particular 
 object in view." He never took his eyes off me, and the 
 cold devil in them froze my blood that had only now run 
 so hotly. 
 
 "P^or yourself," he went on, "I don't care much whether 
 you hang or live. You can come to terms with your 
 own conscience I dare say, and a fat brother more or less 
 may be a pure question of fit survival. That's as it may 
 be — but the girl here is another matter.'' 
 
 "I didn't kill him," I could only say, dully. 
 
 Still keeping his eyes on me he sought for and drew 
 from his jacket pocket a twist of dry and shrunken water 
 weed. A horrible shudder seized me as I looked upon it. 
 
 "You didn't think to see that again?" he said. "Do 
 you recognize it? Of course you do. It was the rope 
 you twisted round his foot, and that I found round his 
 foot still, after dad had carried him upstairs, bundled 
 round with those sacks, and I was left alone in the room 
 with him a minute." 
 
 My heart died within me. I dropped my sick, strained 
 eyes and could only listen in agonized silence. And he 
 went on quite pitilessly. 
 
 "You shouldn't have left such evidence, you know — 
 least of all for me to see. I had not forgotten the 
 murder in your eyes when I spoke to you that morning 
 and the evening before." 
 
 He struck the weed lightly with his right hand. 
 
 "This stuff," he said, "I know it, of course — grows up 
 straight enough of itself. It wanted something human 
 — or inhuman — to twist it round a leg in that fashion." 
 
 I broke out with a choking cry. 
 
 "I did it," I said; "but it wasn't murder — oh, Jason, 
 it wasn't murder, as you mean it." 
 
 He gave a little cold laugh. 
 
 "No doubt we have different standards of morality," 
 he said. "We won't split hairs. Say it was murder as a 
 judge and jury would view it."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 71 
 
 "It wasn't! Will you believe me if I tell you the 
 truth?" 
 
 "That depends upon the form it takes." 
 
 "I'll tell you. It is the truth — before God, it is the truth ! 
 I won't favor myself. I had been mad with him, I own, 
 but had nearly got over it. I was out all day on the hills 
 and thought I should like a bathe on my way home. I 
 went through the 'run' and saw he was there. At first 
 I thought I would leave him to himself, but just as I was 
 going he saw me and a grin came over his face and — 
 Jason, you know that if I had gone away then, he would 
 have thought me afraid to meet him.'' 
 
 "You can leave me, Renalt, out of the question, if you 
 please." 
 
 "I meant no harm — indeed I didn't — but when I got 
 there he taunted and mocked at me. I didn't know what 
 I was doing; and when he jumped for the water I fol- 
 lowed him and twisted that round. Then in a single mo- 
 ment I saw what I had done — and was mad to unfasten 
 it. It would not come away at first, and when at last I 
 got him free and to the shore he was insensible. If you 
 could only know what I suffered then, you would pity 
 me, Jason — you would; you could not help it." 
 
 I stole a despairing look at his face and there was no 
 atom of softness in it. 
 
 "He came to on the way home and I was wild with joy, 
 and at night, Jason, when you were in bed and asleep, 
 I crept into his room and begged for his forgiveness and 
 he forgave me." 
 
 "Without any condition? That wasn't like Modred. 
 What did he ask for in return?" 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 "Come," he persisted, "what did he want? You may 
 as well tell me all. You don't fancy that I believe he for- 
 gave you without getting something substantial in ex- 
 change?'' 
 
 "I was to give up all claim to Zyp," I said in a low, 
 suffering voice. 
 
 Jason laughed aloud. 
 
 "Oh, Modred," he cried, "you were a pretty bantling,
 
 72 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 upon my word ! Who would have thought the dear fatty 
 had such cunning in him?" 
 
 His callous merriment struck me with a dumb horror 
 as of sacrilege. But he subdued it directly and returned 
 to me and my misery in the same repressed tone as be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I have heard it all, I suppose. It 
 makes little difference. You know, of course, you arc 
 morally responsible for his death, just the same as if you 
 had stuck a knife into his heart." 
 
 I could only hide my face in the bedclothes, writhed all 
 through with agony. There was a little spell of silence; 
 then my brother bespoke my attention with a gentle 
 push. 
 
 "Renny, do you want all this known to the others?" 
 
 I raised my head in a sudden gust of passion. 
 
 "Do what you like!" I cried. "I know you now, 
 and you can't make it much worse!" 
 
 "Oh, yes,'' he said, coolly; "I can make it a good deal 
 worse. Nobody but I knows at present, don't you see?" 
 
 I looked at him with a sudden gleam of hope. 
 
 "Don't you intend to tell, Jason?" 
 
 He laughed again, lightly. 
 
 "That depends. I must borrow my cue from Modred 
 and make conditions." 
 
 I had no need to ask what they were. In whatever 
 direction I looked now, I saw nothing but a blank and 
 deadly waste. 
 
 "I want the girl — you understand? I need not go into 
 particulars. She interests m.e and that's enough." 
 
 "Yes," I said, quietly. 
 
 "There must be no more of that sentimental foolery 
 between you and her. I bore it as long as you were ill; 
 but, now you're strong again, it must stop. If it doesn't, 
 you know what'll happen." 
 
 With that he turned abruptly on his heel and began 
 to undress. I listened for the deep breathing that an- 
 nounced him to be asleep with a strained fever of im- 
 patience. I felt that I could not think cleanly or collect-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 73 
 
 edly with that monstrous consciousness of his awake in 
 the room. 
 
 Perhaps, in all my wretchedness, the full discovery of 
 his baseness of soul was as bitter a wound as any I had 
 received. I had so looked up to him as a superior be- 
 ing, so sunned myself in the pride of relationship to him ; 
 so lovingly submitted to his boyish patronage and con- 
 descension. The grief of my discovery was very real 
 and terrible and would in itself, I think, have gone far to 
 blight my existence had no fearfuller blast descended to 
 wither it. 
 
 Well, it was all one now. Whatever immunity from 
 disaster I was to enjoy henceforth must be on sufferance 
 only. 
 
 Had I been older and sinfuller I might have grasped 
 in my despair at the coward's resource of self-destruction ; 
 as it 'was, I thought of flight. By and by, perhaps, when 
 vigor should return to me, and with it resolution, I should 
 be able to face firmly the problem of my future and take 
 my own destinies in hand. 
 
 Little sleep came to me that night, and that only of a 
 haunted kind. I felt haggard and old as I struggled into 
 my clothes the next morning, and all unfit to cope with 
 the gigantic possibilities of the day. Jason had gone early 
 to the fatal pool for a bathe. 
 
 At breakfast, in the beginning, Zyp's manner to me 
 was prettily sympathetic and a little shy. It was the first 
 of my great misery that I must repel her on the threshold 
 of our better understanding, and see her fall away from 
 me for lack of the least expression of that passionate de- 
 votion and gratitude that filled my heart to bursting. 
 I could see at once that she was startled — hurt, perhaps, 
 and that she shrunk from me immediately. Jason talked 
 airily to my father all through the meal, but I knew his 
 senses to be as keenly on the alert as if he had sat in 
 silence, with his eyes fixed upon my face. 
 
 I choked over my bread and bacon; I could not swal- 
 low more than a mouthful of the cofifee in my cup, and 
 . Zyp sat back in her chair, never addressing me after that
 
 7t THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 first rebulif, but pondering on me angrily with her eyes 
 full of a sort of wonder. 
 
 She stopped me peremptorily as, breakfast over, I was 
 hastening out with all the speed I could muster, and 
 afked me if I didn't want her company that morning. 
 
 "No," I answered; "I am well enough to get about 
 by myself now." 
 
 "Very well," she said. "Then you must do without me 
 altogether for the future." 
 
 She turned on her heel and I could only look after her 
 in dumb agony. Then I crept down into the yard and 
 confided my grief to the old cart wheels. 
 
 Presently, raising my head, I saw her standing before 
 me, her hands under her apron, her face grave with an 
 expression, half of concern, half of defiance. 
 
 "Now, if you please," she said, "I want to know the 
 meaning of this?" 
 
 "Of what?'' I asked, with wretched evasiveness. 
 
 "You know — your manner toward me this morning." 
 
 "I have done nothing," I muttered. 
 
 "You have insulted me, sir. Is it because I kissed you 
 last night?" 
 
 "Oh, Zyp!" I cried aloud in great pain. "You know 
 it isn't — you know it isn't!" 
 
 I couldn't help this one cry. It was forced from me. 
 
 "Then what's the reason?" 
 
 "I can't give it — I have none. I want to be alone, 
 that's all." 
 
 She stood looking at me a moment in silence, and the 
 line of her mouth hardened. 
 
 "Very well," she said, at last. "Then, understand, I've 
 done with you. I thought at first it was a mistake or that 
 you were ill again. I've been kind to you; you can't say 
 I haven't given you a chance. And I pitied you because 
 you were alone and unhappy. Jason, I will tell you, 
 hinted an evil thing of you to me, but even if it was true, 
 which I didn't believe, I forgave you, thinking, perhaps, 
 It was done for my sake. Well, if it was, I tell you now 
 it was useless, for you will be nothing to me ever again." 
 
 And, with these cruel words, she left me. The proud
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 75 
 
 child of the woods could brook no insult to her conde- 
 scension, and from my comrade she had become my 
 enemy. 
 
 I suppose I should have been relieved that the in- 
 evitable rupture had occurred so swiftly and efifectually. 
 Judge you, you poor outcasts who, sanctifying a love in 
 your tumultuous breasts, have had to step aside and yield 
 to another the fruit you so coveted. 
 
 Once pledged to antagonism, Zyp, it will be no matter 
 for wonder, adopted anything but half-measures. Had 
 it only been her vanity that was hurt she would have 
 made me pay dearly for the blow. As it was, her in- 
 genuity in devising plans for my torture and discom- 
 fiture verged upon the very bounds of reason. 
 
 At first she contented herself with mere verbal pleas- 
 antries and disdainful snubbings. As, however, the days 
 went on and my old strength and health obstinately re- 
 turned to me, despite the irony of the shattered soul with- 
 in, her animosity grew to be an active agent so persistent 
 in its methods that I verily thought my brain Avould give 
 way under the load. 
 
 i cannot, indeed, recall a tithe of the Pucklike devices 
 she resorted to for my moral undoing, and which, after 
 all, I might have endured to the end had it not been for 
 one threading torment that accompanied all her whimsies 
 like a strain of diabolical music. This was an ostenta- 
 tious show of afifection for Jason, which, I truly believe, 
 from being more or less put on in exaggerated style for 
 my edification, became at length such a habit with her 
 as' may be considered, in certain dispositions, one form 
 of love. 
 
 The two now were seldom apart. Once, conscious of 
 my presence, she kissed Jason on the lips, because he 
 had brought her a little flowering root of some plant she 
 desired. I saw his face fire up darkly and he looked 
 across at me with a triumph that made me almost hate 
 him. 
 
 And the worst of it was that I knew that my punish- 
 ment was not more than commensurate with the offense ; 
 that my sin had been grievous and its retribution not out
 
 76 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 of proportion. How could full atonement and Zyp have 
 been mine together? 
 
 Still, capable of acknowledging the fatness of things 
 in my sadder hours of loneliness, my nature, once restored 
 to strength, could not but strive occasionally to throw 
 off the incubus that it felt it could not bear much longer 
 without breaking down for good and all. I had done 
 wrong on the spur of a single wicked impulse, but 1 
 was no fiend to have earned such bitter reprisal. By 
 slow degrees rebellion woke in my heart against the per- 
 sistent cruelty of my two torturers. Had I fled at this 
 juncture, the wild scene that took place might have been 
 averted, and the exile, which became mine nevertheless, 
 have borne, perhaps, less evil fruit than in the result it 
 did. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 THE DENUNCIATION. 
 
 One November morning — my suffering had endured 
 all these months — my father and Dr. Crackenthorpe stood 
 before the sitting-room fire, talking, while I sat with a 
 book at the table, vainly trying to concentrate my atten- 
 tion on the printed lines. 
 
 Since my recovery I had seen the doctor frequently, 
 but he had taken little apparent notice of me. Now, I 
 had racked my puzzled mind many a time for recollection 
 of the conversation I had been witness of on the night 
 preceding my seizure, but still the details of it had eluded 
 me, though its gist remained in a certain impression of 
 uneasiness that troubled me when I thought of it. Sud- 
 denly, on this morning, a few words of the doctor's 
 brought the whole matter vividly before me again. 
 
 "By the bye, Trender," he said, drawlingly, and sat 
 down and began to poke the fire — "by the bye, have you 
 ever found that thing you accused me of losing for you 
 on a certain night — you know when?" 
 
 "No," said my father, curtly.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 77 
 
 "Was it of any value, now?" 
 
 "Maybe — maybe not," said my father. 
 
 "That don't seem much of answer. Perhaps, now, it 
 came from the same place those others did." 
 
 "That's nothing to you. Dr. Crackenthorpe." 
 
 "Well, you say it's lost, anyhow. Supposing I found 
 it, would you agree to my keeping it? Treasure-trove, 
 you know" — and he looked up with a grin, balancing the 
 poker perpendicularly in his hand. "Treasure-trove, my 
 friend," he repeated, with emphasis, and gave the other 
 a keen look. 
 
 Something in the tone of his speech woke light in my 
 brain, and I remembered at a flash. I stole an anxious 
 glance at my father. His face was pale and set with 
 anger, but there was an expression in his eyes that looked 
 like fear. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me you have found it?" he said 
 in a forced voice. 
 
 "Oh, by no means," answered the doctor. "We haven't 
 all your good luck. Only you are so full of the unex- 
 pected in producing valuables from secret places, like 
 a conjurer, that I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind 
 my keeping this particular one if I should chance to pick 
 it up." 
 
 "Keep it, certainly, if you can find it," said my father, 
 I could have thought almost with a faint groan. 
 
 "Thanks for the permission, my friend; I'll make a 
 point of keeping my eyes open." 
 
 When did he not? They were pretty observant now 
 on Zyp and Jason, who, as he spoke, walked into the 
 room. 
 
 "Hullo!" said my brother. "Good-morning to you, 
 doctor, and a sixpence to to^s for your next threppennv 
 fee." 
 
 "Hold your tongue," cried my father, angrily. 
 
 "I would give a guinea to get half for attending on 
 your inquest," said the doctor, sourly. "Keep your wit 
 for your wench, my good lad, and see then that she don't 
 go begging." 
 
 "I could give you better," muttered Jason, cowed by
 
 78 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 my father's presence, "but it shall keep and mature." 
 Then he turned boisterously on me. 
 
 "Why don't you go out, Renny, instead of moping 
 at home all day?" 
 
 His manner was aggressive, his tone calculated to ex- 
 asperate. 
 
 Moved by discretion I rose from my chair and made for 
 the door; but he barred my way. 
 
 "Can't you answer me?" he said, with an ugly scowl. 
 "No — I don't want to. Let me pass." 
 My father had turned his back upon us and was star- 
 ing gloomily down at the fire. 
 
 I heard Zyp give a little scornful laugh and she 
 breathed the word "coward" at me. 
 
 I stopped as if I had struck against a wall. All my 
 blood surged back on my heart and seemed to leave my 
 veins filled with a tingling ichor in its place. 
 
 "Perhaps I have been," I said, in a low voice, "but 
 here's an end of it." 
 Jason tittered. 
 
 "We're mighty stiltish this morning," he said, with a 
 sneer. "What a pity it's November, so that we can't have 
 a plunge for the sake of coolness — except that they say 
 the pool's haunted now." 
 
 I looked at him with blazing eyes, then made another 
 effort to get past him, but he repelled me violently. 
 
 "You don't know your place/' he said, and gave an 
 
 insolent laugh. "Stand back till I choose to let you go." 
 
 I heard the doctor snigger and Zyp gave a second little 
 
 cluck. My father was still absorbed — lost in his own 
 
 dark reflections. 
 
 The loaded reel of endurance was spinning to its end. 
 "You might have given 3II your morning to one of 
 your Susans yonder," said my brother, mockingly. "Now 
 she's gone, I expect, with her apron to her eyes. She'll 
 enjoy her pease pudding none the less, I dare say, and 
 perhaps look out for a more accommodating clown. It 
 won't be the first time you've had to take second place." 
 I struck him full between the eyes and he went down 
 like a polled ox. All the pent-up agony of months was
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 79' 
 
 in my blow. As I stepped back in the recoil, madly 
 straining even then to beat under the more fvirious devil 
 that yelled in me for release, I v^as conscious of a hurried 
 breath at my ear — a swift whisper: "Kill him! Stamp 
 on his mouth! Don't let him get up again!'' and knew 
 that it was Zyp who spoke. 
 
 I put her back fiercely. Jason had sprung to his feet 
 • — half-blinded, half-stunned. His face was inhuman with 
 passion and was working like a madman's. But before 
 he could gather himself for a rush, my father had him in 
 his powerful arms. It all happened in a moment. 
 
 "What's all this?" roared my father. "Knock under, 
 you whelp, or I'll strangle you in your collar!" 
 
 "Let me go!" cried my brother. "Look at him — look 
 what he did!" 
 
 He was choking and struggling to that degree that he 
 could hardly articulate. I think foam was on his lips, and 
 in his eyes the ravenous thirst for blood. 
 
 "He struck me!" he panted — "do you hear? Let me go 
 — let me kill him as he killed Modred!" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Dr. Crackenthorpe, 
 who had sat passively back in his chair during the fray, 
 with his lips set in an acrid smile, made as if to rise, lean- 
 ing forward with quick attention. Then my father shook 
 Jason till he reeled and clutched at him. 
 
 "Have a mind what you say, you mad cur!" he cried 
 in a terrible voice. 
 
 "It's true! Let me go! He confessed it all to me — 
 to me, I say!" 
 
 I stood up among them alone, stricken, and I was not 
 afraid. I was a better man than my accuser; a better 
 brother, despite my sin. And his dagger, plunged in to 
 destroy, had only released the long-accumulating agony 
 of my poor inflamcfl and swollen heart. 
 
 "Father," I said, "let him alone. It is true, what he 
 says." 
 
 He flung Jason from him with violence. 
 
 "Move a step," he thundered, daring him, "and I'll send 
 you after Modred!" 
 
 He came to me and took me gently by the shoulder.
 
 80 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "Renalt, my lad," he said, "I am waiting to hear." 
 
 I did not falter, or condone my offense, or make any 
 appeal to them whatsoever. The kind touch on my arm 
 moved me so that I could have broken into tears. But 
 my task was before me and I could afford no atom of 
 self-indulgence, did I wish to get through it bravely. 
 
 As I had told my story to Jason, I told it now; and 
 when I had finished I waited, in a dead silence, the ver- 
 dict. I could hear my brother breathing thickly — ex- 
 pectantly. His fury had passed in the triumph of his own 
 abasement. 
 
 Suddenly my father put the hand he had held on my 
 shoulder before his face and a great sob coming from 
 him broke down the stone walls of my pride. 
 
 "Dad — dad!" I cried in agony. 
 
 He recovered himself in a moment and moved away; 
 then faced round and addressed me, but his eyes looked 
 down and would not meet mine. 
 
 "Before God," he said, "I think you are forgiven for 
 a single impulse we all might suffer and not all of us 
 recoil from the instant after, but I think that this can 
 be no place for you any longer." 
 
 Then he turned upon Dr. Crackenthorpe. 
 
 "You!" he cried; "you, man, who have heard it all, 
 thanks to that dirty reptile yonder! Do you intend to 
 peach?" 
 
 The doctor pinched his wiry chin between finger and 
 thumb, with his cheeks lifted in a contemplative fashion. 
 
 "The boy," he said, "is safe from any one's malice. No 
 jury would convict on such evidence. Still, I agree with 
 you, it's best for him to go." 
 
 "You hear, Renalt?" said my father. "I'll not drive 
 vou in any way, or deny you harbor here if you think you 
 can face it out. You shall judge for yourself." 
 
 "I have judged," I answered; "I will go." 
 
 I walked past them all, with head erect, and up to my 
 room, where I sat down for a brief space to collect my 
 thoughts and face the future. Hardly had I got hold of 
 the first end of the tangle when there came a knock at 
 the door. I opened it and Zyp was outside.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 81 
 
 "You fool!" she whispered; "you should have done as 
 I told you. It's too late now. Here, take this. Dad told 
 me to give it you" — and she thrust a canvas bag of money 
 into my hand, looking up at me with her unfathomable 
 eyes. 
 
 As I took it, suddenly she flung her arms about my 
 neck and kissed me passionately, once, twice, thrice, on 
 the lips, and so pushed me from her and was gone. And 
 as I stood there came to my ears a faint wail from above, 
 and I said to myself doggedly: "It is a gull flying over 
 the house." 
 
 Taking nothing with me but cap, stick and the simple 
 suit of clothes I had on, I descended the stairs with a 
 firm tread and passed the open door of the sitting-room. 
 There was silence there, and in silence I walked by it 
 without a glance in its direction. It held but bitter mem- 
 ories for me now and was scarce less haunted in its way 
 than the other. And so to me would it always be — 
 haunted by the beautiful wild memory of a changeling, 
 whose coming had wrought the great evil of my life, to 
 whom I, going, attributed no blame, but loved her then 
 as I had loved her from the first. 
 
 The booming of the wheel shook, like a voice of mock- 
 ery, at me as I passed the room of silence. Its paddles, 
 I thought, seemed reeling with wicked merriment, and 
 its creaking thunder to spin monotonously the burden 
 of one chant. 
 
 "I let you go, but not to escape — I let you go, but not 
 to escape." The fancy haunted my mind for weeks to 
 come. 
 
 In the darkness of the passage a hand seized mine and 
 wrung it fiercely. 
 
 "You don't mean to let the grass grow on your re- 
 solve, then, Renalt?" said my father's voice, rough and 
 su'odued. 
 
 "No, dad ; I can do no good by delaying." 
 
 "I'm sore to let you go, my boy. But it's for the best 
 —it's for the best. Don't think hardly of me; and be a 
 fine lad and strike out a path for yourself." 
 
 "God bless you, dad," I said, and so left him.
 
 82 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 As I Stepped into the frosty air the cathedral bells 
 rung out like iron on an anvil. The city roofs and towers 
 sparkled with white; the sun looked through a shining 
 mist, giving earnest of gracious hours to come. 
 
 It was a happy omen. 
 
 I turned my back on the old decaying past and set my 
 face toward London. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MY FRIEND THE CRIPPLE. 
 
 In the year i860, of which I now write, so much of 
 prejudice against railways still existed among many peo- 
 ple of a pious or superstitious turn of mind, that I can 
 quote much immediate precedent in support of my re- 
 solve to walk to London rather than further tempt a 
 Providence I had already put to so severe a strain. It 
 must be borne in mind of course that we Trenders were 
 little more than barbarians of an unusual order, who had 
 been nourished on a scorn of progress and redeemed 
 only by a natural leaning toward picturesqueness of a 
 pagan kind. Moreover, the sense of mystery, which was 
 an integral part of our daily experience, had ingrained in 
 us all a general antagonism toward unconstructed 
 agencies. Lastly, not one of us had ever as yet been in 
 a train. 
 
 Still, it was with no feeling of inability to carve a road 
 for myself through the barriers to existence that I drew, 
 on the evening of my third day's tramp, toward the over- 
 lapping pall that was the roof of the "City of Dreadful 
 Night." 
 
 I had slept, on my road, respectively at Farnham and 
 Guildford, where, in either case, cheap accommodation 
 was easily procurable, and foresaw a difficulty, only 
 greater in proportion, in finding reasonable lodging in 
 London during the time I was seeking work, Indififer- 
 ently I pictured this city to myself as only an elongated
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 83 
 
 High street, with ramifications more numerous and ex- 
 tended than those of the old burgh that was my native 
 town, I was startled, overwhelmed, dazed with the 
 black, aimless scurrying of those interwoven strings of 
 human ants, that ran by their thronging brick heaps, 
 eager in search for what they never seemed to find, 
 or shot and vanished into tunnels and alleys of darkness, 
 or were attracted to and scorched up by, apparently, 
 the broad sheets of flame that were the shop windows 
 of their Vanity Fair. Moving amid the swarm from 
 vision to vision — always an inconsiderable atom there 
 without meaning or individuality — always stunned and 
 stupefied by the threatening masses of masonry that 
 hemmed me in, and accompanied me, and broke upon me 
 in new dark forms through every vista and gap that the 
 rank growth of ages had failed to block — the inevitable 
 sense grew upon me, as it gi-ows upon all who pace its 
 interminable streets friendless, of walking in a world to 
 which I was by heavenly birthright an alien. 
 
 Near midnight, I turned into a gaunt and lonely 
 square, where comparative quiet reigned. 
 
 I had entered London by way of Waterloo bridge, as 
 the wintry dusk was falling over house and river, and 
 all these hours since had I been pacing its crashing 
 thoroughfares, aHve only to wonder and the cruel sense 
 of personal insignificance. As to a lodging and bed for 
 my weary limbs — sooner had Childe Roland dared the 
 dark tower than I the burrows, that night, of the un- 
 known pandemonium around me. I had slept in the 
 open of the fields before now. Here, though winter, it 
 hardly seemed that there was an out-of-doors, but that 
 the buildings were only so many sleeping closets in a 
 dark hall. 
 
 All round the square inside was a great inclosure en- 
 compassed by a frouzy hoarding of wood, and set in the 
 middle of the inclosure was some dim object that looked 
 like a ruined statue. Such by day, indeed, I found it to be, 
 and of no less a person than his late majesty. King 
 George the First. When my waking eyes first lighted 
 on him, I saw him to be half-sunk into his horse, as if
 
 84 THE MII>L OF SILENCE. 
 
 seeking to shield himself therein from the shafts of his 
 persecutors, who, nothing discomposed, had daubed 
 what remained of the crippled charger himself with 
 blotches of red and white paint, 
 
 I walked once or twice round the square, seeking 
 vainly, at first, to still the tumult of my brain. The op- 
 pressive night of locked-up London, laden like a thunder 
 cloud with store of slumbering passions, was lowering 
 now and settling down like a fog. The theaters were 
 closed; the streets echoing to the last foot-falls. Seeing 
 a hole in the hoarding, I squeezed through it and with- 
 drew into the rank grass and weeds that choked the 
 interior of the inclosure. I had bought and brought 
 some food with me, and this I fell to munching as I sat 
 on a hummock of rubbish, and was presently much com- 
 forted thereby, so that nothing but sleep seemed desirable 
 to me in all the world. Therefore I lay down where I 
 was and buttoning my coat about me, was, despite the 
 frosty air, soon lost in delicious forgetfulness. At first 
 my slumber was broken by reason of the fitful rumble 
 of wheels, or pierced by voices and dim cries that yet 
 resounded phantomly here and there, as if I lay in some 
 stricken city, where only the dying yet lived and wailed, 
 but gradually these all passed from me. 
 
 I awoke with the gray of dawn on my face and sat up. 
 My limbs were cramped and stiff with the cold, and a 
 light rime lay upon my clothes. Otherwise no bitterer 
 result had followed my rather untoward experiment. 
 
 Then I looked about me and saw for the first time that 
 I was not alone. Certain haggard and unclean crea- 
 tures were my bed-fellows in that desolate oasis. They 
 lay huddled here and there, like mere scarecrows blown 
 over by the wind and lying where they fell. There were 
 women among them, and more than one pinched and 
 tattered urchin, with drawn, white face resolved by sleep 
 into nothing but pathos and starvation. 
 
 There they lay at intervals, as if on a battlefield where 
 the crows had been busy, and each one seemed to lie flat- 
 tened into the earth as dead bodies lie. 
 
 I could not but be thankful that I had stumbled over
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 85 
 
 no one of them when I had entered — an accident which 
 would very possibly have lost me my little store of 
 money, if it had, indeed, led to nothing worse. As it 
 was, I prepared for a hasty exit, and was about to rise, 
 when I became conscious that my movements were under 
 observation by one who lay not twenty feet from me. 
 
 He was so hidden by the rank grass that at first I 
 could make out nothing but a long, large-boned face 
 peering at me above the stems through eyes as black 
 and glinting as boot buttons. A thatch of dark hair fell 
 about his ears and forehead, and his eyebrows, also 
 black, were sleek and pointed like ermine tips. 
 
 The face was so full and fine that I was startled when 
 its owner rose, which he did on the instant, to see that 
 he was a thick-set and stunted cripple. He shambled 
 toward me with a winning smile on his lips, and before I 
 could summon resolution to retreat, had come and sat 
 down beside me. 
 
 "We seem the cocks of this company," he said, in a 
 deep musical voice. "Among the blind the one-eyed — 
 eh?" 
 
 He was warmly and decently clad, and I could only 
 wonder at his choice of bedroom. He read me in a look. 
 
 "I've a craving for experiences," he said. "These aren't 
 my usual quarters." 
 
 "No," I said; "I suppose not." 
 
 "Nor yours?" he went on, with a keen glance at me. 
 
 To give my confidence to a stranger was an unwise 
 proceeding, but I was guileless as to the craft of great 
 cities, and in this case my innocence was in a manner my 
 good fortune. 
 
 I told him that I was only yesterday from the country, 
 after a three days' tramp, and how I was benighted. 
 
 "Ah," he said. "Up after work, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 "Well," said he, "let's understand your capacities. 
 Guess my age first." 
 
 "Forty," said I, at a venture, for indeed he might have 
 been that or anything else. 
 
 "Fm 21," he said. "Don't I look it? We mature early
 
 86 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 in London here. What do you think's my business?" 
 
 "Oh, you're a gentleman, aren't you?" I asked, with 
 some stir of shyness. 
 
 "I'm a printer's hand. That means something very 
 different to you, don't it? Maybe you'll develop in time. 
 Where are you from?" 
 
 I told him. 
 
 "Ah," he said. "You've a proverb down your way: 
 'Manners makeyth man.' So they may, as they construe 
 it — a fork for the fingers and a pretty trick of speech; 
 but it's the manners of the soul make the gentleman. Do 
 you believe in after-life?" 
 
 "Of course I do. Where do the ghosts come from 
 otherwise?" 
 
 He laughed pleasantly, rubbing his chin in a perplexed 
 manner, and then I noticed that his fingers were stunted 
 like a mechanic's and stained with printer's ink. 
 
 "Old Ripley would fancy you," he said. 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 "My governor — printer, binder and pamphleteer, an 
 opponent of all governments but his own. He's an 
 anarchist, who'd like to transfer himself and his personal 
 belongings to some desert satellite, after laying a train 
 to blow up the earth with nitro-glycerin and then he'd 
 want to overturn the heavenly system." 
 
 "He doesn't sound hopeful." 
 
 "No, he isn't, but he's fairly original for a fanatic. I 
 wonder if he'd give you work?" 
 
 "Oh, thanks!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Nonsense; you needn't mind him. He's only gas. 
 Unmixed with his native air he wouldn't be explosive, 
 you know. I can imagine him a very unprogressive an- 
 gel. It's notoriety he wants. Nothing satisfies his sort 
 in the end like a scaffold outside of Newgate with 40,000 
 eyes looking on and 12 guineas paid for a window in the 
 'Magpie and Stump.' " 
 
 "Are you " I began, when he took me up with: 
 
 "His kind? Not a bit of it. I'm an idealist — a 
 dreamer asking the way to Utopia. I look about for the
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE 87 
 
 finger-posts in places like this. One must learn and suf- 
 fer to dream properly." 
 
 "Ypu can do that and yet have ugly enough dreams," 
 I said, with subdued emphasis. 
 
 "That oughtn't to be so," he said, looking curiously 
 at me. "Nightmare comes from self-indulgence. Cosset 
 your grievances and they'll control you. You must be 
 an ascetic in the art of sensation." 
 
 "And starve on a pillar like that old saint Mr. Tenny- 
 son wrote of," I answered. 
 
 "Go and hang yourself,'' he cried, pushing at me with 
 a laugh. "Hullo! Who's here?" 
 
 A couple of the scarecrows, evil-looking men both, 
 had risen, and stood over us to one side, listening. 
 
 "Tofif kenners," I heard one of them mutter, "and good 
 for jink, by the looks." 
 
 "Tap the cady," the other murmured, and both crea- 
 tures shuffled round to the front of us. 
 
 "Good for a midjick, matey?" asked the more rufifianly 
 looking of the two in a menacing tone. 
 
 I started, bewildered by their jargon. My companion 
 looked up at them smiling and drumming out a tune on 
 his knee. 
 
 "Stow it," said the smaller man to the other; "I've tried 
 the griffin and it don't take." Then he bent his body 
 and whined in a fulsome voice : "Overtaken with a drop, 
 good gentlemen? And won't you pay a trifle for your 
 lodgings, now?" 
 
 I was about to rise, but a gesture on the part of both 
 fellows showed me that they intended to keep us at our 
 disadvantage. A blowzed and noisome woman was ad- 
 vancing to join the group. 
 
 "Be alert," whispered my companion. "We must get 
 out of this." 
 
 The words were for me, but the men gathered their 
 import and assumed a threatening manner. No doubt, 
 seeing but a boy and a cripple, they valued us beneath 
 our muscular worth. 
 
 "Come," said the big man, "we don't stand on cere- 
 mony; we want the price of a drink."
 
 88 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He advanced upon us, as he spoke, with an ugly look 
 and in a moment my companion had seized him by the 
 ankles and whirled him over against his friend, so that 
 the two crashed down together. The woman set up a 
 screech, as we jumped to our feet, and we saw wild 
 heads start up here and there like snakes from the grass. 
 But before any one could follow us w^e had gained the 
 rent in the hoarding and slipped through. Glancing 
 back, after I had made my exit, I saw one of the men 
 strike the woman full in the face and fell her to the 
 ground. It was his gentle corrective to her for not hav- 
 ing stopped us, and the sight made my blood so boil 
 that I was on the point of tearing back, had not my com- 
 panion seized and fairly carried me off. As in many 
 cripples, his strength of arm was prodigious. 
 
 "Now," he said, when he had quieted me, "we'll go 
 home to breakfast." 
 
 "Where?" said I. 
 
 "Home, my friend. Oh, I have one, you know, for all 
 my sleeping out there. That was a test for experience; 
 my first one of the kind, but valuable in its way." 
 
 "But " I began. 
 
 "Yes, you will," he cried. "You'll be my guest. I've 
 taken a bit of a fancy to you. What's your name?'' 
 
 W^hen I had told him, "Duke Straw's mine," he said; 
 "though I'm not of strawberry-leaf descent. But it's a 
 good name for a dreamer, isn't it? Have you ever read 
 'Feathertop,' by Hawthorne?" 
 
 "No," I said. 
 
 "Never mind, then. When you do, you'll recognize 
 my portrait — a poor creature of straw that moves by 
 smoke." 
 
 "What smoke?" I asked, bewildered. 
 
 "Perhaps you'll find out some day — if Ripley takes a 
 fancy to you." 
 
 "You don't want me to go to him?" 
 
 "Certainly I do. I'm going to take you with me when 
 I tramp to work at 9 o'clock." 
 
 He was so cool and masterful that I could only laugh 
 and walk on with him.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 89 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I OBTAIN EMPLOYMENT. 
 
 It was broad day when we emerged from the inclosure, 
 and sound was awakening along the wintry streets. Lon- 
 don stood before me rosy and refreshed, so that she 
 looked no longer formidably unapproachable as she had 
 in her garb of black and many jewels. I might have 
 entered her yesterday with the proverbial half-crown, so 
 easily was my lot to fall in accommodating places. 
 
 Duke Straw, whom I was henceforth to call my friend, 
 conducted me by a township of intricate streets to the 
 shop of a law stationer, in a petty way of business, which 
 stood close by Clare market and abutted on Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields. Here he had a little bedroom, furnished with 
 a cheap oil-cooking stove, whereon he heated his coffee 
 and grilled his bacon. 
 
 Simon Cringle, the proprietor of the shop, was taking 
 his shutters down as we walked up. He was a little, 
 spare man, with a vanity of insignificance. His iron- 
 gray hair fell in short, well-greased ringlets and his thin 
 beard in a couple more, that hung loose like dangled 
 wood shavings; his coiled mustaches reminded one of 
 watch springs; his very eyebrows, like bees' legs, were 
 humped in the middle and twisted up into fine claws at 
 the tips. Duke, in his search for lodging and experience, 
 had no sooner seen this curiosity than he closed with 
 him. 
 
 He gave my companion a grandiloquent "Good-morn- 
 ing." 
 
 _ "Up with the lark, Mr. Straw," said he, "and I hope, 
 sir, with success in the matter of getting the first worm?" 
 Here he looked hard at me. 
 
 "He found me too much of a mouthful,'' said I; "so he 
 brought me home for breakfast."
 
 90 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Duke laughed. 
 
 "Come and be grilled," said he. "Anyhow they roast 
 malt-worms in a place spoken of by Falstaff." 
 
 We had a good, merry meal. I should not have 
 thought it possible my heart could have lightened so. 
 But there was a fascinating individuality about my com- 
 panion that, I am afraid, I have but poorly suggested. 
 He gave me glimmerings of life in a higher plane than 
 that which had been habitual to me. No doubt his code 
 of morals was eccentric and here and there faulty. His 
 manner of looking at things was, however, so healthy, 
 his breezy philosophy so infectious, that I could not help 
 but catch some of his complaint — which was, like that 
 of the nightingale, musical. 
 
 Perhaps, had I met him by chance six months ago, 
 my undeveloped soul would have resented his easy fa- 
 miliarity with a cubbish snarl or two. Now my recep- 
 tives were awakened; my armor of self-sufficiency eaten 
 to rags with rust; my heart plaintive for communion with 
 some larger influence that would recognize and not ab- 
 hor. 
 
 At 8:45 he haled me off to the office, which stood a 
 brief distance away, in a thoroughfare called Great Queen 
 street. Here he left me awhile, bidding me walk up and 
 down and observe life until his chief should arrive, which 
 he was due to do at the half-hour. 
 
 I thought it a dull street after some I had seen, but 
 there were many old book and curiosity shops in it that 
 aroused my interest. While I was looking into one of 
 them I heard Duke call. 
 
 "Here," he said, when I reached him ; "answer out and 
 I think Ripley will give you work. I'm rather a favorite 
 with him — ^that's the truth." 
 
 He led me into a low-browed room, with a counter. 
 Great bales of print and paper went up to the ceiling 
 at the back, and the floor rumbled with the clank of sub- 
 terranean machinery. One or two clerks were about 
 and wedged into a corner of the room was a sort of 
 glazed and wooden crate of comfortable proportions.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 91 
 
 which was, in fact, the chapel of ease of the minister of 
 the place. 
 
 Into this den Duke conducted me with ceremony, and, 
 retreating himself, left me almost tumbling over a bald- 
 headed man, with a matted black beard, on which a pro- 
 truding red upperlip lay like a splash of blood, who sat at 
 a desk writing. 
 
 "Shut the door," he said, without looking up. 
 
 "It is shut, sir." 
 
 He trailed a glance at me, as if in scrutiny, but I soon 
 saw he could only have been balancing some phrase, for 
 he dived again and went on writing. 
 
 Presently he said, very politely, indeed, and still intent 
 on his paper: "Are you a cadet of the noble family of 
 Kinsale, sir?" 
 
 "No, sir," I answered, in surprise. 
 
 "You haven't the right to remain covered in the pres- 
 ence of the king?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Well, I'm king here. What the blazes do you mean 
 by standing in a private room with your hat on?" 
 
 I plucked it off, tingling. 
 
 "I'm sorry," I said. "Mr. Straw brought me in so sud- 
 denly, I lost my head and my cap went with it, I sup- 
 pose. But I see it's not the only thing one may lose here, 
 including tempers!'' And with that I turned on my heel 
 and was about to beat a retreat, fuming. 
 
 "Come back!" shouted Mr. Ripley. "If you go now, 
 you go for good!" 
 
 I hesitated; the memory of my late comrade restored 
 my equilibrium. 
 
 "I didn't mean to be rude, sir," I said. "I shall be 
 grateful to you if you will give me work." 
 
 He had condescended to turn now, and was looking 
 full at me with frowning eyes, but with no sign of anger 
 on his face. 
 
 "Well, you can speak out," he said. "How do you 
 come to know Straw?" 
 
 "I met him by chance and we got talking together." 
 
 "How long have you been in London?"
 
 92 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Since yesterday evening." 
 
 "Why did you leave Winton?" 
 
 "To get work." 
 
 "Have you brought a character with you?" 
 
 Here was a question to ask a Trender! But I answered, 
 "No, I never thought of it," with perfect truth. 
 
 "What can you do?" 
 
 "Anything I'm told, sir." 
 
 "That's a compromising statement, my friend. Can 
 you read and write?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Nothing? Don't you know anything now about the 
 habits of birds and beasts and fishes?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! I could tell you a heap about that." 
 
 "Could you? Very well; I'll give you a trial. I take 
 you on Straw's recommendation. His opinion, I tell 
 you, I value more than a score of ^vritten characters in a 
 case like this. You've to make yourself useful in 
 fifty different ways." 
 
 I assented, with a light heart, and he took me at my 
 word and the further bargain was completed. My wage's 
 were small at first, of course; but, with what I had in 
 hand, they would keep me going no doubt till I could 
 prove myself worth more to my employer. 
 
 In this manner I became one of Ripley's hands and 
 later on myself a pamphleteer in a small way. I wrote 
 to my father that evening and briefly acquainted him of 
 my good fortune. 
 
 For some months my work was of a heterogeneous de- 
 scription. Ripley was legitimately a job printer, on rather 
 a large scale, and a bookbinder. To these, however, he 
 added a little venturesomeness in publishing on his own 
 accovmt, as also a considerable itch for scribbling. Be- 
 coming at a hint a virulent partisan in any extremist 
 cause whatsoever, it will be no matter for wonder that 
 his private room was much the resort of levelers, pro- 
 gressives and abolitionists of every creed and complex- 
 ion. There furious malcontents against systems they
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 93 
 
 were the first to profit by met to talk and never to lis- 
 ten. There fanatical propagandists, eager to fly on the 
 rudimentary wing stumps of first principles, fluttered 
 into print and came flapping to the ground at the third 
 line. There, I verily believe, plots were laid that would 
 presently have leveled powers and potentates to the 
 ground at a nod, had any of the conspirators ever pos- 
 sessed the patience to sit on them till hatched. This, 
 however, they never did. All their fiery periphrastics 
 smoked ofif into the soot of print and in due course lum- 
 bered the office with piles of unmarketable drivel. 
 
 Mr. Ripley had, however, other strings to his bow, 
 or he would not have prospered. He did a good busi- 
 ness in bookselling and was even now and again success- 
 ful in the more conventional publishing line. In this 
 connection I chanced to be of some service to him, to 
 which circumstance I owed a considerable improvement 
 in my position after I had been with him getting on a 
 a year. He had long contemplated, and at length begun 
 to work upon, a series of handbooks on British birds 
 and insects, dealt with county by county. In the com- 
 pilation of these much research was necessary, wherein 
 I proved myself a useful and painstaking coadjutor. In 
 addition, however, my own knowledge of the subject was 
 fairly extensive as regarded Hampshire, which county, 
 and especially that part of it about Winton, is rich in 
 lepidoptera of a rare order. I may say I fairly earned 
 the praise he bestowed upon me, which was tinged, per- 
 haps, with a trifle of jealousy on his part, due to the fact 
 that the section I touched proved to be undoubtedly the 
 most popular of the series, as judged subsequently by re- 
 turns. 
 
 Not to push on too fast, however, I must hark back 
 to the day of my engagement, which was marked by my 
 introduction to one who eventually exercised a consider- 
 able influence over my destinies. 
 
 During the course of that first morning Mr. Ripley 
 sent me for some copies of a pamphlet that were in order 
 of sewing down below. By his direction I descended 
 a spiral staircase of iron and found myself in the com-
 
 94 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 posing-room. At a heavy iron-sheeted table stood my 
 new-found friend, who was, despite his youth, the valued 
 foreman of this department. He hailed me with glee 
 and asked: "What success?" 
 
 "All right, thanks to you," I said; "and where may 
 the bookbinding place be and Dolly Mellison?" 
 
 "Oh, you're for there, are you?" he said, with I thought 
 a rather curious look at me, and he pointed to a side 
 door. 
 
 Passing through this I found myself in a long room, 
 flanked to the left with many machines and to the right 
 with a row of girls who were classifying, folding or sew- 
 ing the sheets of print recent from the press. 
 
 "I'm to ask for Dolly Mellison," I said, addressing the 
 girl at my end of the row. 
 
 "Well, you won't have far to go," she said. "I'm her." 
 
 She was a pretty, slim lily of a thing, lithe and pale, 
 with large gray eyes and coiled hair like a rope of sun- 
 burned barleystraw, and her fingers petted her task as 
 if that were so much hat-trimming. 
 
 "I'm sent by Mr. Ripley for copies of a pamphlet on 
 'The Supineness of Theologicians,'" I said. 
 
 "I'm at work on it," she answered. "Wait a bit till I've 
 finished the dozen." 
 
 She glanced at me now and again without pausing in 
 her work. 
 
 "You're from the country, aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes. How do you know?" 
 
 "A little bird told me. What gave you those red 
 cheeks?" 
 
 "The sight of you," I said. I was growmg up. 
 
 "I'm nothing to be ashamed of, am I?" she asked, with 
 a pert laugh. 
 
 "You ought to be of yourself," I said, "for taking my 
 heart by storm in that fashion." 
 
 "Go along!" she cried, with a jerk of her elbow. "None 
 of your gammon! I'm not to be caught by chafif." 
 
 "It wasn't chafif, Dolly, though I may be a man of 
 straw. Is that what you meant?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 95 
 
 "You're pretty free, upon my word. Who told you 
 you might call me by my name?" 
 
 "Why, you wouldn't have me call you by any one 
 else's? It's pretty enough, even for you." 
 
 "Oh, go away with you!" she cried. "I won't lis- 
 ten." 
 
 At that moment Duke put his head in at the door. 
 
 "The governor's calling for you," he said. "Hurry 
 up." 
 
 "Well, they're ready," said the girl — "here," and she 
 thrust the packet into my hands, with a little blushing 
 half-impudent look at me. 
 
 I forgot all about her in a few minutes. My heart was 
 too full of one only other girlish figure to find room in 
 itself for a rival. What was Zyp doing now? — the won- 
 derful fairy child, whose phantom presence haunted all my 
 dreams for good and evil. 
 
 As I walked from the office with Duke Straw that 
 afternoon — for, as it was Saturday, we left early — a si- 
 lence fell between us till we neared Cringle's shop. Then, 
 standing outside, he suddenly stayed me and looked in 
 my face. 
 
 "Shall I hate or love you?" he said, with his mouth 
 set grimly. 
 
 He made a gesture toward his deformed lower limbs 
 with his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "No," he said; "what must be, must. I'll love you!" 
 
 There was a curious, defiant sadness in his tone, but 
 it was gone directly. I could only stare at him in won- 
 der. 
 
 "You're to be my house-fellow and chum," he said. 
 "No, don't protest; I've settled it. We'll arrange the rest 
 with Cringle." 
 
 And so I slept in a bed in London for the first time. 
 
 But the noise of a water wheel roared in my ears all 
 night.
 
 96 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SWEET, POOR DOLLY. 
 
 "Trender," said Duke, unexpectedly after a silence the 
 next morning, as we loitered over breakfast, "pay atten- 
 tion to one thing. I don't ask you for a fragment of your 
 past history and don't want to hear anything about it. 
 You'll say, as yet you haven't offered me your confidence, 
 and quite right, too, on the top of our 'short acquaint- 
 ance. But don't ever offer it to me, you understand? 
 Our friendship starts from sunrise, morning by morn- 
 ing, and lasts the day. I don't mean it shall be the less 
 true for that; I have a theon', that's all." 
 
 "What is it, Straw?" 
 
 "Sufficient for the day, it's called. Providence has 
 elected to give us, not one existence, but so many or few, 
 each linked to the next by an insensibility and intercalated 
 as a whole between appropriate limits." 
 
 "I don't quite understand." 
 
 "Wait a bit. Each of these existences has its birth 
 and death, and should be judged apart from the others; 
 each is pronounced upon in succession by one's familiar 
 spirit and its minutes pigeon-holed and docketed above 
 there. When the chain of evidence, for or against, is 
 complete, up these links are gathered in a heap and 
 weighed in both sides of the balance." 
 
 "It sounds more plausible than it is, I think," said I, 
 with frank discourtesy. "The acts of one day may in- 
 fluence those of the next — or interminably." 
 
 "That's your lookout; but they needn't necessarily. 
 With each new birth comes a new capacity for looking 
 at things in their right proportions." 
 
 "How far do you push your theory?" 
 
 "As far as you like. I'd have, all the world over, a daily 
 revival of systems."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 97 
 
 "Government — law?" 
 
 "Certainly. Of everything." 
 
 "Then justice, injustice, vindictiveness, must all re- 
 vive, too." 
 
 "No. They're recalled; they don't revive." 
 
 "But must a criminal, for instance, be allowed to es- 
 cape because they have failed to catch him the day he did 
 the deed?" 
 
 "That's exactly it. It makes no difference. He couldn't 
 atone here for an act committed by him during another 
 existence. But that particular minute goes pretty red 
 into its pigeon-hole, you may be sure." 
 
 "Oh, it's wild nonsense," I laughed. "You can't pos- 
 sibly be consistent." 
 
 "Can't I? Look here, you are my friend yesterday, 
 and to-day, and always, I hope. I judge you daily on 
 your merits, yet, for all I know, you may have committed 
 murder in one of your past existences?" 
 
 The blood went back upon my heart. Then a great 
 longing awoke in me to tell all to this self-reliant soul 
 and gain comfort of my sorrow\ But where was the 
 good in the broad face of his theory? 
 
 "Well," I said, with a sigh, "I've done things at least 
 I bitterly repent of." 
 
 "That's the conventional way of looking at it. Re- 
 pentance in this won't avail a former existence. Past 
 days of mine have had their troubles, no doubt, but this 
 day I have before me unclouded and to do what I like 
 with." 
 
 "Well, what shall we do with it?" said I. "I hand it 
 over to you to make it a happiness for me. I dare say 
 we shall find plenty of sorrows between sunrise and even- 
 ing to give it a melancholy charm." 
 
 "Rubbish!" cried my friend. "Cant, cant, cant, ever 
 to suppose that sorrow is necessary to happiness! We 
 mortals, I tell you, have an infinite capacity for delight; 
 given health, spiritual and bodily, we could dance in the 
 sunbeams for eternity and never reach a surfeit of pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 "Duke," said I— "may I call you Duke?" 
 
 7
 
 98 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "It puzzles me where you got — I don't mean offense 
 — only I can't help wondering " 
 
 "How I came to have original thoughts and a gram- 
 matical manner of speech? Look here " he held up 
 
 his stained fingers — "aren't these the hands of a man of 
 letters?" 
 
 "And a man of action," I said, with a laugh. But " 
 
 "It's no use, Renny. I can't look further back than 
 this morning." 
 
 "You can recall, you know. You don't deny each ex- 
 istence that capacity?" 
 
 "Perhaps I could; but to what advantage? To shovel 
 up a whole graveyard of sleeping remembrances to find 
 the seed of one dead nettle that thrusts its head through? 
 No, thank you. Besides, if it comes to that, I might put 
 the same question to you." 
 
 "Oh, I can easily answer it. I get all my way of speak- 
 ing from my father first, and, secondly, because I love 
 books." 
 
 He looked at me oddly. 
 
 "You're a modest chicken,'' he said. "But I should 
 like to meet your father." 
 
 I could not echo his wish. 
 
 "Still," he went on, "I will tell you, there was a little 
 inexperience of mankind in your wonder. I think — I 
 don't refer to myself, of course — that no man in the world 
 is more interesting to talk with than the skilled mechanic 
 who has an individuality and a power of expressing it in 
 words. He is necessarily a man of cultivation, and an 
 'h' more or less in his vocabulary is purely an accident of 
 his surroundings. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Cringle tapped at the door and 
 walked into the room. 
 
 "I hope I see you ro-bust, gentlemen? And how do 
 you like this village of ours, Mr. Trender?" 
 
 "It's dirty after Winton," said I. 
 
 "Ah," he said, condescendingly; "the centers of such 
 enormous forces must naturally rise some dust. It's a
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 99 
 
 proud thing, sir, to contribit one's peck to the total. I 
 feel it in my little corner here." 
 
 "Why," said I, "you surprise me, Mr. Cringle. I'm 
 only an ignorant country lad, of course; but it seems to 
 me you are quite a remarkable figure." 
 
 He gave an extra twist to his mustache and sniggered 
 comfortably. "Well," he said, "it is not for me to con- 
 tradict you — eh, Mr. Straw?" 
 
 "Certainly not," said Duke; "why, you are famous for 
 your deeds." 
 
 "Very good, Mr. Straw, and perhaps, as you kindly 
 mean it in the double sense. You mightn't think it, but 
 it wants some knowledge of the law's mazes to turn a 
 rough draft into a hold-fast agreement or indenture." 
 
 "And you can do that?" 
 
 "I flatter myself, Mr. Trender, that it'll want a micro- 
 scoptic eye to find flaws in my phrasology." 
 
 He thrust back his head and expanded his chest. 
 
 "But I'm overlooking my errand,'' said he. "The 
 young lady, as has called before, Mr. Straw, rung me 
 down just now for a message to you." 
 
 "Oh, what was it?" 
 
 "She wanted to know if you was game for a walk and 
 she'd be waiting under the market till half after nine." 
 
 "Very well," and Mr. Cringle took himself off. 
 
 "It's Dolly Mellison," said Duke to me. "We often 
 go for a Sunday tramp together." 
 
 "Well, don't stop for me, if you want to go." 
 
 "We'll both go— why not?" 
 
 "Oh, not for anything. Fancy my intruding myself 
 on her." 
 
 "I'll answer she'll not object," said my companion, and 
 again I was half conscious of something unusual in his 
 tone. 
 
 "But you might," said I. 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Why should I? We're not betrothed, 
 you know." 
 
 He answered with a laugh, and pointed, or seemed to 
 point at his twisted lower limbs. "You wouldn't beHeve
 
 100 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 me, would you, if I told you she expects you?" he 
 added. 
 
 "Oh, very well," said I, "if you put it in that way." 
 
 We found Dolly standing under the piazza of Covent 
 Garden market. She made no movement toward us 
 until we were close upon her, and then she greeted us 
 with a shy wriggle and a little blush. She was very 
 daintily dressed, with a fur tippet about her throat, and 
 looked as pretty as a young Hebe. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I didn't suppose you would come, too, 
 Mr. Trender." 
 
 "There!" I cried to Duke, with perfect good nature. "I 
 told you I should be in the way." 
 
 "Nonsense!" he said. "Miss Mellison didn't mean it 
 like that, did you, Dolly?" 
 
 "Didn't I? You see how he answers for me, Mr. 
 Trender?" And she turned half from him with a rosy 
 pout. 
 
 "Come!" I cried gayly. "I'll risk it. I do not believe 
 you've the heart to be cruel, Miss Mellison." 
 
 "Thank you for the surname, and also for telling me 
 I'm heartless." 
 
 "You can't be that as long as mine goes a-begging," I 
 said, impudently. 
 
 She peeped up at me roguishly from under her long 
 lashes and shook her head. 
 
 "Come," said Duke, impatiently; "what are we going 
 to do? Don't lefs stand chattering here all day." 
 
 "I'll tell you," I cried in a sudden reckless flush of 
 extravagance. "Aren't there pretty places on the Thames 
 one can get to from here?" 
 
 "Oh, plenty," said Duke, dryly, "if one goes by train." 
 
 "Then let's go and make a pleasant water party of it." 
 
 He shook his head with a set of the lips. 
 
 "Those are rare treats," he said. "Our sort can't afiford 
 such jinks except after a deal of saving." 
 
 "I don't want you to," said I. "It's my business and 
 you're to come as my guests." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," he said, sharply; "we can't do that." 
 
 "Please speak for yourself, Mr. Straw," said Dolly. I
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 101 
 
 had noticed her eyes shine at the mere prospect. "If Mr. 
 Trender is so kind as to offer, and can afford it, I'm sure, 
 I, for one, don't intend to disappoint him." 
 
 "Can he afford it?" said Duke, doggedly. 
 
 "I shouldn't propose it if I couldn't," said I, very much 
 on the high horse. 
 
 "Of course you wouldn't," said Dolly. "I wonder at 
 you, Mr. Straw, for being so insulting." 
 
 "Very well," said Duke, "I meant it for the best; but 
 let's be off. I'm for a shallop in Arcady, with Pleasure 
 in a pork-pie hat (it's very pretty, Dolly) at the helm." 
 
 We went down to Richmond by train, and Duke — 
 good fellow that he was — made a merry company of us. 
 If he felt any soreness over his rebuff he hid it out of sight 
 most effectually. 
 
 It was early in November — a beautiful, sparkling 
 morning, and the river bore a fairish sprinkling of pleas- 
 ure craft on its silvery stretches. 
 
 We were neither of us great oarsmen and at first made 
 but poor w^ay, owing to a tendency Duke of the iron 
 sinews showed to pulling me completely round. But 
 presently we got into a more presentable swing and 
 fore-reached even upon a skiff or two whose occupants 
 had treated us to some good-humored chaff upon our 
 starting. 
 
 "Woa!" cried Duke. "This pulling is harder than 
 pulling proofs, Renny. Let's stop by the bank and rest 
 a bit." 
 
 We ran the boat's nose aground, fastened her painter 
 to a stump and settled down for a talk. 
 
 "Enjoying yourself, Dolly?" asked Duke, mopping his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Yes, of course — thanks to Mr. Trender." 
 
 "This is a fine variety on our walks, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, they're jolly enough when you're in a good 
 temper." 
 
 "Am I not always?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes you say things I don't 
 understand.'' 
 
 "See there, Renny," cried Duke. "If I express myself 
 badly she calls me cross."
 
 102 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "It isn't that," said the girl. "I know I'm ignorant 
 and you're clever, but you seem to read me and then say 
 things out of yourself that have nothing to do with me 
 — just as if I was a book and you a — what do they call it? 
 — cricket or something." 
 
 We both laughed aloud. 
 
 "Oh, Dolly," said Duke, "what pretty imp taught you 
 satire? Are you a book to Mr. Trender?" 
 
 "Oh, no! He talks what I can understand." 
 
 "Better and better! But take comfort, Renny; you're 
 downed in sweet company." 
 
 "Hush," said Dolly; "it's Sunday." 
 
 She dabbled her slender hand in the water and drew it 
 out quickly. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "it's cold. I hope we shan't be upset. 
 Can you swim, Mr. Trender?" 
 
 "Yes, like a duck." 
 
 "That's a comfort, if I fall in. Mr. Straw, here, can't." 
 
 "I'm built top-heavy," said Duke, "but I'd try to save 
 you, Dolly." 
 
 The girl's eyes shone with a momentary remorseful 
 pity. 
 
 "I know you would," she said, softly; 'you aren't one 
 to think about yourself, Duke. How I wish I could 
 swim! I don't believe there can be anything in the world 
 like getting that medal they give you for saving people 
 from drowning. Have you ever saved any one, Mr. 
 Trender?" 
 
 Oh, gentle hand to deal so cruel a stroke! For a 
 moment my smoldering sense of guilt flamed up blood- 
 red. 
 
 "No, no," I said, with a forced laugh. "I'm not like 
 Duke. I do think of myself. I'm afraid." 
 
 We lapsed into silence, out of which came Dolly's voice 
 presently, murmuring a queer little doggerel song that 
 seemed apt to her childish nature: 
 
 " 'Who owns that house on yonder hill?' 
 
 Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. 
 
 'It's my father's and mine,' 
 
 Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 103 
 
 •"Will you let me in?' 
 
 Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. 
 
 'Oh, no; not a step,' 
 
 Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old. 
 
 " 'Then I wish you deaf and dumb,' 
 
 Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. 
 'And I wish you the same, with a blister on your tongue!' 
 Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old." 
 
 "Where on earth did you learn that?" said Duke, with 
 a laugh, as Dolly ceased, her eyes dreaming out upon the 
 shining river. 
 
 "I don't know. Mother used to sing it, I think, when 
 I was a little girl.'' 
 
 "We must question her," said I. 
 
 "Mother's dead," said Dolly. 
 
 I could have bitten out my tongue. 
 
 Duke again exerted himself to put matters on a com- 
 fortable footing. 
 
 "Dolly and I are both orphans," said he; "babes in old 
 Ripley's wood." 
 
 "And I am the remorseless ruflian," I broke in. 
 
 "All right. You didn't know, of course. Look at 
 that girl on the bank, with the crinoline; she might be 
 riding a hobby-horse." 
 
 "Ain't she a beauty?" said Dolly, enviously. Her own 
 subscribing to the outrageous fashion then fortunately 
 in its decay was limited to her slender means and the 
 necessities of her work. 
 
 "You don't mean to say you admire her?'' said I. 
 
 "Don't I, Mr. Trender? Just as she'd admire me if 
 I was dressed like that." 
 
 "Heaven forbid, Dolly. I won't call you Dolly if you 
 call me Mr. Trender." 
 
 "Won't you, now? Upon my word, you've got the 
 impudence of twenty." 
 
 "Look here," said Duke, "I'm for paddHng on. I 
 don't know your views as to dinner, Mr. Renalt, but 
 mine are getting pretty vociferous." 
 
 "My idea is to pull on till we sight a likely place, Mr. 
 Duke Straw."
 
 104 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 We rowed up past King-ston, a cockney town we all 
 fought shy of, and on by grassy reaches as far as Hamp- 
 ton bridge, where we disembarked. Here was a pleas- 
 ant water-side inn, with a lawn sloping down to the 
 embankment, and, sitting in its long coffee-room, we 
 made a hearty dinner and a merry company. Dolly was 
 flushed and happy as a young naiad when we returned 
 to our boat, and she rippled with laughter and sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A FATEFUL ACCIDENT. 
 
 We loitered on the river till the short day was threat- 
 ening dusk, and then we were still no further on our 
 homeward way than a half-mile short of Kingston. A 
 little cold wind, moreover, was beginning to whine and 
 scratch over the surface of the water, and Dolly pulled 
 her tippet closer about her bosom, feeling chilled and 
 inclined to silence. 
 
 "Come," said Duke, "we must put our shoulders to it 
 or we shan't get into the lock before dark." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the girl, with a half-whimper, "I had for- 
 gotten that horrible lock with its hideous weedy doors. 
 Must we go through it?'' ^ 
 
 "I'm afraid so," said Duke; "but," he added cheerily, 
 "don't you be nervous. We'll run you down and through 
 before you have time to count a hundred — if you count 
 
 slowly." 
 
 She sunk back in her seat with a frightened look and 
 grasped the rudder lines, as if by them only could she 
 hold on to safety. The dusk dropped about us as we 
 pulled on, strain as we might, and presently we both 
 started upon hearing a strangled sob break from the 
 girl. 
 
 "Oh," said Duke, pausing for a moment, "this will 
 never do, Dolly. Why, you can't be afraid with two such 
 knights to protect you?''
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 105 
 
 "I can't help it," said the poor child, fairly crying now. 
 "You don't know anything about the river, either of you ; 
 and — and mayn't I get out and walk?" 
 
 "Very well. One of us will go with you, while the 
 other pulls the boat down. Only we must get across 
 first. Steady, now, Renny ; and cheer up, Doll, and put 
 her nose to the shore opposite." 
 
 We had drifted some little distance since we first 
 easy'd, and a dull booming, that was in our ears at the 
 time, had increased to a considerable roar. 
 
 "Give way!" cried Duke; "turn her, Dolly!" 
 
 The girl tugged at the right line, gave a gasp, dropped 
 everything, scrambled to her feet, and screamed in a 
 dreadful voice: "We are going over the weir!" 
 
 "Sit down!" shouted Duke. "Pull, Renny, like a mad- 
 man!" 
 
 He shipped his oar, forced the girl into a sitting pos- 
 ture and clutched the inner line all in a moment. His 
 promptitude saved us. I fought at the water with my 
 teeth set; the boat's nose plunged into the bank with a 
 shock that sent us two sprawling, and the boat's stern 
 swung round dizzily. But before she could cast adrift 
 again I was on my knees and had seized at a projecting 
 root with a grasp like Quasimodo's. 
 
 "Hold on!" cried Duke, "till I come to you. It's all 
 right, Dolly ; you're quite safe now." 
 
 He crawled to me and grasped the root in his more 
 powerful hands. 
 
 "Now," he said, "you take the painter and get out and 
 drag us higher, out of the pull of the water. I'll help 
 you the best I can." 
 
 I complied, and presently the boat was drawn to a 
 point so far above as to leave a wide margin for safety. 
 
 We took our seats to pull across, with a look at one 
 another of conscious guilt. Dolly sat quite silent and 
 pale, though she shivered a little. 
 
 "We didn't know the river, and that's a fact," whispered 
 Duke to me. "Of course we ought to have remembered 
 the lock's the other side." 
 
 We pulled straight across; then Duke said:
 
 106 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Here's the shore, Dolly. Now, you and Trender get 
 out, and I'll take the boat on." 
 
 "By yourself? No, I won't. I feel safe with you." 
 
 "Very well," he answered, gently. "We'll all go on 
 together. There's really no danger now we know what 
 we're about." 
 
 She cried, "No, Duke," in a poor little quaking voice. 
 
 We pulled into the lock cutting without further mis- 
 hap, though the girl shrunk and blenched as we slid past, 
 at a safe distance, the oblique comb of the weir. 
 
 It was some minutes before the lock-keeper answered 
 to our ringing calls, and then the sluices had to be raised 
 and the lock filled from our side. The clash and thunder 
 of the hidden water as it fell into the pit below sounded 
 dismal enough in the darkness, and must, I knew, be 
 dinning fresh terror into the heart of our already stricken 
 naiad. But the hollow noise died ofif in due course, the 
 creaking gate lumbered open and we floated with a sigh 
 of relief into the weltering pool beyond. 
 
 The sluices rattled down behind us, the keeper walked 
 round to the further gate, and his figure appeared stand- 
 ing out against the sky, toiling with bent back at the 
 levers. Suddenly I, who had been pulling bow, felt 
 myself tilting over in a curious manner. 
 
 "Hullo!" I cried. "What's up with the boat?" 
 
 In one moment I heard a loud shout come from the 
 man at the gates, and saw Dolly, despite her warning, 
 stand hurriedly up and Duke make a wild clutch at her; 
 the next, the skifT reeled under me and*I was spun, kick- 
 ing and struggling, into the water. 
 
 An accident, common enough and bad enough to those 
 who know little of Thames craft, had befallen us. We 
 had got the boat's stern jammed upon a side beam of the 
 lock, so that her nose only dropped with the sinking 
 water. 
 
 I rose at once in a black swirl. The skiff, jerked free 
 by our unceremonious exit, floated unharmed in the lock, 
 but she floated empty. Risen to the surface, however, 
 almost with me. Duke's dark head emerged close by her.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 107 
 
 SO that with one frantic leap upward he was able to reach 
 her thwarts, to which he clung. 
 
 "Dolly!" he gasped— "Dolly!'' 
 
 I had seen her before he could cry out again, had 
 seized and was struggling with her. 
 
 "Don't hold me!" I cried; "let me go, Dolly, and I'll 
 save you." 
 
 She was quite beyond reason, deaf to anything but the 
 despairing call of life. In another instant, I knew, we 
 should both go under and be dragged into the rush of the 
 sluices. Seeing the uselessness of trying to unclasp her 
 hands, I fought to throw myself and her toward the side 
 of the lock nearest. The water was bubbhng in my 
 mouth, when I felt a great iron hook whipped into the 
 collar of my coat and we were both hauled to the side. 
 
 "Hold on there, mate!'' cried the lock-keeper, "while 
 I get your boat under." 
 
 I had caught at a dangling loop of chain; but even 
 so the weight of my almost senseless burden threatened 
 to drag me down. 
 
 "Be quick!" I gasped, "I'm pretty near spent." 
 
 With the same grapnel he caught and towed the boat, 
 Duke still hanging to it, to where I clung, and leaped 
 down himself into it. 
 
 "Now," he said, "get a leg over and you're right." 
 
 It was a struggle even then, for Dolly would not let 
 me out of her agonized clutch — not till we could lay her, 
 white as a storm-beaten lily, on the bottom boards. Then 
 we turned and seized Duke over the thwarts and he 
 tumbled in and lay in a heap, quite exhausted. 
 
 His mind relieved, our preserver took ofif his cap, 
 scratched his forehead and spat into the water. 
 
 "I've known a many wanting your luck," he said, 
 grufifly. "What made you do it, now?" 
 
 Judging our ignorance to be by no means common 
 property, I said, "Ah, what?" in the tone that suggests 
 acquiescence, or wonder, and asked him if he had a fire 
 handy. 
 
 "There's a bright one burning inside,'' he said. "You're 
 welcome to it."
 
 108 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He punted the boat to a shallow flight of steps, oozy 
 with slime, that led to the bank above, where his cottage 
 was. 
 
 "We'll carry the gal to it," said he. "See if she can 
 move herself." 
 
 I bent down over the prostrate figure. It looked 
 curiously youthful and slender in its soaked and clinging 
 garments. 
 
 "Dolly," I whispered, "there's a fire above. Will you 
 let me carry you to it?" 
 
 I thought my voice might not penetrate to her dulled 
 senses, but to my wonder she put her arms round my 
 neck immediately. 
 
 "Yes," she moaned, "I'm so cold. Take me to the 
 warmth or I shall die." 
 
 We lifted her out between us and carried her into the 
 house kitchen. There a goodly blaze went coiling up 
 the chimney, and the sight was reviving in itself. 
 
 "Shall we leave you here alone a bit?" said I, "to rest 
 and recover? There's to be no more of the river for us. 
 We'll walk the distance that remains." 
 
 She gave me a quick glance, full of a pathetic gratitude, 
 and whispered, "Yes; I'd better be alone." 
 
 "And if you take my advice," said our host, "you'll 
 strip off them drownded petticuts and wrap yourself in a 
 blanket I'll bring you while they're a-drying; wait, while 
 I fetch it." 
 
 As he went out Dolly beckoned me quickly to her. 
 
 "I heard you tell me to leave go," she said, hurriedly, 
 in a low voice; "but I couldn't — Renny, I couldn't; and 
 you saved my life." 
 
 Her lips were trembling and her eyes full of tears. 
 She clasped her hands and held them entreatingly toward 
 me. 
 
 A gust of some strange feeling — some yearning sense 
 of protection toward this pretty, lovable child— flooded 
 my heart. 
 
 "You poor little thing," I whispered, in a pitying voice, 
 and taking her two hands in one of mine I passed my 
 other arm around her.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 109 
 
 Then she lifted her face eagerly and I bent and softly 
 dropped a kiss on her warm, wet lips. 
 
 The moment I had done it I felt the shame of my 
 action. 
 
 "There, dear, forgive me," I said. "Like you, Dolly, I 
 couldn't let go at once," and our friend returning just 
 then with the blanket, we left the girl to herself and 
 stepped outside. 
 
 A queer exultant feeling was on me — a sense as of the 
 lightening of some overburdening oppression. "A life 
 for a life," Why should the words ring stilly, triumph- 
 antly in my brain? I might earn for my breast a cuirass 
 of medals such as Dolly had desired, and what would 
 their weight be as set in the scale against the one exist- 
 ence I had terminated? 
 
 Perhaps it was not that. Perhaps it was that I felt my- 
 self for the first time in close touch with a yearning 
 human sympathy; that its tender neighborhood taught 
 me at a breath to respect and stand by what was noble 
 in myself. The shadow that must, of course, remain with 
 me always, I would not have away, but would only that 
 it ceased to dominate my soul's birthright of independ- 
 ence. 
 
 There was in my heart no love for Dolly — no passion 
 of that affinity that draws atom to atom in the destiny 
 that is human. There was only the pitying protective 
 sense that came to man through the angels, and, in its 
 sensual surrender, marked their fall from divinity. For 
 to the end, without one thought of wavering, Zyp must 
 shine the mirage of my barren waste of love. 
 
 Suddenly I remembered, with a remorseful pang, that 
 all this time I had forgotten Duke. I hurried down to 
 the steps, calling him. He was sitting in the boat, his 
 elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. 
 
 "Duke!" I cried, "come out and let's see what we can 
 do for a dry. You'll get the frost in your lungs sitting 
 there." 
 
 He rose at once, staggering a little. I had to run down 
 the steps to help him ashore, where he stood shaken all 
 through with violent shiverings.
 
 110 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Whisky," said our host, laconically, watchful of the 
 poor fellow, "and enough of it to make your hair curl." 
 
 Between us we got him into the house, where he was 
 made to swallow at a gulp three finger-breadths in a tum- 
 bler of the raw spirit. Then after a time the color came 
 back to his cheeks, the restored nerves to his limbs. 
 
 At that our kindly host made us strip, and providing 
 us with what coverings he could produce, set us and our 
 soaked belongings before a second fire in his little parlor, 
 and only left us when summoned outside to his business. 
 As the door closed behind him Duke turned to me. A 
 sort of patient sorrow was on his face — an expression as 
 of renunciation of some favored child of his fancy — I 
 cannot express it better. 
 
 "You carried her in?" he said, quietly. 
 
 "Dollv? Yes." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "Baking before the kitchen fire. She'll be ready before 
 we are." 
 
 "Well — I had no right. What a chapter of mishaps." 
 Then he turned upon me with a sudden clap of fierceness. 
 "Why did you ever propose this trip? I tried to dissuade 
 you, and you might have known I was an idiot on the 
 water." 
 
 "My good Duke," I answered, with a coolness that 
 covered a fine glow of heat, "that don't sound very gra- 
 cious. I meant it for a pleasure party, of course. Acci- 
 dents aren't matters under human control, you know." 
 
 He struck his knee savagely. 
 
 "No," he muttered, "or I shouldn't have these." 
 
 Then in a moment the sweetness came back to his face, 
 and he cried with a smile, half-humorous and all 
 pathetic: 
 
 "Here's the value of my philosophy. I'm no more 
 consistent than a Ripley pamphlet and not a quarter so 
 amusing. But — oh, if I had only learned to swim !"
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A TOUCHING REVELATION. 
 
 For nearly four years did I work persistently, striving 
 to redeem my past, at the offices in Great Queen Street. 
 At this period my position was greatly improved, my 
 services estimated at a value that was as honorable to 
 my employer as it was advantageous to me. I had grown 
 to be fairly at peace with myself and more hopeful for the 
 future than I had once deemed it possible that I could 
 ever be. 
 
 Not all so, however. The phantom light that had 
 danced before my youthful eyes, danced before them still, 
 no whit subdued in brilliancy. With the change to wider 
 and manlier sentiments that I was conscious of in my 
 own development, I fostered secret hope of a similar 
 growth in Zyp. At 22, I thought, she could hardly re- 
 main the irresponsible, bewitching changeling she had 
 been at 17. Womanliness must have blossomed in her, 
 and with it a sense of the right relationship of soul to 
 body. Perhaps even the glamour of mystery that must 
 surround my manner of life had operated as a growing 
 charm with her, and had made me, in her eyes, some- 
 thing the fascinating figure she always was and would be 
 in mine. 
 
 Sometimes now, in thinking of him, I had fear of Jason, 
 but more often not. Zyp's parting words to me — that 
 were ever in my ears — seemed weighted with the mean- 
 ing, at least, that had I fought my battle well I should 
 have won. 
 
 To think of it — to recall it — always gave me a strange, 
 troubled comfort. In my best moments it returned upon 
 me, crying — crying the assurance that no selfish suit 
 pressed by my brother could ever prevail over the in- 
 warder preference her heart knew for me. In my worst, 
 it did no more than trouble me with a teasing mock at
 
 112 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 my human passion so persistent in its faith to a will-o'- 
 the-wisp. 
 
 I think that all this time I never dared to put bravely 
 to myself the thought — as much part of my being as my 
 eyesight — that not for one true moment had I yielded 
 my hope of Zyp to circumstances. All my diligence, all 
 my labor, all my ambition, were directed to this solitary 
 end — that some day I might lay them at her feet as 
 bribes to her favor. Therefore, till self-convinced of their 
 finished worthiness, I toiled on with dogged persever- 
 ance, studying, observing, perfecting, denying myself 
 much rest and pleasure till my heart should assure me 
 that the moment was come. 
 
 And what of them at the old haunted mill? News was 
 rare and scanty, yet at intervals it came to link me with 
 their destinies. The first year of my banishment my 
 father wrote to me three times — short, rugged notes, void 
 of information and negatively satisfactory only in the 
 sense that, had anything of importance taken place, he 
 would, I concluded, have acquainted me of it. These 
 little letters were answered by me in epistles of ample 
 length, wherein I touched upon my manner of life and 
 the nature of my successes. The second year, however, 
 the desviltory correspondence was taken up by Jason, 
 who wrote, as he talked, in a spirit of boisterous banter, 
 and, under cover of familiar gossip, told me less, if possi- 
 ble, than my father had. Dad, he said in his first, had 
 tired of the effort and had handed the task over to him. 
 Therefore he acquitted himself of it in long leaps over 
 gaps that covered months, and it was now more than 
 four or five since I had received any sort of communica- 
 tion from him. 
 
 This did not greatly trouble me. There was that 
 between us, which, it always seemed to me, he sought 
 to give expression to in his letters — a hint secretly con- 
 veyed that I must never forget I lived and prospered on 
 sufferance only. Now my own knowledge of the meth- 
 ods of justice, no less than the words Dr. Crackenthorpe 
 had once applied to my case, had long been sufificient to 
 assure me that I had little or nothing to fear from the
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 113 
 
 processes of the law. No less peremptory, however, 
 was the conviction that Jason had it in his power to 
 socially ruin me at a word ; and the longer that word was 
 delayed — that is to say, so long as my immunity did not 
 clash with his interests — the better chance I had of test- 
 ing and retesting my armor of defense. Yet, for all my 
 care, he found out a weak place presently. 
 
 In the meantime I lived my life, such as it was, and 
 found a certain manner of pleasure in it. Duke and I, 
 still good friends, changed our lodgings, toward the last 
 quarter of the fourth year, and moved into more commo- 
 dious ones over an iron-monger's shop in Holborn. Here 
 we had a sitting-room as well as a bedroom common to 
 both of us, and tasted the joys of independence with a 
 double zest. 
 
 Since our river experience it had become a usual thing 
 for me to join my friend and Dolly in their frequent Sun- 
 day walks together. This, at first, I deprecated; but 
 Duke would have it so; and finally it lapsed into an in- 
 stitution. Indeed, upon many occasions I was left to 
 escort the girl alone, Duke pleading disinclination or the 
 counter-attraction of some book he professed to be ab- 
 sorbed in. 
 
 Was I quite so blind as I appeared to be? I can hardly 
 say myself. That the other entertained a most affection- 
 ate regard for the girl was patent. He was always to me, 
 however, such a quaint medley of philosophical resigna- 
 tion and human susceptibility that I truly beHeve I was 
 more than half inclined to doubt the existence in him of 
 any strong bias toward the attractions of the other sex. 
 
 His behavior to Dolly was generally much more that 
 of an elder brother toward a much younger half-sister 
 born into the next generation, than of a lover who seeks 
 no greater favor from a woman than that she shall keep 
 the best secrets of her womanhood for him. He petted, 
 indulged, and playfully analyzed her all in one. Now, 
 thinking of him in the stern knowledge of years, I often 
 marvel over the bitter incapacity of the other sex to 
 choose aright the fathers of its children. How could the 
 frailest, prettiest soul among them turn from such lumin- 
 8
 
 114 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 ous depths as his to the meretricious foppery of emptier 
 Parises? 
 
 But then I was greatly to blame. The winning ways 
 of the girl, no less than Duke's persistent deprecation of 
 any affectation of proprietorship in her, are my one 
 excuse. A poor one, even then, for how may I cry out 
 on simple-hearted Dolly, when I failed to read the little 
 history of sorrow that was daily before my eyes. It was 
 after events only that interpreted to me the pride that 
 would not let the cripple kneel, a suitor to pity. 
 
 As to my own feelings toward the pretty soul I had 
 once so basely linked to my own with an impulsive kiss — 
 they were a compound of indulgence and a tenderness that 
 fell altogether short of love. I desired to be on brotherly 
 terms of intimacy with her, indeed, but only in such man- 
 ner as to preclude thought of any closer tie. When she 
 was shy with me upon our first meeting after that un- 
 toward contact in the lock-house, I laughed her into play- 
 fulness and would have no sentimental glamour attaching 
 to our bond of sympathy. Alas! I was to learn how 
 reckless a thing it is to seek to extinguish with laughter 
 the fire of a woman's heart. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in the early autumn of that 
 fourth year, Dolly and I were loitering together about 
 the slopes and byways of Epping forest. There is no 
 season more attuned to the pathetic sympathies of young 
 hearts than that in which the quiet relaxing of green life 
 from its hold on existence speaks only to grayer breasts 
 of premature decay and the vulgar ceremonial of the 
 grave. Youth, however, recognizes none of this morbid 
 aspect. To it the yellowing leaf, if it speaks of desola- 
 tion, speaks from that "passion of the past" the poet strove 
 to explore. It stands but two-thirds of the way up to the 
 hill of years, and flowering stretches are beneath it to 
 the rear and above, before its eyes, the fathomless sky 
 and the great clouds nozzling the mountain crests like 
 flocks of sheep. 
 
 All that afternoon as we wandered we came across 
 lizards sprawling stupefied — as they will in October — 
 on buskets of gorse, too exhausted, apparently, to feel
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 115 
 
 the prick of thorn or fear, and butterflies sitting on blades 
 of grass with folded wings, motionless as those that are 
 wired to bonnets. The air was full of a damp refreshing 
 sweetness, and the long grass about every bush and 
 hedge side_began to stir with the movement of secret 
 things, as though preparations for mystic revel were 
 toward and invitations passing. I could almost see the 
 fairy rings forming, noiseless, on the turf, when the lone- 
 ly moon should hang her lantern out by and by. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Dolly had been unusually silent during the afternoon, 
 and now, as we turned to retrace our steps in the direc- 
 tion of the station from which we were to take train for 
 London, she walked beside me without uttering a word. 
 
 Suddenly, however, she put her hand upon my arm and 
 stayed me. 
 
 "Renny," she said, "will you stop a little while? I 
 want to speak to you." 
 
 "All right," I said: "speak away." 
 
 "Not here — not here. Come oflf the path; there's a 
 seat out there." 
 
 Seeing with surprise that her face was pale and drawn 
 with nervousness, and fancying our tramp might have 
 over-tired her, I led her to the place she indicated — a 
 bench set in the deep shadow of a chestnut tree — and we 
 both sat down. 
 
 "Now, Doll," I said, gayly, "what's the tremendous 
 confidence?" 
 
 "Renny," she said, quietly, "William Reid has asked 
 me to marry him." 
 
 "No! William Reid — the young fellow over at Han- 
 sard's? Well, I can only tell you, Dolly, that I know 
 nothing but what's good of him for a steady and promis-
 
 116 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 ing chap, who's sure to make as fine a husband as he is a 
 workman." 
 
 "Do you advise me to take him, then? Do you want 
 me to?" 
 
 "You might do much worse — indeed you might, Dol- 
 ly. Why, to my knowledge, he's drawing £3 a week 
 already. Of course I shall be very, very sorry to lose my 
 little chum and companion, but I always foresaw that 
 this would have to be the end of our comradeship some 
 day." 
 
 She sat looking at the ground a little while and adjust- 
 ing a fallen twig with the point of her parasol. Then 
 she rose and said, in the same quiet tone, "Very well," 
 and moved a step away. 
 
 I rose also and was about to resume the subject, when 
 in a moment, to my horror, she threw herself back on 
 the bench and, flinging her hands up to her face, burst 
 into a passion of tears. 
 
 I was so startled and shocked that for the instant I 
 could think of nothing to do or say. Then I bent down 
 and cried: 
 
 "Dolly, what is it? What's the matter? Have I hurt 
 you in any way?" 
 
 She struggled with her sobs, but made a brave efifort 
 to command herself. 
 
 "Oh, don't look, don't listen! I shall be all right in a 
 minute." 
 
 I moved away a little space and stood anxiously wait- 
 ing. When I turned again her face was still buried in 
 her arm, but the keenness of the outburst was sub- 
 dued. 
 
 I approached and leaned over her tenderly, putting a 
 kind hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Now, little woman," I said, "won't you tell me what 
 it is? I might comfort and counsel you at least, Dolly, 
 dear." 
 
 She answered so low that I had to stoop further to 
 hear her. 
 
 "I only thought, perhaps — perhaps you might care 
 more and not want me to."
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 117 
 
 What a simple little sentence, yet how fierce a vision 
 it sprung upon my blindness! I rose and stepped back 
 almost with a cry. Then Dolly sat up and saw my 
 face. 
 
 "Renny," she cried, "I never meant to tell; only — only, 
 I am so miserable." 
 
 I went to her and took her hand and helped her to her 
 feet. 
 
 "Dolly," I said, in a low, hoarse voice, "I have been a 
 selfish brute. I never thought what I was doing, when 
 I should have thought. Now, you must give me time to 
 think." 
 
 "You didn't know. Renny" — her pretty eyes were 
 struggling with tears again, and her poor face looked up 
 into mine, entreating me not to take base advantage of 
 her surrender — "if I kissed you as you kissed me once 
 do you think it would come?'' 
 
 "It isn't right for us to try, dear." 
 
 Thank heaven my manhood stood the test — the infer- 
 ence so pathetic in its childish simplicity. 
 
 "Come," I said, "we will go back now. I want time to 
 think it all over by myself. You mustn't refer to it again, 
 Dolly, in any way — not till I can see you by and by 
 alone." 
 
 She said, "Yes, Renny," humbly. Her very manner 
 toward me was marked by a touching obedience. 
 
 We caught our train and sped back to London in a 
 crowded compartment, so that the present embarrass- 
 ment of tete-a-tete was spared us. At the terminus we 
 parted gently and gravely on both sides and went each 
 of us home. 
 
 Duke was in bed when I reached our lodgings, and 
 for that I was grateful, for I felt far too upset and confused 
 to relish the idea of a talk with him. Indeed, since the 
 moment Dolly had confessed to me, he had hung strange- 
 ly in the background of my thoughts. I felt a comfort- 
 less dawning of apprehension that all along he had been 
 keen witness of the sileni little drama in which uncon- 
 sciously I was an actor — had sat in the pit and sorrow- 
 fully gauged the purport of the part I played.
 
 118 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 I went to bed, but never to sleep. All night long I 
 tossed, struggling to unravel the disorder in my brain. 
 I could think out nothing collectively — warp and woof 
 were inextricably confused. 
 
 At length, in despair, I rose, redressed and went out- 
 side. The church clocks clanged six as I stepped onto 
 the pavement; there was a fresh-blown coolness in the 
 dusky air; the streets stretched emptily to the dawn. 
 
 In the very contact with space, the tumult in my head 
 settled down into some manner of order, and I was able 
 to face, after a fashion, the problem before me. 
 
 Here, to one side, would I place Zyp; to the other 
 Dolly. Let me plead to each, counseled by heart and 
 conscience. To Zyp : You have and have ever had that 
 of mine to which I can give no name, but which men call 
 "love," as an expression of what is inexpressible. I 
 know that this gift, this sixth sense, that, like the soul, 
 embraces all the others, once acquired, is indestructible. 
 For joy or evil I am doomed to it, spiritually to profit or 
 be debased by it. You may scorn, but you cannot kill 
 it, and exiled in material form from you here it will make 
 to you in the hereafter as surely as a stone flung from a 
 crater returns to the earth of which it is kin. 
 
 Say that the accidents of existence are to keep us here 
 apart; that your heart desires to mate with another more 
 picturesque than mine. It may be so. During these long 
 four years you have never once directly, by word or sign, 
 given proof that my being holds any interest for you. 
 You banished me, I must remember, for all my efiforts to 
 torture hope out of them, with words designed to be 
 final. What if I accept the sentence and say: "I yield 
 my material form to one who desires its affections ; who 
 will be made most happy by the bestowal of them upon 
 her; who yearns to me, perhaps, as I to you." I may 
 do so and none the less be sure of you some day. 
 
 To Dolly: I have done you a bitter wrong, but one, 
 I think, not irremediable. Perhaps I never thought but 
 that friendship apart from love was possible between 
 man and woman. In any case, I have given far too much 
 consideration to myself and far too little to you. You
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 119 
 
 love me by your own confession, and, in this world of 
 bitter troubles, it is very sweet to be loved, and loved by 
 such as you. I am pledged, it seems, to a hopeless quest. 
 What if I give it up? What if we taste joy in this world 
 — the joy of a partnership that is graced by strong affec- 
 tion and cemented by a respect that shall be mutual? I 
 can atone for my error to you here ; my wilder love that 
 is not to be controlled by moral reasoning I consign to 
 futurity. 
 
 Thinking these thoughts, a picture rose before me of 
 a restful haven, wherein my storm-beaten life might rock 
 at anchor to the end; of Dolly as my wife, in all the fas- 
 cination of her pretty, winning personality — her love, her 
 playfulness, her wistful eyes and rosy m.ovith so respon- 
 sive to laughter or tears. I felt very tender tov/ard the 
 child, who was glorified into woman by her very suc- 
 cumbing to the passion she had so long concealed. . "Why 
 should I struggle any longer?" I cried in my heart, "when 
 an earthly paradise opens its gates to me; when self- 
 sacrifice means peace and content, and to indulge my 
 imagination means misery?" 
 
 It was broad daylight by the time I had touched some 
 clew to the problem that so bewildered me, and suddenly 
 I became aware that I was moving in the midst of a 
 great press of people. They were all going in one direc- 
 tion and were generally of the lowest and most degraded 
 classes in London. There was a boisterous and unclean 
 mirth rampant among them. There was a ravenous 
 eagerness of haste, too, that one seemed to associate 
 instinctively with the hideous form of vampire that 
 crouches over fields of slain and often completes what 
 the bullet has but half done. Women were among them 
 in numbers ; some carrying infants in their gaunt, ragged 
 arms; some plumed and decked as if for a gala sight. 
 
 I was weary with thought; weary with the monotony 
 of introspection. Evidently there was some excitement 
 toward, and to follow it up would take me out of my- 
 self. 
 
 Toiling up Ludgate hill we went, an army of tramping
 
 120 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 feet. Then, like a sewer diverted, we wheeled and 
 poured into the noisome alley of the Old Bailey. 
 
 In a moment the truth burst upon me with a shock. 
 There was a man to be hanged that morning ! 
 
 I twisted hurriedly about and strove to force my way 
 out again. I might as easily have stayed the Thames 
 vvith a finger. I was beaten back with oaths and coarse 
 ribaldry — gathered up and carried ruthlessly in the rush 
 for place — hemmed in, planted like a maggot in one 
 great trunk of bestial and frouzy human flesh. Had I 
 striven again I should have been smashed and pounded 
 underfoot, all semblance of life stamped from me. 
 
 I looked about me in agony. Before and around was 
 one huge sea of faces, from the level of which rose a 
 jangling patter of talk and cries, like bubbles bursting 
 on the surface of a seething tank of corruption. And 
 under the grim shadow of Newgate there stood, in full 
 view, a hideous machine. Barriers were about it, and 
 a spruce cordon of officials, who stood out humanly in 
 that garden of squalid refuse. It was black, with a black 
 crossbeam ; and from the beam a loop hung motionless, 
 like a collar for death to grin through, and the crowd 
 were already betting on the expression of his face when 
 he should first see it. 
 
 I do not know how long or short a time my anguish 
 lasted. It may have been half an hour, when the deep 
 tolling of a bell wrought sudden silence in the fetid air. 
 At its first stroke the roar of voices went off and lessened, 
 rolling like a peal of thunder; at its third the quiet of 
 eternity had fallen and consumed the world. 
 
 A mist came before my eyes. When it cleared I was 
 aware of a little group on the platform, and one, with a 
 ghastly white face, the center of it. 
 
 "Who is it?" I whispered, in intolerable agony. 
 
 "Curse you!" growled my next neighbor. "Can't you 
 hold your tongue and let a cove look?" 
 
 A word marred the full relish of his appetite. 
 
 I managed to slew my head away from the direct line 
 of vision. A low babble of voices came from the scaf- 
 fold. He must be reprieved, I thought, with a leap of
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 121 
 
 the heart. I could not conceive voices sounding natural, 
 otherwise, under such fearful circumstances. 
 
 Suddenly, as I was on the point of looking once more 
 to ease my horrible tension of mind, there dropped upon 
 my ears a low rumbling flap, and immediately a hoarse 
 murmur went up from the multitude. Then, giving a 
 cry myself, I turned my face. The rope hung down in a 
 straight line, but loop and man were gone. 
 
 From the universal murmur, by claps and starts, the 
 old uproar bubbled forth from the faces, till the pent-up 
 street resounded with it. xA.n after-dinner loquacity was 
 on all and the fellow who had cursed me a minute ago 
 addressed me now with over-brimming geniality of in- 
 formation. 
 
 "Who's him, says you? Why, where's your wits' gone, 
 matey? Him was Mul-ler, the greasy furriner as mur- 
 dered old Briggs," 
 
 The trial had made sensation enough of late, but the 
 date of the poor wretch's execution I had had no 
 thought of. 
 
 When at last I could force a passage through the press 
 — for they lingered like ghouls over the crumbs of the 
 banquet — I broke into Holborn, with my whole soul 
 panting and crying for fresh air and forgetfulness. It 
 was hideous, it was inhuman, it was debasing, I cried to 
 myself, to launch that quivering mass of terror into eter- 
 nity in a public shambles! To such as came to see, it 
 must be grossly demoralizing; to those who, like me, 
 were enforced spectators, it was a sickening experience 
 that must leave an impression of morbidity almost in- 
 delible. 
 
 Suddenly I felt a hand grasp my shoulder and a voice 
 exclaim: "Renny, by all the saints!" 
 
 I turned — and it was Jason. 
 
 He held me at arm's length and cried again: "Renny? 
 Really? — and a true sportsman as of old!" 
 
 Then he leaned to me and whispered with a grin: "I 
 say, old fellow, if it wasn't for luck you might be any day 
 where he stood just now."
 
 122 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A MENACE. 
 
 At first I hardly grasped the import of my brother's 
 words, or the fact that here was the old fateful destiny 
 upon me again, so lost were the few faculties I could 
 command in wonder at his unexpected appearance in 
 London. 
 
 I stared and stared and had not a word to say. 
 
 "Where's your tongue, old chap?" he cried. "This is 
 an afifectionate greeting on your part, upon my word, and 
 after near four years, too." 
 
 I pressed my hand across my forehead and strove to 
 smooth the confusion therefrom. 
 
 "You must forgive me," I said at length; "this sudden 
 meeting has driven me all abroad; and then I got stuck 
 down there by mistake, and the sight has half-turned my 
 brain, I think." 
 
 "By mistake, was it?'' he said, with a mocking titter. 
 ^'Oh, Renny, don't I know you? — though your looks are 
 changed, too, for the matter of that; more than mine are, 
 I expect." 
 
 I could well believe. Soul and manhood must have 
 wrought new expression in me; but, for Jason, he was 
 the Jason of old — fuller, more set and powerful ; yet the 
 same beautiful personality with the uninterpretable eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said, "aren't you surprised to see me?" 
 
 "Surprise isn't the word." 
 
 "Nor pleasure either, I expect." 
 
 "No. I should be a liar to say it was." 
 
 "Well, you used to be that, you know; though I dare 
 say you've found out the better policy now." 
 
 "At any rate, as you're here, you'll come home with 
 me, won't you?" 
 
 "Of course. That's what I intend. I've been in Lon-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 123 
 
 don three or four days, and went over to yonr old place 
 yesterday, but found you had left. I got the new address 
 off a queer old chap there. Why didn't you tell us you 
 had changed?" 
 
 "I did. I wrote to dad about it." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, he never told me." 
 
 "That seems funny. How is he?" 
 
 "Oh, the same old besotted curmudgeon as ever." 
 
 "Don't, Jason. Dad's dad for all his failings." 
 
 "Yes, and Zyp's Zyp for all hers." 
 
 It gave me a thrill to hear the old name spoken famil- 
 iarly, though bv such reckless lips. 
 
 "Is— is she all right?'' 
 
 "She's Zyp, I tell you, and that means anything that's 
 sprightly and unquenchable. Let her alone for a jade; 
 I'm sick of her name." 
 
 Was it evident from this that his suit had not pros- 
 pered? I looked at his changing eyes and my heart 
 reeled with a sudden sick intoxication of hope. Was 
 my reasoning to be all gone through with again? "Come," 
 I said, "let's make for my place. A fellow-hand lives with 
 me there." 
 
 We walked up Holborn together. He had eyes for 
 every incident, a tongue that seldom ceased wagging. 
 Many a smart and powdered working girl, tripping to 
 her business, nudged her companion and looked after 
 him. He accepted it all with a bold indifference — the 
 masterful condescension that sets tight-laced breasts 
 a-twittering under their twice-turned jackets. He was 
 n^uch better dressed than I was and carried himself with 
 some show of fashion. 
 
 Duke had left when we reached home, and his absence 
 I hardly regretted. 
 
 "Well," said my brother, as we entered the sitting- 
 room, "you've decent quarters, Renny, and no doubt 
 deserve them for being a good boy. You can give me 
 some breakfast, I suppose?" 
 
 "If you don't mind eating alone," I said, "I've got no 
 appetite." 
 
 "All the worse for you. I never lose mine." The table
 
 124 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 was already laid as Duke had left it I fetched a knuckle 
 of ham from our private store and placed it before my 
 unwelcome guest, who fell to with a healthy vigor of 
 hunger. 
 
 "It's as well, perhaps, I didn't find you last night," he 
 said, munching and enjoying himself. "We should have 
 sat up late and then I might have overslept myself and 
 missed the fun. I say, didn't he go down plump? I 
 hoped the rope would break and that we should have it 
 over again." 
 
 "Jason!" I cried, "drop it, won't you? I tell you I got 
 caught there by mistake, and that the whole thing was 
 horrible to me!" 
 
 "Oh, all right," he said, with a laugh. "I shouldn't 
 have thought you'd have cared, but I won't say anything 
 more about it." 
 
 I would not challenge word or tone in him. To what 
 could 1 possibly appeal in one so void of the first instincts 
 of humanity? 
 
 He pushed his plate away presently and fetched out a 
 little pipe and began to smoke, I had sat all the time 
 by the window, looking vaguely upon the crowded 
 street. 
 
 "Now," I said, turning to him, "let's hear why you are 
 in London?" 
 
 He raised his eyebrows with an affectation of per- 
 plexity. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you?" he said. "But there^s nothing to 
 explain. I wanted to come and I came." 
 
 "Four days ago?" 
 
 "More or less." 
 
 "But what brought you? Where did you get the 
 money?" 
 
 "Never mind. That's my affair. I did get it, and 
 there's an end." 
 
 "How long do you intend to stop?" 
 
 "It all depends upon circumstances. Maybe I shall 
 get something to do here." 
 
 "Well, you might. I had nothing more to recommend 
 me than you have when I first came."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 125 
 
 "Not SO much, my good fellow." 
 
 He threw out his chest and a whiff of smoke to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I've more about me to take the fancy, I believe, and 
 I'm not handicapped with a depressing secret for the 
 unscrupulous to trade upon. Besides, you forget that 
 I've a friend at court, which you never had." 
 
 "Meaning me. It's no good, I can tell you in the 
 very beginning. I've not influence enough with my 
 employer to foist a useless fresh hand upon him." 
 
 "We'll see, my friend — we'll see, perhaps, by and by. 
 I'm not in any hurry. I haven't the slightest intention 
 of working till I'm forced to." 
 
 "I suppose not. But what are you going to do in the 
 meantime?" 
 
 "Enjoy life, as I always do." 
 
 "Here, in London?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "We can't put you up at this place. It's impossible." 
 
 "Wait till you're asked. I've got my own quarters." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Find out if you can. I keep my private burrow 
 secret." 
 
 "Well, it's all very queer, but I suppose you know your 
 own business best." 
 
 "Naturally," he said, and sat frowning at me a little 
 while. 
 
 Then presently he rose and came and looked down 
 upon me. 
 
 "Renny," he said, quietly, "I'm going now, but I shall 
 look you up from time to time. I just want to say a 
 thing first, though. You haven't received me very well, 
 and I shan't forget it. There's a new manner about you 
 that's prettier than it's quite safe. You seem to have 
 thought matters over and to have come to the conclu- 
 sion that this lapse of years has tided you over a little 
 difficulty we remember. I only want to suggest that you 
 don't presume upon that too far. Grant it to be true, as 
 old Crackenthorpe said, that that fellow MuUer's fate
 
 126 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 isn't likely to be yours. I can make things pretty hot for 
 YOU, nevertheless." 
 
 He nodded at me once or twice, with his lips set, and so 
 walked from the room. 
 
 For an hour after he had gone, regardless of the calls 
 of business, I sat on by the window pondering the mean- 
 ing of this down-swoop and its likely influence on my 
 fortunes. 
 
 The nervous apprehension of boyhood had left me; I 
 had carved out an independent path for myself and had 
 prospered. Was it likely that, thus restored, as it were, 
 to manliness, I could weakly succumb to a sense of 
 fatality? I was stronger by nature and experience than 
 this blackest of blackmailers. He who takes his moral 
 fiber from humanity must necessarily surpass the egotist 
 who habitually drains upon himself. 
 
 As to the mere fact of my brother's journey hither, 
 and his acquirement of the means which enabled him to 
 do so and to present a becoming appearance, I cared to 
 speculate but little. London was the natural goal of his 
 kind, and when the migratory fit came he was bound by 
 hook or by crook to gather the wherewith for his flight. 
 
 It was the immediate presence of his blackrent mood 
 that I had to combat, and I found myself strong to do so. 
 I would not own his mastery; I would anticipate him 
 and force the crisis he wished to postpone for his own 
 gain and my torment. Tliat very evening would I tell 
 Duke all and abide by his judgment. 
 
 And Dolly? Here on the instant I compromised with 
 manliness and so admitted a weak place in my armor. 
 Viewed through the dizzy mist of my own past and 
 haunted suffering, this sweet and natural child stood out, 
 such a tender vision of innocence that I dared not arro- 
 gate to myself the right of informing it with an evil that 
 must be negative only in the first instance. How can I 
 imperil her soul, I thought, by shattering at a blow the 
 image, my image, that enlightens it? Sophistry--sophis- 
 try; for what true woman is the worse for learning that 
 her idol is poor humanity after all — not a thing to wor-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 127 
 
 ship, but a soul to help and protect — a soul thirsting for 
 the deep wells of sympathy? 
 
 Had I been wise to forestall my brother with all whose 
 influence was upon my life a great misery might have 
 been averted. In this instance I temporized, and the 
 fatal cloud of calamity rose above the horizon. 
 
 Why was it that, at the first, Dolly was much more 
 in my mind than Zyp ? That I cannot answer altogether, 
 but so it was. The balance of my feelings was set no 
 differently; yet, while it seemed quite right and proper 
 that Zyp' should estimate me at my dual personality, I 
 shrunk with shuddering from the thought of Dolly know- 
 ing me as I knew myself. Perhaps it was that, for all my 
 sense of passionate affinity to the wild creature once so 
 part of my destinies, I recognized in the other the purer 
 soul; that it was the love of the first I desired, the good 
 will of the second. Perhaps, also, the recognition of this 
 drove me on again to abide by my decision of the morn- 
 ing. It is useless to speculate now; for the Httle un- 
 happy tale ended otherwise than as I had prefigured it. 
 My day had begun with an omen as ghastly as its sequel 
 was to be. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 DUKE SPEAKS. 
 
 That evening, in the luminous dusk of our sitting- 
 room, I sat up and gave Duke my history. He would 
 have stopped me at the outset, but I would brook no 
 eccentric philosophy in the imperious fever of insistence 
 that was my mood. I told him of all that related person- 
 ally to me — my deed, my repentance — my brother's ex- 
 posure and renewed menaces ; but to Zyp I only referred 
 in such manner as to convey the impression that what- 
 ever influence she had once exerted over me was dead 
 with boyhood and scarcely to be resurrected. 
 
 That here I intentionally told a half-truth only, coward- 
 ly in the suspicion that the whole would be resented by
 
 128 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 my hearer on Dolly's behalf, I cannot deny. I dared 
 not commit myself to a policy of absolute confidence. 
 
 When I had finished there was a silence, which I my- 
 self was forced to at length break. 
 
 "Duke," I said, "haven't you a remark to make — no 
 word of advice or rebuke?" 
 
 "Not one, Renny. What concern have we with that 
 past existence of yours?" 
 
 "Oh, for heaven's sake drop that nonsense for once in 
 a way. It's a very real trouble to me, whatever it is to 
 you." 
 
 "Old man, you did and you repented in one day. The 
 account up there must balance." 
 
 "You think it must?" 
 
 "We are masters of our acts — not of our impulses. You 
 strike a bell and it clangs. You strike a man and the 
 devil leaps out at his eyes. It's in the rebound that the 
 thought comes that decides the act. In this case yours 
 was natural to yourself, for you are a good fellow." 
 
 "And so are you, a hundred times over, to take it so. 
 You don't know the terror it has been to me — that it 
 must be to me still in a measure. The account may bal- 
 ance; but still " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "The boy — my brother — died." 
 
 "Yes — after you had tried to save him." 
 
 "Duke — Duke, you can't hold me not to blame." 
 
 "I don't, indeed. You were very much to blame for 
 not retreating when your better angel gave you the 
 chance. It's for that you'll be called to account some day 
 — not the other." 
 
 "Well, I'll stand up and cry 'peccavi!'" I said, sadly. 
 
 "Renny," said Duke, from the shadow of his side of 
 the room, "what's this elder brother of yours like?" 
 
 I explained Jason's appearance to the best of my 
 power. 
 
 "Ah," he said, quietly, "I thought so." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Nothing. Only I saw him this afternoon taking the 
 bearings of the office from t'other side the street."
 
 THE MILL, OF SILENCE. 129 
 
 "Very likely. He mentioned something about using 
 my influence with Ripley to give him a berth later on. 
 Probably he was debating his ground.'' 
 
 "You haven't given your confidence to any one but 
 me in this matter?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do you intend to?" 
 
 "If you think it right Shall I tell Ripley?" 
 
 "It's my opinion you should. Forestall your brother 
 in every direction." 
 
 "Well, vours and his are the only two that concerns 
 me." 
 
 "One other, Renny." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Dolly." 
 
 He leaned forward and looked at me with such inten- 
 sity of earnestness that his black eyes seemed to pierce 
 to my very soul. 
 
 "Shall I," he said — and his gaze never left my face — 
 "shall I acknowledge your confidence with another?'' 
 
 "It shall be sacred, Duke," I answered low, "if it refers 
 to past or present." 
 
 He threw himself back with a sudden wail. 
 
 "To both!" he cried; "to both!" 
 
 He was himself again directly. 
 
 "Bah!" he cried; "what a woman I am! Renny, you 
 shall for once find me sick of philosophy and human." 
 
 I resumed my seat, fairly dumfounded at this revela- 
 tion of unv/onted depths in my friend, and stared at him 
 in silence; once more he leaned forward and seemed to 
 read me through. 
 
 "Renny, tell me — do you wish to make Dolly your 
 wife?" 
 
 "Duke, upon my soul I don't know." 
 
 "Do you love her?" 
 
 "If I thought I did, as you meant it, I could answer 
 your first question." 
 
 "And you can't?" 
 
 "No, I can't."
 
 130 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Renny, make her happy. She loves you with all her 
 heart." 
 
 "Would that be fair to her, Duke? Let me know my 
 own mind first." 
 
 "Ah, I am afraid you don't care to know it; that you 
 are playing with a pleasurable emotion. Take care — oh, 
 take care, I tell you ! The halt and maimed see further in 
 the dark than the vigorous. Renny, there is trouble 
 ahead. I know more of women than you do, perhaps, 
 because, cut ofif from manly exercises, I can gauge their 
 temptations and their weaknesses. I see a way of strik- 
 ing at you that you don't dream of. Be great with re- 
 solve! Save my little book-sewer, I implore you." 
 
 "Duke," I said, with extreme emotion, for I fancied I 
 could catch the shine of most unaccustomed tears in his 
 dark eyes, "my good, dear fellow, what is the meaning 
 of this? I would do anything to make you or Dolly 
 happy; but where is the sense of half-measures? If you 
 feel like this, why don't you — I say it with all love — why 
 don't " 
 
 He struggled to his feet, and with a wild, pathetic 
 action drew emptiness about him with enfolding arms. 
 
 "I tell you," he cried, in a broken voice, "that I would 
 give my life to stand in your shoes, valuing the evil as 
 nothing to the sweet." 
 
 He dropped his head on his breast and I had no word 
 to say. My willful blindness seemed to me at that mo- 
 ment as vile a thing as any in my life. 
 
 Suddenly he stood erect once more. 
 
 "Renny," he said, with a faint smile, "for all your 
 good friendship you don't know me yet, I see. I'm too 
 stifif-jointed to kneel." 
 
 "Don't curse me for blighting your life like this. But, 
 Duke — I never guessed. If I had — it didn't matter to me 
 — I would have walked over a precipice rather than cross 
 your path." 
 
 "How could you know? Wasn't I sworn to philoso- 
 phy?" 
 
 "And it can't be now?" 
 
 "It can never be."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 131 
 
 "Think, Duke— think." 
 
 "I never do anything else. Love may exist on pity, 
 but not on charity. I put myself on one side. It is her 
 happiness that has to be considered first; and, Renny, 
 you know the way to it." 
 
 "Duke, have you always felt like this toward her?" 
 
 "Always? I feel here that I should answer you accord- 
 ing to my theory of life. But I have shown you my weak 
 side. Every negro, they say, worships white as the com- 
 plexion of his unknown God. From my first sight of her 
 I have tried to rub my sooty soul clean — have tried every 
 means like the 'Black-Gob' committee in Hood's poem." 
 
 "I think you have been successful — if any rubbing was 
 necessar}\ I think at least you have proved your af- 
 finity to her, and will claim and be claimed by her in the 
 hereafter." 
 
 "I shall not have the less chance then, for striving to 
 procure her happiness here." 
 
 "Oh, Duke— no!" 
 
 I stood abashed in presence of so much lofty abroga- 
 tion of self. 
 
 "What am I to do?" I said, humbly. "I will be guided 
 by you. Shall I study to make our interests one and 
 trust to heaven for the right feeling?" 
 
 "First tell her what you have told me. You need have 
 no fear." 
 
 "Very well. I will do so on the first opportunity." 
 
 "That confidence alone will make a bond between you. 
 But, Renny — oh, don't delay." 
 
 "I won't, Duke — I won't. But I wish you would tell 
 me what danger it is you fear." 
 
 "If I did you would think it nothing but a phantom of 
 my brain. I have said I see in the dark. This room is 
 full of fantastic shapes to me. Perhaps they are only 
 the goblin lights born of warp and disease." 
 
 "I will speak to her next Sunday." 
 
 "Not sooner?" 
 
 "I can't very well. We must be alone together with- 
 out risk of interruption." 
 
 I would have told him of our yesterday's talk, only
 
 132 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 that it seemed a cruel thing to take even him into that 
 broken and tender confidence. 
 
 "Very well. Let it be then, as you value her happi- 
 ness." 
 
 All day it had been close and oppressive and now 
 thunder began to moan and complain up the lower 
 slopes of the night. 
 
 Suddenly, in the ominous stirring of the gloom, I be- 
 came conscious that my companion was murmuring to 
 himself — that a low current of speech was issuing from 
 his lips monotonous as the babble of delirium. 
 
 "There was a window in the roof, where stars gUttered 
 like bubbles in the glass — and the ceiling came almost 
 down to the floor on one side and I cried often with 
 terror, for the window and I were alone. Sometimes the 
 frost gathered there, like white skin over a wound, and 
 sometimes the monstrous clouds looked in and mocked 
 and nodded at me. I was very cold or else my face 
 cracked like earth with the heat, and I could not run 
 away, for he had thrown me down years before and the 
 marrow dried in my bones. There had been a time when 
 the woman came with her white face and loved me, al- 
 ways listening, and crept away looking back. But she 
 went at last and I never saw her again." 
 
 "Duke!" I whispered — "Duke!" but he seemed lost 
 to all sense of my presence. 
 
 "He came often, and there was a great dog with him, 
 whose flesh writhed with folds of gray, and the edges of 
 his tongue were curled up like a burning leaf — and the 
 dog made my heart sick, for its eyes were full of hate 
 like his, and when he made it snarl at me I shivered with 
 terror lest a movement of mine should bring it upon me. 
 And sometimes I heard it breathing outside the door and 
 thought if they had forgotten to lock it and it came in 
 I should die. But they never forgot, and I was left alone 
 with the window in the roof and nothing else. But now 
 I feel that if I could meet that dog — now, now I should 
 scream and tear it with my teeth and torture it inch by 
 inch for what it made me suffer." 
 
 I cried to him again, but he took no heed.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 133 
 
 "There was water, in the end, and great dark build- 
 ings went up from it and the thunder was thick in the 
 sky. Then he said, 'Drink,' and held something to my 
 lips; and I obeyed because I was in terror of him. It 
 was fire he gave me, and I could not shriek because it 
 took me by the throat — but I fell against the water and 
 felt it lap toward me and I woke screaming and I was in 
 a boat — I was in a boat, I tell you." 
 
 There came a booming crash overhead and the room 
 for a moment weltered with ghastly light. In its pass- 
 ing I saw Duke leap to his feet, and there was something 
 beside him — a shape — a mist — one of the phantoms of 
 his brain — no, of mine — Modred, pointing and smiling. 
 It was gone in an instant — a mere trick of the nerves. 
 But, as I stood shivering and blinded, I heard Duke cry 
 in a terrible voice: 
 
 "Renny — listen! It was on such a night as this that 
 my father poisoned mel" 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CALM BEFORE. 
 
 Long after the storm had broken and rolled away were 
 we still sitting talking in the dim lamplight. In these 
 hours I learned what dark confidences my friend had to 
 give me as to his solitary and haunted past; learned more 
 truly, also, than I had ever done as yet, the value of a 
 moral courage that had enabled him, dogged by the 
 crudest hate of adversity, to emerge from the furnace 
 noble and thrice refined. 
 
 He had been picked up, as a mere child drowning in 
 the river, by the Thames police and had been ultimately 
 consigned to a charity school, from which, in due course, 
 he had been apprenticed to a printer. Thus far had his 
 existence, emerging from profoundest gloom, run a 
 straight and uneventful course — but before? 
 
 Into what deadly comer of a great city's most secret
 
 134 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 burrows his young life had been first hemmed and then 
 crushed out of shape who may say? When I had got him 
 down again, unnerved but quiet now and wistful with 
 apology over his outburst, he told me all that he knew. 
 
 "Thunder always seems to turn my brain a little, 
 Renny, perhaps because it is associated in the depths 
 of my mind with that strange young experience. The 
 muttering sound of it brings a picture, as it were, before 
 my eyes. I seem to see a confusion of wharfs and mon- 
 strous piles of blackness standing out against the sky; 
 deadly water runs between, in which smudges of light 
 palpitate and are splintered into arrows and come to- 
 gether again like drops of quicksilver." 
 
 "And you are given something to drink?" 
 
 "It is poison; I know it as certainly as that it is my 
 father who wishes to be quit of me. I can't tell you how 
 I know." 
 
 "And before?" 
 
 "There is only the room and the window in the roof, 
 and myself, a sickly cripple lying in bed, always alone 
 and always fearful of something." 
 
 "Duke, was the gentle woman your mother?'' 
 
 "I feel that it must have been. But she went after a 
 time. Perhaps he killed her as he wished to kill me." 
 
 "Can you remember him at all?" 
 
 "Only through a dreadful impression of cruelty. I 
 know that I am what I am by his act ; though when made 
 so, or under what provocation, if any, is all a blank. It 
 is the dog that haunts my memory most. That seems 
 queer, doesn't it? I suppose it was the type or symbol 
 of all the hate I was the victim of, and I often feel as if 
 some day I shall meet it once more — only once more — 
 and measure conclusions with it on that little matter of 
 the sufifering it caused me." 
 
 We fell silent for awhile. Then said I, softly: "Duke, 
 with such a past for background, I think I can under- 
 stand how Dolly must stand out in the front of your 
 picture." 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a tender inflection in his voice. 
 "But anyhow I have no quarrel with her sex. What
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 135 
 
 should I have been without that other presence in the 
 past? I have known only two women intimately. For 
 their sake my right arm is at the service of all." 
 
 His eyes shone upon me from the sallow, strong face. 
 He looked like a crippled knight of errantry, fearless and 
 dangerous to tamper with where his right of affection 
 was questioned. 
 
 The week that followed was barren of active interest. 
 It was a busy one at Great Queen street, and all per- 
 sonal matters must needs be relegated to the back- 
 ground. Occasionally I saw Dolly, but only in the course 
 of official routine, and no opportunity occurred for us 
 to exchange half a dozen words in private. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was in the dusty atmosphere of 
 the place a sensation of warmth and romance that is 
 scarcely habitual to the matter-of-fact of the workshop. 
 Compromise with my heart as I might on the subject of 
 Zyp's inefifaceable image, I could not but be conscious 
 that Ripley's at present held a very pretty and tender 
 sentiment for me. The sense of a certain proprietorship 
 in it was an experience of happiness that made my days 
 run rosily, for all the perplexity in my soul. Yet love, 
 such as I understood it in its spiritual exclusiveness, was 
 absent; nor did I ever entertain for a moment the pos- 
 sibility of its awakening to existence in my breast. 
 
 So the week wore on and it was Saturday again, and 
 to-morrow, for good or evil the question must be put. 
 
 That evening, as Duke and I were sitting talking after 
 supper, Jason's voice came clamoring up the stairs and 
 a moment after my brother burst into the room. He was 
 in high spirits — flushed and boisterous as a young An- 
 tinous — and he flung himself into a chair and nodded 
 royally to Duke. 
 
 "Kenny's chum, I suppose?" said he. "And that's a 
 distinction to be proud of, for all it's his brother that says 
 so. Glad to know you, Straw." 
 
 Duke didn't answer, but he returned the nod, striving 
 to gloze over prejudice genially for my sake. 
 
 "Renny, old chap!" cried Jason, "I sha'n't want my
 
 136 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 friend at court yet — not yet, by a long chalk, I hope. 
 Look here." 
 
 He seized a purse from his pocket and clapped it down 
 on the table with a jingling thud. 
 
 "There's solid cash for you, my boy! Forty-three 
 pounds to a penny, and a new pleasure to the pretty 
 face of each of 'em.'' 
 
 "Where on earth did you get it, Jason?" 
 
 "Won't you be shocked, Barebones? Come with me 
 some night and see for yourself." 
 
 "You've been gambling, I believe." 
 
 "Horrid, isn't it? — the wailing baby and the deserted 
 wife and the pistol in a garret — that's what you are think- 
 ing of, eh? Oh, you dear thing! But we aren't built 
 alike, you and I." 
 
 "Be quiet, can't you?" I cried, angrily. 
 
 "Not a bit of it. I'm breezy as a weathercock to-night. 
 I must talk, I tell you, and you always rouse the laughing 
 imp in me. Where's the harm of gambling, if you win? 
 Eh, Jack Straw?" 
 
 "It's no very good qualification for work, if that's what 
 you want to get, Mr. Trender." 
 
 "Work? Hang the dirty rubbish! Work's for the 
 poor in pocket and in spirit. I want to see life; to feel 
 the sun of enjoyment down to my very finger-tips. You 
 two may work, if you like, with your codes of cranky 
 morals. You may go back to your mill every Monday 
 morning with a guilty sense of relief that another weekly 
 dissipation on Hampsted heath is over and done with. 
 That don't do for me. The shops here aren't all iron- 
 ware and stationery. There's color and glitter and music 
 and rich food and laughter everywhere around, and I 
 want my share of it. When I'm poor I'll work; only — 
 I don't ever intend to be poor again." 
 
 "Well, we don't any of us intend to, for the matter of 
 that," said Duke. 
 
 "Oh, but you go the wrong way about it. You're 
 hampered in the beginning with the notion that you were 
 made to work, and that if you do it in fine manly fashion 
 your wages will be paid you in full some day. Why,
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 137 
 
 what owls you are not to see that those wages that you 
 think you are storing up so patiently are all the time 
 being spent by such as me! Here's happiness at your 
 elbow, in the person of Jason Trender — not up in the 
 skies there. But it's your nature and luckily that's my 
 gain. You wouldn't know how to enjoy ten thousand 
 a year if you had it." 
 
 ^'You think not?" 
 
 "I know it. You'd never be able to shake ofif the old 
 humbug of responsibility." 
 
 "Toward others, you mean?" 
 
 "Of course I do, and that's not the way to make out 
 life." 
 
 "Not your way?" 
 
 "Mine? Mine's to be irresponsible and independent — 
 to act upon every impulse and always have a cat by me to 
 claw out the chestnuts." 
 
 "A high ideal, isn't it?" 
 
 "Don't fire that nonsense at me. Ideal, indeed! A 
 cant term, Jack Straw, for a sort of religious mania. No 
 ideal ever sparkled like a bottle of champagne. I've been 
 drinking it for the first time lately and learning to play 
 euchre. I've not proved such a bad pupil." 
 
 He slapped the pocket to which he had returned his 
 purse, with a joyous laugh. 
 
 "Champagne's heaven!" he cried. "I never want any 
 better. Come out with me to-morrow and taste it. Let's 
 have a jaunt!" 
 
 Duke shook his head. 
 
 "We shouldn't agree in our notions of pleasure," said 
 he. 
 
 "Then, come you, Renny, and I'll swear to show you 
 more fun in a day than you've known in all your four 
 years of London." 
 
 "I can't, Jason. I've got another engagement." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 "Never mind. But I can't come." 
 
 "Oh, rubbish! You'll have to tell me or else we go 
 together." 
 
 "Neither the one nor the other."
 
 138 THE MILL O^ SILENCE. 
 
 For a moment he looked threatening. "I'm not fond 
 of these mysteries," he said. Then his face cleared again. 
 
 "Well," he cried, "it's a small matter for me, and, after 
 all, you don't know what you miss. You don't keep 
 whisky here, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, we don't drink grog, either of us." 
 
 "So I should have thought. Then I'll make for live- 
 lier quarters" — and crying good-night to us, he went 
 singing out of the room. 
 
 The moment I heard the outer door shut on him, I 
 turned to Duke. 
 
 "Don't hold me responsible for him," I said. "You 
 see what he is." 
 
 "Renny," said Duke, gravely, "I see that friendship is 
 impossible to him, and can understand in a measure what 
 he made you suffer." 
 
 "Yet, I think, it's true that he's of the sort whom for- 
 tune alwavs favors." 
 
 "They sign a compact in blood for it, though, as the 
 wicked baron does in the story books." 
 
 He smiled and we both fell silent. Presently Duke 
 said from the darkness: 
 
 "Where has he put up in London?" 
 
 "I don't know. He wouldn't say. I'm not particularly 
 anxious to find out as long as he keeps away from here." 
 
 "Ah, as long as he does," said my companion, and 
 sunk into a pondering fit again. 
 
 "Get off early to-morrow," he said, suddenly. "What 
 time have you arranged to — to meet Dolly?" 
 
 "Half-past nine, Duke." 
 
 "Not before? Well, be punctual, there's a good fel- 
 low. She's worth an effort." 
 
 I watched him, as he rose with a stifled sigh and busied 
 himself over lighting our bedroom candle. In the gusty 
 dance of the flame his eyes seemed to change and glint 
 red like beads of garnet. I had no notion why, but a 
 thrill ran through me and with it a sudden impulse to 
 seize him bv the hand and exclaim: "Thank God, we're 
 friends, Duke!"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 139 
 
 He startled a little and looked full in my face, and 
 then I knew what had moved me. 
 
 Friends were we; but heaven pity the man who made 
 him his enemy! 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. 
 
 Dolly met me the next morning, looking- shy and half- 
 frightened as a child caught fruit-picking. She gave 
 me her hand with no show of heartiness, and withdrew 
 it at once as if its fingers were the delicate antennae of 
 her innocent soul and I her natural enemy. 
 
 "Where shall we go, Renny?" she asked, glancing 
 timidly up at me. 
 
 "To Epping again, Dolly, dear. I've set my heart 
 on it." 
 
 She seemed at first as if about to ask me why; then to 
 shrink from a subject she dreaded appearing to have a 
 leading interest in. 
 
 "Very well," she answered, faintly. "It will be lovely 
 there now." 
 
 "Won't you help a poor woman to a crust of bread, 
 kind lidy?" said a voluble whining voice at our ears, and 
 a sturdy mendicant thrust her hand between us. She was 
 a very frouzy and forbidding-looking mendicant, indeed, 
 with battered bonnet askew and villainous small eyes, 
 and her neighborhood was redolent of gin. 
 
 "Spare a copper, kind lidy and gentleman," she en- 
 treated, with a bibulous smirk, "and call down the bless- 
 ings of 'eving on a widowed 'art as 'an't tysted bit or sup 
 since yesterday come to-morrer, and five blessed children 
 wantin' a 'ome, which it's the rent overdue and these 
 'ands wore to knife powder scrapin' in the gutters for 
 scraps which one crust of bread would ease. Kind lidy, 
 oh, just a copper." 
 
 Dolly was for putting a charitable hand into her
 
 140 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 pocket as the creature followed us, but I peremptorily 
 stopped her and would not have her imposed upon. 
 
 "Kind lidy," continued the woman, "I've walked the 
 streets all night since yesterday morning and the soles off 
 my feet, kind lidy; won't you spare a copper? And I 
 dursn't go 'ome for fear of my man, and I buried the 
 youngest a week come yesterday, and praise 'eving I'm 
 a lonely widder, without child or 'usband, kind lidy; just 
 a copper for the funeral — and rot the faces off of you 
 for a couple of bloomin' marks in your silks and satings 
 and may you die of the black thirst with the ale foamin' 
 in barri'ls out of reach. You a lidy? Oh, yes, sich as 
 cocks her nose at a honest woman starvin' in her rags, 
 and so will you some day, for all your pink cheeks, when 
 you've been thrown over like this here bloomin' bonnet!" 
 
 She screamed after us and caught the moldy relic from 
 her head and slapped it upon the pavement in a drunken 
 frenzy, and she reviled us in worse language than I can 
 venture to record. Poor Dolly was frightened and urged 
 me tremblingly to hurry on out of reach of that strident, 
 cursing voice. I was so angry that I would have liked 
 to give the foul-mouthed harridan into custody, but the 
 nervous tremors of my companion urged me to the wiser 
 course of leaving bad alone, and we were soon out of 
 earshot of the degraded creature. 
 
 "Renny," whispered the girl in half-terrified tones, 
 "did you hear what she said?" 
 
 "What does it matter what she said, Dolly?" 
 
 "She cursed me. God wouldn't allow a curse from a 
 woman like that to mean anything, would He?" 
 
 "My dear, you must cure yourself of those fancies. God, 
 you may be sure, wouldn't use such a discordant in- 
 strument for His divine thunders. The market value of 
 her curse, you see, she put at a copper." 
 
 She looked up at me with her lips quivering a little. 
 She was evidently upset, and it was some time before I 
 could win her back to her own pretty self. 
 
 "I wish the day hadn't begun like this," she said in a 
 low voice.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 141 
 
 "It shall come in like the lion of March, Dolly, and 
 go out like a lamb — at least, I hope so." 
 
 "So do I," she whispered, but with the fright still in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Why, Dolly," I said, "I could almost think you super- 
 stitious — and you a Ripley hand!" 
 
 She laughed faintly. 
 
 "I never knew I was, Renny. But everything seemed 
 bright and peaceful till her horrible voice ground it with 
 dust. I wonder why she said that?" 
 
 "Said what., Dolly?" 
 
 "That about being thrown over." 
 
 "Now, Doll, I'll have no more of it. Leave her to her 
 gin palace and set your pretty face to the forest. One, 
 two, three and ofif we go." 
 
 We caught our train by the tail, as one may say, and 
 took our seats out of breath and merry. The run had 
 brought the bloom to my companion's face once more 
 and the breeze had ruffed and swept her shining hair 
 rebellious. She seemed a very sweet little possession 
 for a dusty Londoner to enjoy — a charming garden of 
 blossom for the fa^ncies to rove over. 
 
 Ah, me; how can I proceed; how write down what fol- 
 lows? The fruit was to fall and never for me. The 
 blossoms of the garden were to be scattered underfoot 
 and trodden upon and their sweet perfume embittered in 
 death. 
 
 As we walked down the platform a voice hailing me 
 made the blood jump in my heart. 
 
 "Renny — Renny! What brings you here? Why, what 
 a coincidence! Well met, old fellow! And I say, won't 
 you introduce me?" 
 
 "Miss Mellison — this is my brother." I almost added 
 a curse under my breath. 
 
 I was striving hard for self-command, but my voice 
 would only issue harsh and mechanical. He had over- 
 reached me — had watched, of course, and followed se- 
 cretly in pursuit. 
 
 "How delighted I am to meet you," he said. "Here 
 was I — only lately come to London, Miss Mellison —
 
 142 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 sick for country air again and looking to nothing better 
 than a lonely tramp through the forest and fate throws 
 a whole armful of roses at me. Are you going there, too? 
 Do let me come with you." 
 
 Dolly looked timidly up at me. We had left the sta- 
 tion and were standing on the road outside. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Mellison's shy in company," I said. "Let's 
 each go our way and we can meet at the station this 
 evening. 
 
 "Fm sure you won't echo that," said Jason, looking 
 smilingly at the girl. "I see heaven before me and he 
 wants to shut me out. There's an unnatural brother for 
 
 you." 
 
 "It seems unkind, don't it, Renny? We hadn't thought 
 to give you the slip, Mr. Trender. Why, really, till now 
 I didn't even know of your existence." 
 
 "That's Renalt's way, of course. He always wanted 
 to keep the good things to himself. But I've been in 
 London quite a long time now. Miss Mellison, and he 
 hasn't even mentioned me to you." 
 
 Dolly gave me a glance half-perplexed, half-reproach- 
 ful. 
 
 "Why didn't you, Renny?" 
 
 I struggled to beat down the answer that was on my 
 lips: "Because I thought him no fit company for you." 
 
 "I didn't see why I should," I said, coolly. "I'm not 
 bound to make my friends his." 
 
 "How rude you are — and your own brother! Don't 
 mind him, Mr. Trender. He can be very unpleasant 
 when he chooses." 
 
 She smiled at him and my heart sunk. Was it pos- 
 sible that his eyes — his low musical voice — could he be 
 taking her captive already?" 
 
 "Come," I said, roughly. "We're losing the morning 
 chattering here, Dolly. You're not wanted, Jason. That's 
 the blunt truth." 
 
 Dolly gave a little, pained cr}^ of deprecation. 
 
 "Don't, Renny! It's horrible of you." 
 
 "I can't help it," I said, savagely. "He's as obtuse as 
 a tortoise. He ought to see he's in the way."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 143 
 
 "You give me credit for too delicate a discrimination, 
 my good brother. But I'll go if I'm not wanted." 
 
 "No, you sha'n't, Mr. Trender. I won't be a party to 
 such behavior." 
 
 I turned upon the girl with a white face, I could feel. 
 
 "Dolly," I said, hoarsely. "If he goes with you, I 
 don't!" 
 
 Her face flushed with anger for the first time in my 
 knowledge of her. 
 
 "You can do just as you like, Renny, and spoil my 
 day if you want to. But I haven't given you the right 
 to order me about as if I was a child." 
 
 Without another word I turned upon my heel and left 
 them. I was furious with a conflicting rage of emotions 
 — detestation of my brother, anger toward Dolly, baffled 
 vanity and mad disappointment. In a moment the sun- 
 shine of the day had been tortured into gloom. The sting 
 of that was the stab I felt most keenly in the first tumult 
 of my passion. That this soft caprice of sex I had con- 
 descended to so masterfully in my thoughts should turn 
 upon and defy me! I had not deemed such a thing pos- 
 sible. Had she only played with me after all, coquetting 
 and humoring and rending after the manner of her kind? 
 Were it so, she should hear of the mere pity that had 
 driven me to patronizing consideration of her claims; 
 should learn of my essential indifiference to her in a very 
 effectual manner. 
 
 I am ashamed to recall the first violence with which, 
 in my mind, I tortured that poor gentle image. As my 
 rage cooled, it wrought, I must confess, an opposite re- 
 venge. Then Dolly became in my eyes a treasure more 
 desirable than ever, now my chance of gaining her 
 seemed shaken. I thought of all her tender moods and 
 pretty ways, so that my eyes filled with tears. I had be- 
 haved rudely, had shocked her gentle sense of decorum. 
 And here, by reason of an exaggerated spleen, had I 
 thrown her alone into the company of the very man 
 whose influence over her I most dreaded. 
 
 And what would Duke say — Duke, who in noble ab- 
 rogation of his own claims had so pathetically com.-
 
 144 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 mitted to my care this child of his deep unselfish love? 
 
 I had been walking rapidly in the opposite direction to 
 that I fancied the other two would take; and now I 
 stopped and faced about, scared with a sudden shock of 
 remorse. 
 
 What a fool, a coward, a traitor to my trust I had been! 
 I must retrace my steps at once and seek them up and 
 down the forest alleys. I started off in panic haste, 
 sweating with the terror of what I had done. I plunged 
 presently into the woods, and for a couple of hours 
 hurried hither and thither without meeting them. 
 
 By and by, breaking into the open again, I came upon 
 an inn, favored of tourists, that stood back from a road. 
 I was parched and exhausted, and thought a glass of 
 beer would revive me to a fresh start. Walking into the 
 tap I passed by the open door of the coiifee-room, and 
 there inside were they seated at a table together, and a 
 waiter was uncorking a bottle of champagne behind 
 them. 
 
 Why didn't I go in then and there? I had found my 
 quarry and the game might yet be mine. Ask the stricken 
 lover who will pursue his lady hotly through anxious 
 hours and then, when he sees her at last, will saunter 
 carelessly by as if his heart were cold to her attractions. 
 Some such motive, in a form infinitely baser, was mine. 
 I may call it pride, and hear the wheel creak out a sar- 
 donic laugh. 
 
 "They seem happy enough without me," my heart said, 
 but my conscience knew the selfishness that must nurse 
 an injury above any sore need of the injurer. 
 
 Their voices came to me happy and merry. They had 
 not seen me. I drank my beer and stole outside miser- 
 ably temporizing with my duty. 
 
 "She sha'n't escape again," I thought; "I'll go a little 
 distance ofif and watch." 
 
 I waited long, but they never came. At length, stung 
 to desperation, I strode back to the inn and straight into 
 the col¥ee-room. It was empty. Seeing a waiter, I 
 asked him if the lady and gentleman who had lunched 
 at such a table had left.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 145 
 
 "Yes," he said. He believed the lady and gendeman 
 had gone into the forest by the garden way. 
 
 Then I was baffled again. Surely the curse of the 
 virago of the morning was operating after all. 
 
 Evening drew on, and at last there was no help for it 
 but to make for the station and catch our usual train 
 back to town. 
 
 They were standing on the platform when I reached 
 it. I walked straight up to them. Dolly flushed crimson 
 when she saw me and then went pale as a windflower, 
 but she never spoke a word. 
 
 "Hullo!" said Jason. "The wanderer returned. We've 
 had a rare day of it; and you have, too, no doubt." 
 
 I spoke steadily, with a set determination to prove 
 master of myself. 
 
 "I've been looking for you all day. Dolly, I'm sorry 
 I left you in a temper. Please forgive me, dear." 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said, indifferently and weariedly. "It 
 doesn't matter." 
 
 "But it does matter to me, Dolly, very much, to keep 
 your good opinion." 
 
 She turned and looked at me with a strange expression, 
 as if she were on the point of bursting into tears, but she 
 only ended with a little formless laugh and looked away 
 again. 
 
 "I don't think you can value my good opinion much, 
 and I'm sure I don't know why you should." 
 
 The train lunging in at this point stopped our further 
 talk; and, once seated in it, the girl lay back in her 
 comer with closed eyes as if asleep. 
 
 Jason sat silent, with folded arms, the lamplight below 
 the shadow cast by his hat brim emphasizing the smile 
 on his firmly curved lips; and I, for my part, sat silent 
 also, for my heart seemed sick unto death. 
 
 At the terminus Dolly would have no further escort 
 home. She was tired out, she said, and begged only we 
 would see her into an omnibus and go our ways without 
 her. 
 
 As the vehicle lumbered off I turned fiercely upon my 
 brother. 
 
 10
 
 146 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A LETTER AND AN ANSWER. 
 
 "You dog!" I said, in a low, stern voice; "tell me the 
 meaning of this." 
 
 He gave a little, mocking, airy laugh and, thrusting 
 his hands into his pockets, wheeled round upon me. 
 
 "What's your question?" said he. 
 
 "You know. What have you said to the girl to make 
 her treat me like this?" 
 
 He raised his eyebrows in assumed perplexity. 
 
 "Really," he said, "you go a long way to seek. What 
 have I said? How have you behaved, you mean." 
 
 "You lie — I don't! I know her, that's enough. If you 
 have told her my story " 
 
 "If?" he repeated, coolly. 
 
 "I may add a last chapter to it, in which you'll figure — 
 that's all." 
 
 He was a little startled, I could see, but retained his 
 sang froid, with an effort. 
 
 "You jump too much to conclusion, my good fellow. 
 I have said nothing to her about your little afifair with 
 Modred as yet." 
 
 "That means you intend to hold it over my head as a 
 menace where she is concerned. I know you." 
 
 "Then you know a very charming fellow. Why, what 
 a dolt you are! Here's a pother because I play cavalier 
 to a girl whom you throw over in a fit of sulks. I couldn't 
 do less in common decency." 
 
 "Take care that you do no more. I'm not the only 
 one to reckon with in this business.'' 
 
 "A fig for that!" he cried, snapping his fingers. "I'm 
 not to be coerced into taking second place if I have a 
 fancy for first." 
 
 "I warn you; that's enough. For the rest, let's under- 
 stand one another. I'll have no more of this sham for
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 147 
 
 convention's sake. We're enemies, and we'll be known 
 for enemies. My door's shut to you. Keep out of my 
 way and think twice before you make me desperate." 
 
 With that I turned and strode from him. His mock- 
 ing laugh came after me again, but I took no notice of it. 
 
 Should I tell Duke all? I shrunk from the mere 
 thought. A coward even then, I dared not confess to 
 him how I had betrayed my trust; what fearful suspicions 
 of the nature of my failure lay dark on my heart. No — 
 I must see Dolly first and force my sentence from her 
 lips. 
 
 He put down the book he was reading from, as I en- 
 tered the sitting-room. 
 
 "Well," he said, cheerily, "what success?'' 
 
 I sat away from him, beyond the radiance of the lamp, 
 and afifected to be busy unlacing my boots. 
 
 "I can't say as yet, Duke. Do you mind postponing 
 the question for a day or two?" 
 
 "Of course, if you wish it." I felt the surprise in his 
 tone. "Mayn't I ask why?" 
 
 "Not now, old fellow. I missed my opportunity, that's 
 all." 
 
 "Is anything wrong, Renny?" 
 
 "Not all right, at least." 
 
 "Renny, why shouldn't it be? I can't be mistaken as 
 to the direction of her feelings — by my soul, I can't." 
 
 "I'm not so sure," I said, in a voice of great distress. 
 
 He recognized it and stopped questioning me at once. 
 
 "You want to be alone, I see," said he, gently. "Well, 
 I'll be off." 
 
 As he passed me, he placed his hand for a moment on 
 my shoulder. The action was tender and sympathetic, 
 but I shrunk under it as if it had been a blow. 
 
 When the door had closed upon him I rose and sat 
 down at the table. I wrote: 
 
 "Dear Dolly: I made a fool of myself to-day and have re- 
 pented it ever since in sackcloth and ashes. I had so 
 wished to be alone with you, dear, and it made me mad that 
 he should come between us. He isn't a good companion for 
 you. I must say it, though he is my brother. Had I thought
 
 148 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 him so I should have brought him to see you before. I only 
 say this to explain my anger at his appearance, and now 
 I will drop the subject for another, which is the real 
 reason of my writing. I had hoped, so much, dear, to put it to 
 you personally, there in the old forest that we have spent so 
 many happy hours in, but I missed my opportunity and now I 
 am in too much of a fever to wait another week. Dolly, will you 
 be my wife? I can afford a home of my own now, and I shall be 
 glad and grateful if you will consent to become mistress of it. 
 I feel that written words can only sound cold at best; so I will 
 say nothing more here, but just this — if you will have me, I 
 will strive in all things to be your loving and devoted husband. 
 
 "RENALT TRENDER." 
 
 All in a glow of confident tenderness, inspired by the 
 u^ords I had written, I added the address and went out 
 and posted my little missive. Its mere composition, the 
 fact of its now lying in the postbox, a link between us, 
 gave me a chastened sense of relief and satisfaction that 
 was restorative to my injured vanity. The mistake of the 
 morning was reacted upon in time, and I felt that nothing 
 short of a disruption of natural afBnities could interfere 
 to keep back the inevitable answer. So assured was I, 
 indeed, that I allowed my thoughts to wander as if for a 
 last farewell, into regions wherein the simple heart of my 
 present could find no way to enter. "Good-by, Zyp," 
 the voiceless soul of me muttered. 
 
 That night, looking at Duke's dark head at rest on 
 the pillow, I thought: "It will be put right to-morrow 
 or the next day, and you, dear friend, need never know 
 what might have followed on my abuse of your trust." 
 Then I slept peacefully, but my dreams were all of Zyp 
 — not of the other. 
 
 The next day, at the office, I was careful to keep alto- 
 gether out of Dolly's way. Indeed, my work taking me 
 elsewhere, I never once saw her and went home in the 
 evening unenlightened by a single glance from her gray 
 eyes. This, the better policy, I thought, would save us 
 both embarrassment and the annoyance of any curiosity 
 on the part of her fellow-workers, who would surely be 
 quick to detect a romantic state of affairs between us. 
 
 Nevertheless, despite my self-confidence, I awaited that
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 149 
 
 evening in some trepidation the answer that was to de- 
 cide the direction of my future. 
 
 We were sitting at supper when it came, held by one 
 corner in her apron by our landlady, and my face went 
 pale as I saw the schoolgirl superscription. 
 
 "From Dolly?" murmured Duke. 
 
 I nodded and broke the seal. My hands trembled and 
 a mist was before my eyes. It ran as follows: 
 
 "Dear Renny: Thank you very, very much for your kind 
 offer, but I can't accept it. I thought I had so much to say, and 
 this is all I can think of. I hope it won't hurt you. It can't, I 
 know, for long, because now I see I was never really the first 
 in your heart; and your letter don't sound as if you will find 
 it very diflicult to get over. Please forgive me if I'm wrong, 
 but anyhow it's too late now. I might have once, but I can't 
 now, Renny. I think perhaps I became a woman all in a mo- 
 ment yesterday. Please don't write or say a word to me again 
 about this, for I mean it really and truly. Your affectionate 
 friend, DOLLY MELLISON." 
 
 "P. S. — It was a little unfair of you, I must say, not to tell 
 me about that Zyp." 
 
 I sat and returned the letter to its folds quite coolly 
 and calmly. If there was fire in me, I kept it under 
 then. 
 
 "Duke," I said, quietly, "she has refused me." 
 
 He struggled up from his chair. His face was all 
 amazement and his voice hoarse. 
 
 "Refused you? What have you said? What have 
 you done? Something has happened, I tell you." 
 
 "Why? She was at perfect liberty to make her own 
 choice." 
 
 "You wrote to her last night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why did you? Why didn't you do as I understood 
 you intended to yesterday?" 
 
 "I asked you to leave that question alone for the pres- 
 ent." 
 
 "You've no right to. I " his face flamed up for a 
 
 moment. But with a mighty effort he fought it under. 
 
 "Renny," he said, in a subdued voice, "I had no busi- 
 ness to speak to you like that. But you don't know upon
 
 150 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 what a wheel of torment I have been these last weeks. 
 The girl — Dolly — is so much to me, and her happiness 
 " he broke off almost with a sob. 
 
 I sprung to my feet. I could bear it no longer. 
 
 "Think what you like of me!" I cried. "I have made 
 a muddle of the whole business — a wretched, unhappy 
 muddle. But I suffer, too, Duke. I never knew what 
 Miss — Miss Mellison was to me till now, when I have 
 lost her," 
 
 "I don't ask to see her letter. You haven't misread it 
 by any possibility?" 
 
 "No — it's perfectly clear. She refuses me and holds 
 out no hope." 
 
 He set his frowning brows and fell into a gloomy 
 silence. He took no notice of me even when I told him 
 that I must go into the open air for awhile to walk and 
 try to find surcease of my racking trouble. 
 
 "Now," I thought, when I got outside, "for the vil- 
 lainous truth. To strike at me like that! It was worthy 
 of him — worthy of him. And I am to blame for leaving 
 them together — I, who pretended to an affection for the 
 girl and was ready to swear to love and protect her for- 
 evermore. What a pitiful rag of manliness! What cour- 
 age that daren't even now tell the truth to my friend up 
 there! Friend? He's done with me, I expect. But for 
 the other. He didn't give her my history — not he. Per- 
 haps he didn't as I meant it, but I never dreamed that 
 he would play upon that second stop for his devils of 
 hate to dance to; I never even thought of it. What a 
 hideous fool I have been! Oh, Jason, my brother, if it 
 had only been you instead of Modred!" 
 
 I jerked to a stop. Some formless thoughts had been 
 in my mind to hurry on into the presence of the villain 
 who had dealt me such a coward blow, and to drive his 
 slander in one red crash down his throat. Now, in an 
 instant, it broke upon me that I had no knowledge of 
 where he lived — that by my own act I had yesterday 
 cut off all communication between us. Perhaps, though, 
 in his cobra-like dogging of me he would be driven be- 
 fore long to seek me out again of his own accord, that
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 151 
 
 he might gloat over the havoc he had occasioned. I 
 must bide my time as patiently as I could on the chance. 
 
 Late at night I returned and lay down upon the sofa 
 in the sitting-room. I felt unclean for Duke's company 
 and would not go up to him. Let me do myself justice. 
 It was not all dread of his anger that kept me from him. 
 There was a most lost, sorrowful feeling in me at hav- 
 ing thus requited all his friendship and his generosity. 
 
 As I lay and writhed in sickly thought, my eye was 
 attracted by the glimmering of some white object set 
 prominently on the mantelpiece. I rose and found it 
 was a letter addressed to me in his handwriting. Fore- 
 seeing its contents I tore it open and read: 
 
 "I think it best that our partnership should cease and I find 
 lodging elsewhere. You will understand my reasons, Dolly 
 comes first with me, that's all. It may have been your error; 
 I can't think it was your willful fault; but that she would have 
 refused you without some good reason I can't believe. Your 
 manner seems to point to the suspicion that somehow her hap- 
 piness is threatened. I may be wrong, but I intend to set my- 
 self to find out; and until some explanation is forthcoming, I 
 think it best that we should live apart. I shall call here to- 
 morrow during the dinner hour and arrange about having my 
 things moved and settle matters as far as I am concerned. Your 
 friend, DUKE STRAW." 
 
 I stood long with the letter m my hand. 
 
 "Well, its best," I muttered at last, "and I thought he 
 would do it. He's my friend still, thank heaven, for he 
 says so. But, oh, Jason, your debt is accumulating!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LOST. 
 
 The week that followed was a sad and lonely one to 
 me. My romance was ended — my friend parted from 
 me — my heart ever wincing under the torture of self- 
 reproach.
 
 152 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 As to the first, it would seem that I should have no 
 great reason for insuperable regret. The situation had 
 been made for, not by me; I was free to let my thoughts 
 revert unhampered to the object of my first and only 
 true love. 
 
 That was all so; yet I know I brooded over my loss 
 for the time being, as if it were the greatest that could 
 have befallen me. Such is human inconsistency. So he 
 who, vainly seeking some large reward, condescends 
 half-disdainfully to a smaller, is altogether disproportion- 
 ately vexed if the latter is unexpectedly denied him. 
 
 I went about my work in a hopeless, mechanical man- 
 ner that only scarcely concealed the bitter ache my heart 
 endured. Occasionally, at rare intervals, I came across 
 Dolly, but formally only and never to exchange a word. 
 Furtively glancing at her when this happened, I noticed 
 that she looked pale, and, I thought, not happy, but this 
 may have been nothing but fancy, for my hasty view was 
 generally limited to half-profile. Of me she took no 
 heed, desiring, apparently, the absolute close of our old 
 intercourse, and mere pride precluded me from making 
 any further effort toward an explanation. 
 
 Would that even then I had been wise or noble enough 
 to force the barrier of reserve. God knows but I might 
 have been in time to save her. Yet maybe my attitude 
 was not altogether unjustified. To put me on the foot- 
 ing of a formal stranger was heavy punishment for a 
 fault committed under motives that were anything, at 
 least, but base. 
 
 With Duke my intercourse was confined to the office 
 and_ to matters of business. He showed no unfriendly 
 spirit toward me there and no desire for a resumption of 
 our old terms. He never, in public or private, touched 
 upon the subject that was nearest both our hearts, or 
 alluded to it in any way. If I was conscious of any 
 melancholy shadow towering between us it was not be- 
 cause he sought to lend to its features the gloom that 
 must be enwrapping his own soul. 
 
 At last the week ended, and the silence, that had lain 
 black and ominous as a snake along it, was awakened
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 153 
 
 and reared itself, poisonous for a spring. Yet its voice 
 spoke up musical at first. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon, and I was walking home to- 
 ward my lodgings in a very depressed frame of mind, 
 when a step came behind me and Duke fell into step 
 alongside. 
 
 "Renny," he said, "I think it right to tell you. I have 
 taken the privilege of an old friend and spoken to Dolly 
 on a certain subject," 
 
 I nodded. The mere fact was a relief to me. 
 
 "We could only exchange a few words, but she has 
 promised to come out with me to-morrow; and then, I 
 hope, I shall learn more. What time will you be at 
 home?" 
 
 I told him all day, if there was a chance of his turning 
 up. 
 
 "Very well," he said; "then I will call in upon you 
 some time or other. Good-by." 
 
 He seemed to be on the point of going, but to alter his 
 mind, and he suddenly took my hand and pressed it 
 hard. 
 
 "Are you lonely, old fellow?" 
 
 "Very, Duke — and I deserve to be." 
 
 "It's for the best? You agree with me?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 He looked sorrowfully in my face, wrung my hand a 
 second time and walked ofif rapidly. 
 
 It was the expression of his I ever after remembered 
 with most pathetic heart-sickness and love. I never saw 
 it in his eyes again — never again. 
 
 I rose upon the Sunday morning restless still and un- 
 refreshed. An undefinable feeling of ominous expect- 
 ancy would not let me sit quiet or read or do anything 
 but lend my mind to extravagant speculations and pace 
 the room up and down in nervous irritability. 
 
 At last, thoroughly tired out, I threw myself into an 
 easy-chair and dozed ofif from sheer exhaustion. I could 
 not have slept many minutes, when a clap in my ears 
 awoke me. It might have been an explosive burst of
 
 154 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 thunder, so loudly it slammed upon my senses. Yet it 
 was nothing more than the closing' of the room door. 
 
 Then I struggled to my feet, for Duke stood before 
 me, and I saw that his face was white and menacing as 
 death's own. 
 
 "Get up!" he cried, in a harsh, stern voice. "I want 
 to ask you something." 
 
 I faced him and my heart seemed to suddenly swerve 
 down with a sickly sensation. 
 
 "What is it?" I muttered. 
 
 "She's gone— that's all!" 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 "She never met me this morning as she promised. I 
 waited an hour — more. Then I grew frightened and 
 went to her lodgings. She had left the evening before, 
 saying she wasn't coming back. A man came to fetch her 
 and she went away with him. Do you understand? — 
 with him!" 
 
 "With whom?" I asked, in a confused, reeling manner; 
 yet I knew. 
 
 "I want you to tell me." 
 
 "How can I, Duke?" 
 
 "I want you to say what you have done with your 
 trust? There has been something going on of late — - 
 some secret kept from me. Where is that brother of 
 yours?" 
 
 "I know no more than you do." 
 
 "I shall find out before long. The cunning doesn't 
 exist that could keep him hidden from me if — if he is a 
 party to this. Why are you silent? I can read it in 
 your eyes. They have met, and it must have been 
 through you." 
 
 "Before God, it wasn't!" 
 
 "Then they have!" He put his hand to his face and 
 staggered as if he had been struck there. 
 
 "Oh!" he gasped; "the horror of what I dreaded!" 
 
 Then he came closer and snarled at me : 
 
 "Here's a friend, out of all the world ! So patronizing 
 to accept the poor little treasure of my life and soul, and
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 153 
 
 SO royal to roll it in the mud! Was this a put-up affair 
 between you?" 
 
 "You are hateful and unjust!" I cried, stung- beyond 
 endurance. "He forced himself upon us last Sunday. I 
 was brutal, almost, in my efforts to get rid of him. But 
 for some reason or other, Dolly — Miss MelHson — took 
 his side. When I found so, I left them in a huff and re- 
 pented almost immediately. But, though I sought far 
 and near, I never came across them again till evening." 
 
 He listened with a black, gloomy impatience. 
 
 "You acted well, by your own confession," said he. 
 "You played the part of a true friend and lover by leav- 
 ing her alone for a moment only in the company of that 
 paragon." 
 
 "I oughtn't to, I know." 
 
 He gave a high, grating laugh. 
 
 "But, putting me on one side," I began, when he took 
 me up with the most intense acrid bitterness. 
 
 "Why can't I, indeed — you and all your precious kith 
 and kin? Why did I ever save you from being knocked 
 on the head in that thieves' garden? I was happy before 
 — God knows I might have been happy in another way 
 now. You've proved the viper on my hearth with a 
 vengeance. Put you on one side? Ah, I dare say that 
 would suit you well — to shirk the responsibility of your 
 own act and leave the suffering to others." 
 
 "I have suffered, Duke, and always shall. I won't 
 gainsay you — but this hurts me perhaps only one de- 
 gree less than it does you. Why put the worst construc- 
 tion on it?" 
 
 He gave another cruel laugh. 
 
 "Let's have your theory of her vanishing without a 
 word to me," he said. 
 
 "At least you can't be certain that it — it was my 
 brother." 
 
 "How perspicacious of you! You don't think so your- 
 self, do you? Or that I should have meekly accepted 
 that woman's statement without some inquiry as to the 
 appearance of the interesting stranger?"
 
 156 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He dropped his cruelly bantering manner for one hard 
 as iron and ferocious. 
 
 "Let's stop this double-faced foolery. I want his ad- 
 dress of you." 
 
 "I haven't got it, you know." 
 
 "You can't guess at it?" 
 
 "Not possibly. What would you do if you had it?" 
 
 "What do you think? Call and offer my congratula- 
 tions, of course." 
 
 "Don't be a madman. You know nothing for cer- 
 tain. Wait and see if she doesn't turn up at the office as 
 usual to-morrow." 
 
 He seemed to think a moment, and then he threw up 
 his hands with a loud, waiHng moan. 
 
 "Lost!" he cried. "In my heart I know it." 
 
 Did I not in mine? It had rung in my ears all night. 
 I took a step toward him, greatly moved by his despair- 
 ing, broken tone, but he waved me back fiercely. 
 
 "I curse the day," he cried in bitter grief, "that ever I 
 came across you. I would have let you rob me — that 
 was nothing to her happiness; but now " 
 
 "Let him look to himself," he went on after a pause, 
 in which he had mastered his emotion. "After to-mor- 
 row — I will wait till then — but afterward — the world 
 isn't wide enough to keep us apart. Better for him to 
 run from an uncubbed tigress than this twisted cripple!" 
 
 He tossed one arm aloft with a wild, savage gesture 
 and strode heavily from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A LAST MESSAGE. 
 
 Dolly never came to work the next morning, but there 
 arrived a little letter from her to Mr. Ripley, giving no- 
 tice, that was all, with no address or clew to her where- 
 abouts, and an intimation that it was understood she 
 sacrificed her position — pitiful heaven, for what?
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 157 
 
 My employer tossed the note to me indifferently, ask- 
 ing me to see about the engagement of a fresh hand, if 
 necessary. He little guessed what those few simple words 
 meant to two of his staff, or foresaw the tragedy to which 
 they were the prelude. 
 
 When the dinner hour came I followed Duke out and 
 put the scrap of paper into his hand without a word. He 
 was not unprepared for it, for he already knew, of course, 
 that his worst apprehensions were realized by the non- 
 appearance of the girl at her usual place in the ofifice. 
 
 He read it in silence, and in silence handed it back to 
 to me. His face in twenty-four hours seemed to have 
 grown to be the face of an old man. All its once half- 
 sad, half-humorous thoughtfulness was set into a single 
 hard expression of some dark resolve. 
 
 "Well,'' he said, suddenly, stopping in his walk and 
 facing me, for I still kept pace with him. 
 
 "What do you intend doing, Duke?" 
 
 "I have one mission in life, Mr. Trender. Good-after- 
 noon to you." 
 
 I fell back and watched him go from me. Maimed as 
 I was myself, how could I in any way help him to cure 
 his cruder hurt? 
 
 But now began a curious somber struggle of cross 
 purposes. To find out where Jason had sunk his bur- 
 row and hidden the spoils of his ugly false sport — there 
 we worked in harness. It was only when the quarry 
 should be run down that we must necessarily disagree as 
 to the terms of its disposition. 
 
 For myself: A new despairing trouble had been woven 
 into my life by the hand that had already wrought me 
 such evil. Its very touch had, however, made wreck 
 of an impression that had been in a certain sense an em- 
 barrassment, and my movements became in consequence 
 less trammeled. Let me explain more definitely, if in- 
 deed I can do so and not appear heartless. 
 
 Dolly, innocent, bewitching and desirable, had so con- 
 fused my moral ideas as to imbue them with a certain 
 sweet sophistry of love that half-deceived me into a be- 
 lief in its fundamental soundness. That was done with.
 
 158 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Dolly dethroned, earthly, enamored of a brazen idol 
 could be no rival to Zyp. My heart might yearn to her 
 with pity and a deep remorse that it was I who had been 
 the weak, responsible minister of her perversion, but the 
 old feeling was dead, never to be revived. I longed to 
 find her; to rescue her from the black gulf into which 
 I feared she had leaped; to face the villain who had 
 bruised her heart and wrench atonement from him by 
 the throat, as it were. Not less it was my duty to warn 
 him; stand between him, worthless as he was, and the 
 deadly pursuit alert for his destruction. 
 
 For Duke: I must judge him as he revealed him- 
 self to me, and baffle, if possible, the terrible spirit of what 
 I dared not name to myself. Think only that at one 
 wicked blow he was deprived of that whole structure of 
 gentle romance that had saved his moral life from star- 
 vation ! 
 
 Therefore it was that during the after hours of work 
 I became for long a restless, flitting ghost haunted by a 
 ghost. By street and rail and river, aimless apparently, 
 but with one object through all, we went wandering 
 through the dark mazes of the night and of the city, 
 always hoping to light upon that we sought and always 
 baffled. Theaters, restaurants, music halls, night shows 
 and exhibitions of every description — any place that was 
 calculated to attract in the least a nature responsive to 
 the foppery of glitter or an appeal to the senses — we vis- 
 ited and explored, without result. Gambling dens — 
 such as we could obtain the entree to — were a persistent 
 lodestone to our restlessness; and here, especially, was 
 I often conscious of that shadow of a shade — that dark 
 ghost of my own phantom footsteps — standing silent at 
 my elbow and watching — watching for him who never 
 came. 
 
 Whithersoever we went the spur of the moment's qualm 
 goaded us. Any little experience, any chance allusion, 
 was sufficient to suggest a possibility in the matter of the 
 tendency of a lost and degenerate soul. Now we fore- 
 gathered on the skirt of some fulsome and braying street 
 preacher's band ; now suffered in a music hall under the
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 159 
 
 skittish vapidity of a "lion comique"; now, perhaps, 
 humbled our hot and weary pride in the luminous twi- 
 light, of some old walled-in church, where evening ser- 
 vice brought a few worshipers together. 
 
 I say "we," yet in all this we acted independently. 
 Only, whether in company or apart, the spirit of one 
 common motive linked us together, and that so that I, 
 at least, never felt alone. 
 
 So the weeks drew into months and Dolly herself was 
 a phantom to my memory. By day the mechanism of 
 our lives moved in the accustomed grooves; by night we 
 were wandering birds of passage flitting dismally over 
 waste places. More than once on a Sunday had I taken 
 train to Epping, driven by the thought that some half- 
 forgotten sentiment might by chance move other than 
 me to the scene of old pleasant experiences. But she 
 never came. Her "seasick weary bark" was nearing the 
 rocks, and the breakers of eternity were already sounding 
 in her ears. 
 
 Why postpone the inevitable or delay longer over de- 
 scription of that pointless pursuit that was to end only in 
 catastrophe and death? 
 
 Christmas had come and gone with me — a mockery of 
 good will and cheer — and a bitter January set in. That 
 month the very demon of the east wind flew uncontrolled, 
 and his steely sting was of a length and shrewdness to 
 pierce thickest cloth and coverlet, frame and lung and 
 heart itself. 
 
 One evening I had swallowed my supper and was pre- 
 paring for my nightly prowl. Duke had remained at the 
 office overtime, and my tramp was like to be unhaunted 
 of its familiar. I had actually blown out the lamp, when 
 his rapid footstep — I knew it well — came up the stairs, 
 and in a moment the door was thrown open with a crash 
 and I heard him breathing in the room. 
 
 "He's gone!" he ejaculated in a quick, panting voice, 
 
 "No; I'm here, Duke!" 
 
 "My God! Renny — do you hear? Come — come at 
 once. No — light the lamp; I've something to show 
 you."
 
 160 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I struck a match, with shaking hand, and put it to 
 the wick. As the dull flame sputtered and rose I turned 
 and looked at my friend. The expression of his face I 
 shall never forget till I die. It was bloodless — spectral — 
 inhuman; the face of one to whom a great dread had 
 been realized — a last hope denied. 
 
 He held out to me a little soiled and crumpled sheet of 
 paper. I took it, with a spasm of the heart and breath 
 that seemed to suffocate me. My eyes turned from and 
 were fascinated by it at once. 
 
 "You had better read," he said. "It's the last chapter 
 of your own pretty romance. Make haste — I want to get 
 to business." 
 
 It was from her, as I had foreseen — a few sad words 
 to the old good friend who had so loved and protected 
 her: 
 
 "I must let you know before I go to die. I couldn't meet you 
 that morning — what a time ago it seems! He wouldn't let me, 
 though I cried and begged him to. I don't know now what 
 made me do it all; how he upset my faith in Renny and turned 
 my love to himself in a moment. I think he has a dreadful in- 
 fluence that made me follow him and obey him. It doesn't mat- 
 ter now. I went to him, that's enough; and he's broken my 
 heart. Please ask Renny to forgive me. Perhaps if he had had a 
 little more patience with me I might have acted different — but 
 I can't be certain even of that. I'm going to kill myself, Duke, 
 dear, and before I do it I just want to say this: I know now 
 you loved poor Dolly all the time. How I know it I don't un- 
 derstand, but somehow it's quite clear. Oh, what have I thrown 
 away, when I might have been so happy! You were always 
 good to me, and I thank you with my last breath. Don't hurt 
 him, Duke; I don't think he understands the difference to me. 
 But he always promised to be a faithful lover — and yesterday I 
 found that he's married already. That's why I'm going to 
 do it." 
 
 The paper dropped from my hand. Duke picked it up 
 with an evil laugh and thrust it into his breast pocket. 
 
 "Married!" I muttered. 
 
 "Oh!" he cried; "it's all one for that! That's a family 
 matter. The question here goes beyond — into the heart 
 of this — this death warrant."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 161 
 
 He struck savagely where the letter lay and stood star- 
 ing at me with gloating eyes. 
 
 "Duke — are you going to murder him?" 
 
 "I'm going to find her. Let that do for the present — 
 and you've got to help me." 
 
 "Where are we to look? Did the letter give an ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 "No. She kept her secret to the last. It was a noble 
 one, I swear. There's a postmark, though, and that's my 
 clew. Hurry, will you?" 
 
 I seized my hat and stick. 
 
 "Duke — for the love of heaven, why must it be too late 
 even now?" 
 
 "Because I know it is. Doesn't that satisfy you? I 
 loved her — do you understand it now for the first time? 
 The fiend tread on your heels. Aren't you ever 
 coming?" 
 
 I hurried after him into the street. A clap of wind 
 struck and staggered us as if it had been water. Beating 
 through the night, its icy fury clutched at us, stinging 
 and bufifeting our faces, until it seemed as though we 
 were fighting through an endless thicket of brambles. 
 Struggling and panting onward — silent with the silence 
 of the lost — we made our way by slow degrees to the low 
 ground about Chelsea, and presently came out into a 
 freer air and the black vision of the river sliding before us 
 from night into night. 
 
 "Duke,'' I whispered, awfully — "is this what you fear?" 
 
 "Follow!" he cried. "I fear nothing! It's past that!" 
 
 By lowering factory and grimy wall ; by squalid streets 
 peeled of uncleanliness in the teeth of the bitter blast; 
 by low-browed taverns, that gushed red on us a moment 
 and were gone, he sped with crooked paces, and I fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Then he stopped so suddenly that I almost stumbled 
 against him, and we were standing at the mouth of a 
 shadowy court, and overhead a hiccoughing gas jet made 
 a gibbering terror of his white face. 
 
 "Where are we?" I said, and he answered: 
 
 "Where we naturally take up the clew — outside a police 
 station." 
 11
 
 162 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Into a dull, gusty room, barren of everything but the 
 necessities of its office, we walked and stopped. 
 
 Distempered walls; a high desk, a railed dock, where 
 creatures were put to the first question like an experi- 
 mental torture; black windows high in the wall and 
 barred with network of wire, as if to break into frag- 
 ments the sunshine of hope; a double gas bracket on an 
 arm hanging from the ceiling, grimly suggestive of a 
 gallows; a fireplace whose warmth was ruthlessly boxed 
 in — such was the place we found ourselves in. Its min- 
 isters figured in the persons of a half-dozen constables 
 sitting officially yawning on benches against the walls, 
 and looking perplexingly human shorn of their helmets; 
 and in the presence of a high priest, or inspector, and his 
 clerk who sat respectively at the desk and a table placed 
 alongside of it. 
 
 The latter rose upon our entrance and asked our busi- 
 ness. 
 
 "It's plain enough," said Duke. "I have received, by 
 post, an hour ago, a letter from a young woman threaten- 
 ing suicide. I don't know her address, but the postmark 
 is this district." 
 
 The officer motioned us to the higher authority at the 
 desk. 
 
 "May I see it?" said the latter. 
 
 My companion produced the letter and handed it over. 
 Throughout his bearing and behavior were completely 
 collected and formal — passionless altogether in their 
 studied unemotionalism. 
 
 The inspector went through the poor little scrawl 
 attentively from first word to last. No doubt he was a 
 kindly family man in private. Officially these pitiful war-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 16J 
 
 rants of heartbreaks were mere items in his day's busi- 
 ness. 
 
 When he had finished he raised his eyes, but not his 
 head. 
 
 "Sweetheart?" he said. 
 
 "No," answered Duke, "but an old friend." 
 
 "Renny?" asked the inspector, pointing a pen at me. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She ran away?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 "This man's brother." 
 
 "How long- ago?" 
 
 "Three months, about.'' 
 
 "And you have never seen her since?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And don't know where they Hved?" 
 
 "No — or I shouldn't be here," 
 
 The inspector caressed his short red beard, looked 
 thoughtfully again at the letter a moment or two, placed 
 it gently on the desk and leaned forward. 
 
 "You'd better take a man and hunt up the waterside. 
 She hasn't come ashore here." 
 
 "You think she means it?" 
 
 "I think — yes; you'd better go and look." 
 
 "By water, I mean?" 
 
 "Yes — by water. That's my opinion." 
 
 He called to one of the seated men and gave him cer- 
 tain directions. A minute later we were all three in the 
 street outside. 
 
 What happened or whither we went during that long 
 night remains only in my memory the ghastly shadow of 
 a dream. I can recall the white plate of the moon, and 
 still the icy wind and the spectral march onward. This 
 seemed the fitting outcome of our monotonous weeks of 
 wandering — this aimless corpse-search on the part of two 
 passionate fools who had failed in their pursuit of the 
 living woman. To my sick fancy it seemed the mon-
 
 164 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 strous parody of chase— an objectless struggle toward a 
 goal that shifted with every step toward any determined 
 point. 
 
 Still we never stopped, but flitted hopelessly from sta- 
 tion to station, only to find ourselves balked and urged 
 forward afresh. I became familiar with rooms such as 
 that we had left — rooms varying slightly in detail, but all 
 furnished to the same pattern. Grewsomer places knew 
 us, too — hideous cellars for the dead, where clothes were 
 lifted from stiff yellow faces and from limbs stuck out in 
 distorted burlesque of the rest that is called everlasting. 
 Once, I remember, it came upon us with a quivering 
 shock that our mission was fulfilled; a body had been 
 brought in — I forget where — the body of a young 
 woman. But when we came to view it it was not that 
 that we sought. 
 
 Pitiful heaven, was our tragedy, then, but a common 
 fashion of the dreadful waterway we groped our passage 
 along? How was it possible in all that harvest of death 
 to find the one awn for our particular gleaning?^ 
 
 But here — though I was little conscious of it at the 
 time — an impression took life in me that was to bear 
 strange fruit by and by. 
 
 Dawn was in the air, menacing, most chill and gloomy, 
 when we came out once more upon the riverside at a 
 point where an old rotting bridge of timber sprawled 
 across the stream like a wrecked dam. All its neighbor- 
 hood seemed waste ground or lonely deserted tenements 
 standing black and crookedly against a wan sweep of 
 sky. 
 
 In the moment of our issuing, as if it were a smaller 
 splinter detached from the wreck, a little boat glided 
 out from under the bridge and made for a flight of dank 
 and spongy steps that led up from the water not ten 
 yards from where we stood. 
 
 Something in the action of the dim figure that pulled, 
 or the other that hung over the stern sheets of the phan- 
 tom craft, moved our unwearying guide to motion us 
 with his arm to watchfulness and an immediate pause.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 165 
 
 In the same instant he hollowed his hand to his mouth 
 and hailed: 
 
 "Any luck, mate?" 
 
 The man who was rowing slowed down at once and 
 paddled gingerly to within a few yards of the steps. 
 
 "Who be you?" he growled, like a dog. 
 
 Our friend gave his authority. 
 
 "Oh," said the fellow. "Yes; we've found one." 
 
 "What sex, my man?" 
 
 "Gurl!" 
 
 I could have cried out. Something found my heart 
 and seized it in a suffocating grip. 
 
 "Where was it?" 
 
 "Caught yonder in the timbers." 
 
 I reeled and clutched at Duke, but he shook me oflf 
 sternly. I knew as surely as that the night was done with 
 that here our search ended. 
 
 That I stood quaking and shivering as nerveless as a 
 haunted drunkard; that I dared not follow them when 
 they moved to the steps; that Duke's face was set like a 
 dying man's as he walked stiffly from me and stood look- 
 ing down upon the boat with a dreadful smile — all this 
 comes to me from the grim shadows of the past. Then 
 I only knew a huddled group — a weighted chamber of 
 shapes with something heavy and sodden swung among 
 them — a pause of hours — of years — of a lifetime — and 
 suddenly a hideous scream that cleft like a madman's 
 into the waste silence of the dawn. 
 
 He was down upon his knees by it — groveling, moan- 
 ing — tearing tufts of dead wintry grass with his hands in 
 ecstasy of pain — tossing his wild arms to the sky in im- 
 potent agony of search for some least grain of hope or 
 comfort. 
 
 I hurried to him; I called upon his name and hers. 
 I saw the sweet white face lying like a stone among the 
 grass. 
 
 Wiser than I, the accustomed ministers of scenes such 
 as this stood watchful by and waited for the fit to pass. 
 When its fury was spent, they quietly took up their bur- 
 den once more and moved away.
 
 166 THE MTLL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I had no need then to bid my comrade command him- 
 self. He rose on the instant from the ground, where he 
 had lain writhing, and fiercely rejecting all offer of assist- 
 ance on my part, followed in the wake of the ghastly 
 procession. 
 
 They bore it to the nearest station and there claimed 
 their reward. Think of it! We, who would have given 
 our all to save the living woman, were outbidden by these 
 carrion crows who staked upon the dead! 
 
 Again at this point a lapse comes into my memory. 
 Out of it grows a figure, that of Duke, that stands before 
 me and speaks with the horrible smile again on its lips. 
 
 "You had better go home," it says. 
 
 "Duke — why? What comes next? What are you 
 going to do?" 
 
 "What does it matter? You had better go home." 
 
 "I must know. Was there anything upon the — upon 
 the body? Duke — was there?" 
 
 "There was a letter." 
 
 "Who from?" 
 
 "Go home, I tell you." 
 
 "I can't — I won't — I must save you from yourself! I 
 —Duke " 
 
 He strikes at me — hits me, so that I stagger back — 
 and, with an oath, he speeds from me and is gone. 
 
 I recover myself and am on the point of giving mad 
 chase, when a thought strikes me and I rush into the 
 building I have been all this time standing outside the 
 door of. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 Tearing up the steps, I almost fell into the arms of our 
 guide of the long, hideous night. 
 
 "Can I see it?" I cried. 
 
 "Steady, sir," he said, staying and supporting me with 
 a hand. "What's up now?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 167 
 
 "I want to see it — there was a letter — I- 
 
 "All property found on the body is took possession of." 
 
 "He saw it, I tell you." 
 
 "Your friend, there? So he did — but he gave it over." 
 
 "I'll give it over. I don't want to keep it, man. There 
 was an address on it — there must have been, I swear; 
 and if you don't let me know it, there'll be murder — do 
 you understand? — murder!" 
 
 No doubt he did understand. In such matters a 
 policeman's mind is intuitive. 
 
 "Come along, then," he said; "I'll see what can be 
 done," and, holding me along the elbow in the profes- 
 sional manner, he led me through the building to a sort 
 of outhouse that stood in a gloomy yard to the rear. 
 
 Pushing open a door, he l3id me enter and wait while 
 he went and communicated with the inspector. 
 
 The room I found myself in was like nothing so much 
 as a ghastly species of scullery ; built with a formal view 
 to cleanliness and ventilation. All down its middle ran 
 a long zinc-covered table, troughed slightly at the side 
 and sloping gently like a fishmonger's slab. Its pur- 
 pose was evident in the drenched form that lay on it 
 covered with a cloth. 
 
 And to this sordid pass had come she, the loving and 
 playful, with whom I had wandered a few short weeks 
 ago among the green glades of the old forest. Now 
 more than the solemnity of death pronounced us apart. 
 
 I shivered and drew back, and then was aware of a 
 man washing his hands at a sink that stood to one end 
 of the room. 
 
 He turned his head as he washed and looked at me. 
 
 "Now, my man, what is it?" he said. 
 
 He was lean, formal-faced and spectacled — a doctor 
 by every uninviting sign of the profession. 
 
 I told him my business and referred shrinkingly to 
 the thing lying hidden there. 
 
 "There isn't, I suppose, any — any hope whatever?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no; not the least." 
 
 He came toward me pruning and trimming his cold 
 finger-nails.
 
 168 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "She has been in the water, I should say, quite eight 
 hours, or possibly nine." 
 
 He pulled the cloth down slightly, with a speculative 
 motion of his hand, so as to expose the white, rigid face. 
 I had no time to stop him before its sightless eyes were 
 looking up at me. 
 
 "Oh, Dolly! Dolly! Such a fearful little woman, and 
 yet with the courage to bring yourself to this !" 
 
 Suddenly, through the heart of my wild pity pierced a 
 thought that had already once before stirred unrecog- 
 nized in me. 
 
 "Doctor," I said, staring down on the poor lifeless 
 face, "do the drowned always look like that?" 
 
 "Certainly they do, more or less." 
 
 "But how more? Is it possible, for instance, for a 
 person to half-drown and then seemingly recover; to be 
 put to bed nearly himself again, and yet be found dead 
 in the morning?" 
 
 "How can I say? In such a case there must be gross 
 carelessness or quite unexpected complications." 
 
 "But if I tell you I once heard of this happening — was 
 witness, indeed, of the fact?" 
 
 The doctor lifted his shoulder, adjusted his spec- 
 tacles and shrugged himself with an awkward posture of 
 skepticism. 
 
 "How did he look?" he said. 
 
 "Dreadful — swollen, horribly distorted. His face was 
 black — his hands clenched. He seemed to have died in 
 great pain." 
 
 He gave a little scornful sniff. 
 
 "Do you want my opinion on that?" he cried. "Well 
 — here it is: It was a case for the police. No drowned 
 man ever looked after that fashion." 
 
 "Then you think he must have come to his death by 
 other means, and after he was put to bed?" 
 
 "I haven't the least doubt about it whatsoever, if it 
 was all as you say." 
 
 I gave a thin, sudden cry. I couldn't help it — it was 
 forced from me. Then, of my own act, I pulled the cloth
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 169 
 
 once more over the dead face. It had spoken to me in 
 such a manner as its love had never expressed in Hfe. 
 
 "You have vindicated me, my sweetheart of the old 
 days/' I murmured. "Good-by, Dolly, till I may witness 
 your love that is undying in another world." 
 
 I think the doctor fancied that the trouble of the night 
 had turned my brain. What did it matter what he 
 thought — what anybody thought now? I stood acquitted 
 at the bar of my own conscience. In my first knowledge 
 of that stupendous relief I could find no place for one 
 other sentiment but crazy gratitude. 
 
 As I stood, half-stunned in the shock of emotion, the 
 officer I awaited entered the room bearing in his hand a 
 slip of paper. 
 
 "The letter's detained," he said, "but this here's the 
 address it's wrote from, and you'd better act upon it with- 
 out delay." 
 
 With a tremendous efifort I swept together my scat- 
 tered faculties and took it from him. 
 
 It was not much information that the paper contained 
 — an address only from a certain "Nelson terrace" in 
 Battersea — but such as it was I held it in common with 
 Duke, whose sole advantage was a brief start of me. 
 
 Calling back my thanks to the friendly constable, I 
 hurried into the street and so off and away in wild pur- 
 suit. 
 
 Still as I ran a phantom voice went with me, crying: 
 "You did not kill him — your brother Modred." 
 
 The rapture of it kept time to my hurrying footsteps; 
 it flew over and with me, like the albatross of hope, and 
 brought the breeze of a healthfuler promise on its wings; 
 it spoke from the faces of people I passed, as if they 
 wished me to know as I swept by that I was no longer 
 in their eyes a man of blood. 
 
 "You did not kill him !" it sung in my brain — "you 
 did not kill him — you did not kill him" — then all in a 
 moment, with a dying shock: "Who did?" 
 
 I stopped, as if I had run against a wall. I swear, till 
 then no shadowy thought of this side of the question had 
 darkened my heart in passing.
 
 170 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Still, impelled to an awful haste, I beat the whole 
 horror resolutely to one side and rushed on my way. 
 "Presently — presently," I muttered, "I will sit down and 
 rest and think it over from beginning to end." 
 
 By that time I was in a street of ugly cockney houses 
 stretching monotonously on either side. I was speed- 
 ing down it, seeking its name, and convinced from my 
 inquiries that I could not be far from my destination, 
 when something standing crouched against a low front 
 garden wall, where it met the angle of a tall brick gate 
 post, caught the tail of my eye and stopped me with a 
 jerk. It was Duke, and I had run him down. 
 
 He spat a curse from his drawn, white lips, as I faced 
 him, and bade me begone as I valued my life. 
 
 "Duke," I panted, watchful of him, "I do value it now 
 — never mind why. I value it far above his you have 
 come to take. But he is my brother — and you were once 
 my friend." 
 
 "No longer — I swear it," he cried, blazing out on me 
 dreadfully. "Will you go while there's time?" 
 
 Then he assumed a mockery more bitter than his 
 rage. 
 
 "Harkee!" he whispered. 'This isn't the place. I 
 came here to be out of the way and rest. I'll go home 
 by and by." 
 
 "Will you come with me now?" 
 
 "With you? Haven't I had enough of you Trenders? 
 I put it to you as a reasonable man." 
 
 As he spoke the wail of a young child came through 
 the window of an upper room of the house adjoining. At 
 the sound he seized my wrists in one of his hands with the 
 grip of iron forceps. 
 
 "Listen there!" he muttered. "That's his child, do you 
 hear? He perpetuates his wicked race without a scruple. 
 Wouldn't it be a good thing now to cut down the poison- 
 ous weed root and branch?'' 
 
 I stared at him in horror. Hardly till this moment 
 had the fact of Jason's being married recurred to me 
 since I first heard of it the night before. 
 
 "His child?" I echoed.
 
 THE MILL DF SILENCE. 171 
 
 "What's the fool gaping at? Would his pretty decep- 
 tion be complete without a wife and baby in the back- 
 ground to spur his fancy?" 
 
 The door of the adjoining house was opened and a 
 light footfall came down the steps. I saw a devil leap 
 into Duke's eyes, and on the instant sprung at him. 
 
 He had me down directly, for his strength was fearful, 
 but I clutched him frantically as I fell, and he couldn't 
 shake me off. 
 
 Struggling — sobbing — warding my head as best I 
 could from his battering blows — I yet could find voice 
 to cry from the ground — "Jason, in God's name run! 
 He's going to murder you!" 
 
 Up and down on the pavement — bruised, bleeding, 
 wrenched this way and that, but never letting go my hold, 
 I felt my strength, already exhausted by the long toiling 
 of the night, ebbing surely from me. Then in the 
 moment of its final collapse the dreadful incubus was 
 snatched from me, and I rose half-blinded to my feet to 
 see Duke in the grasp of a couple of stalwart navvies, 
 who on their way to work had come to my assistance. 
 
 Trapped and overcome, he made no further struggle, 
 but submitted quietly to his captors, his chest rising and 
 falling convulsively. 
 
 "Don't let him go!" I panted; "he means murder!" 
 
 "We've got him fast enough," said one burly fellow. 
 "Any bones broke, master?" 
 
 "No," said I; "I'm only a bit bruised." 
 
 "Renny," said the prisoner, in a low, broken voice, 
 "have vou ever known me lie?" 
 
 "Never. What then?" 
 
 "Tell them to take their hands ofif and I'll go." 
 
 "That won't do. You may come back." 
 
 "Not till the inquest's over. Is that a fair offer? I 
 can do nothing here now. I only ask one thing — that I 
 may speak a word, standing at the gate, to that skulking 
 coward yonder. I swear I won't touch him or pass inside 
 the gate." 
 
 I turned to the two men.
 
 172 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "I'll answer for him now," I said. "He never says 
 what he doesn't mean. You can let him go." 
 
 They did so reluctantly, remonstrating a little and 
 ready to pounce on him at once did he show sign of 
 breaking his parole. 
 
 He picked up his hat and walked straight to the gate. 
 Jason, who had been standing on the upmost step of the 
 flight that led to the open door, regarding the strange 
 struggle beneath him with starting eyes, moved a pace 
 or two nearer shelter, with his head slewed backward in 
 a hangdog fashion. 
 
 "Mr. Trender," said Duke, in a hideous, mocking 
 voice, "Miss Dolly Mellison sends her compliments and 
 she drowned herself last night." 
 
 I could see my brother stagger where he stood, and 
 his face grow pale as a sheet. 
 
 "I won't discuss the matter further just now," went on 
 the cripple, "as I am under promise to these gentlemen. 
 After the inquest I may, perhaps, have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 He swept him a grotesque, ironical bow, another to us, 
 and walked ofl: down the street. 
 
 When he was out of sight, I turned to the men, thanked 
 them warmly for their assistance, recompensed them to 
 the best of my ability and ran up the steps to the house. 
 
 I found my brother inside, leaning white and shaky 
 against the wall. 
 
 I shut the door and addressed myself to him roughly. 
 
 "Come," I said. "There's a necessity for action here. 
 Where can we talk together?" 
 
 "How did you find me?" he said, faintly. "It isn't 
 true, is it? — no — not there" — for I was turning to the 
 door of a back room that seemed to promise privacy. 
 
 "Where, then?" I said, impatiently. "Hurry, man! 
 This is no time for dallying." 
 
 He tried to pull himself together. For the moment he 
 seemed utterly unnerved. 
 
 "Jason," cried a voice from the very room I had ap- 
 proached. 
 
 I dropped my stick with a crash on the floor.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 173 
 
 "Who's that?" I said, in a loud, wavering voice. 
 
 The handle turned. He came weakly from his corner 
 to put himself before me. It was too late, for the door 
 had opened and a woman, with a baby in her arms, was 
 standing on the threshold. 
 
 And the woman was Zyp. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVHI. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 In the first shock of the vision I did not realize to its 
 full extent the profoundness of my brother's villainy or 
 of my own loss. Indeed, for the moment I was so 
 numbed with amazement as to find place for no darker 
 sentiment in my breast. 
 
 "Why, it's Renny!'' said Zyp, and my heart actually 
 rose with a brief exultation to hear my name on her lips 
 once more. 
 
 The game once taken out of his hands, Jason, with 
 characteristic sang froid, withdrew into the background, 
 prepared to let the waters of destiny thunder over his 
 head. 
 
 The very complication of the situation reacted upon 
 him in such manner, I think, as to brace him up to a 
 single defiance of fate. From the moment Zyp appeared 
 he was almost his brazen self again. 
 
 "Zyp," I muttered, "what are you doing here?" 
 
 "What a wife generally does in her husband's house, 
 old fellow — getting in the way." 
 
 It was my brother who spoke, and in a moment the 
 trufli burst upon me. 
 
 "You are married?" I said. 
 
 "Yes," said Zyp; "this is our baby." 
 
 "You dog!" I cried I turned upon him madly. 
 
 "You hound! You dog!" 
 
 Zyp threw herself upon her knees on the threshold of 
 the room.
 
 174 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "Yes," she cried, "he is, and I never knew it till two 
 nights ago, when the girl found her way here. She didn't 
 know he had a wife and it broke her heart. I can under- 
 stand that now. But you mustn't hurt him, Renny." 
 
 "The girl has drowned herself, Zyp." 
 
 "And not for you, Renny? He said it was you she 
 loved and that he was the mediator. Was that a lie?" 
 
 "It was a lie!" 
 
 "I thought then it was. I never believed him as I 
 believed you. But tell me you won't hurt him — he's my 
 husband. Swear on this, Renny." 
 
 With an infinitely pathetic action she held toward me 
 the little bundle she had clasped all through in her arms. 
 It woke and wailed as she lifted it up. 
 
 "It cries to you, too," she said; "my little Zyp, that 
 pleads for her daddy." 
 
 Jason gave a short, ironical laugh. 
 
 Sick at heart, I motioned the young mother to rise. 
 
 "Not till you swear," she said. 
 
 "I swear, Zyp." 
 
 She got up then and led the way into the little dingy 
 sitting-room from which she had issued. A cradle stood 
 by the fire and an empty feeding bottle lay on the table. 
 How strange it seemed that Zyp should own them! 
 
 Jason followed as far as the door, where he stood 
 leaning. 
 
 Then in the cold light of morning I saw how wan 
 was the face of the changeling of old days; how piercing 
 were her eyes; how sadly had the mere animal beauty 
 shrunk to make way for the soul. 
 
 "You are brown, Renny," she said, with a pitiful at- 
 tempt at gayety. "You look old and wise to us poor 
 butterflies of existence." 
 
 "Oh," said Jason. "I see you are set for confidences 
 and that I'm in the way. I'll go out for a walk." 
 
 "Stop!" I cried, turning on him once more. "Go, as 
 far as I am concerned, and God grant I may never see 
 your face again. But understand one thing. Keep out 
 of the way of the man I fought with just now for your 
 sake. He promised, but even the promises of good and
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 175 
 
 just men may fail under temptation. Keep out of his 
 way, I warn you — now and always." 
 
 "I'nj obliged to you," he answered, in a high- 
 strung voice; "it seems to be a choice of evils. I prefer 
 evil anyway in the open air." 
 
 I said not a word more and he left us, and I heard the 
 front door close on him. Then I turned to Zyp with an 
 agony I could not control, and she was crooning over 
 her baby. 
 
 "Zyp, I oughtn't to say it, I know. But — oh, Zyp ! I 
 thought all these years you might be waiting for me." 
 
 "Hush, Renny! You wrote so seldom, and — and I 
 was a changeling, you know, and longed for light and 
 pleasure. And he seemed to promise them — he was so 
 beautiful, and so loving when he chose." 
 
 "And you married him?" 
 
 "Dad wouldn't hear of it. Sometimes I think, Ren- 
 ny, he was your champion — dad, I mean — and wanted to 
 keep me for you ; and the very suspicion made me rebel- 
 lious. And in the end, we were married at a registrar's 
 office, there in Winton, unknown to anybody." 
 
 "How long ago was that?" 
 
 "It was last Februar}% and sometime in August dad 
 found it out and there was a scene. So Jason brought 
 me to London." 
 
 "Why, what was he doing to keep a wife?" 
 
 "I know nothing about that. Such things never enter 
 my head, I think. He always seemed to have money. 
 Perhaps dad gave it to him. He was afraid of Jason, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 "Zyp, why didn't you ever — why did none of you ever 
 write to me about this?" 
 
 "Why, dad wrote, Renny! I know he did, the day we 
 left. He wanted you to come home again, now he was 
 alone." 
 
 "To come home? I never got the letter." 
 
 "But he wrote, I'm certain, and didn't Jason tell you?" 
 
 "He told me nothing — I didn't even know he was mar- 
 ried till yesterday."
 
 176 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I bent over the young- wife as she sat rocking her 
 baby. 
 
 "Zyp, I must go. My heart is very full of misery and 
 confusion. I must walk it off or sleep it off, or I think 
 perhaps I shall go mad." 
 
 "Did you love that girl, Renny?" 
 
 "No, Zyp. I have never had but one love in my life; 
 and that I must say no more about. I have to speak to 
 you, however, about one who did — a fierce, strong man, 
 and utterly reckless when goaded to revenge. He is a 
 fellow-workman of mine — he used to be my best friend — 
 and, Zyp, his whole unselfish heart was given to this 
 poor girl. But it was her happiness he strove after, and 
 when he fancied that was centered in me — not him — 
 he sacrificed himself and urged me to win. And I should 
 have tried, for I was very lonely in the world, but that 
 Jason — you know the truth already, Zyp — Jason came 
 and took her from me; that was three months ago, and 
 last night she drowned herself." 
 
 Zyp looked up at me. Her eyes were swimming in 
 tears, 
 
 "I suppose a better woman would leave such a hus- 
 band," she said, with a pitiful sigh, "but I think of the 
 little baby, Renny." 
 
 "A true woman, dear, would remain with him, as you 
 will in his dark hour. That is coming now ; that is what 
 I want to warn you about in all terrible earnestness. Zyp, 
 this fierce man I told you about came here this morning 
 to kill your husband. I was in time to keep him back, 
 but that was only once. A promise was forced from 
 him that he would do nothing more until the inquest is 
 over. That promise, unless he is dreadfully tempted, he 
 will keep, I am sure. But afterward Jason won't be safe 
 for an hour. You must get him to leave here at once. 
 
 She had risen and was staring at me with frightened 
 eyes. I could not help but act upon her terror. 
 
 "Don't delay. Move now — this day, if possible, and go 
 secretly and hide yourselves where he can't find you. I 
 don't think Jason will be wanted at the inquest. In any
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 177 
 
 case he mustn't be found. I say this with all the earnest- 
 ness I am capable of. I know the man and his nature, 
 and the hideous wrong he has suffered." 
 
 I wrote down my address and gave it to her. 
 
 "Remember," I said, "if you ever want me to seek me 
 there. But come quietly and excite the least observation 
 you can." 
 
 Then gently I lifted the flannel from the tiny waxen 
 face lying on her arm, and, kissing the pink lips for her 
 mother's sake, walked steadily from the room and shut 
 the door behind me. 
 
 As I gained the hall, Jason, returning, let himself in by 
 the front door. He looked nervous and flustered. For 
 all his bravado he had found, I suppose, a very brief 
 ordeal of the streets sufficient. 
 
 "I should like a word with you," I said, "before I go." 
 
 "Well," he answered, "the atmosphere seems all mys- 
 tery and righteousness. Come in here." 
 
 He preceded me into the front room and closed the 
 door upon us. Then I looked him full in the face. 
 
 "Who killed Modred?" I said. 
 
 He gave a great start; then a laugh. 
 
 "You're the one to answer that," he said. 
 
 "You lie, as you always do. My eyes have been 
 opened at last — at last, do you hear? Modred was never 
 drowned. He recovered and was killed by other means 
 during the night.'' 
 
 His affectation of merriment stopped, cut through at 
 a blow. A curious spasm twitched his face. 
 
 "Well," he muttered, looking down, away from me, 
 "that may be true and you none the less guilty." 
 
 "A hateful answer and quite worthy of you," I said, 
 quietly. "Nevertheless, you know it, as well as I do, to be 
 a brutal falsehood." 
 
 I seized him by the shoulder and forced him to lift his 
 hangdog face. 
 
 "My God!" I whispered, awfully, "I believe you killed 
 him yourself." 
 
 It burst upon me with a shock. Why should he not 
 have done it? His resentment over Zyp's preference
 
 178 THE "MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 was as much of a motive with him as with me — ten 
 thousand times more so, taking his nature into account 
 and the immunity from risk my deed had opened to him. 
 I remembered the scene by the river, when Zyp was 
 drowning, and my hand shook as I held him. 
 
 He sprung from me. 
 
 "I didn't — I didn't !" he shrieked. "How dare you say 
 such a thing?" 
 
 "Oh," I groaned, "shall I hand you over to Duke 
 Straw, when the time comes, and be quit of you for- 
 ever?" 
 
 "Don't be a cruel brute !" he answered, almost whimper- 
 ing. "I didn't do it, I tell you. But perhaps he didn't 
 die of drowning, and I may have had my suspicions." 
 
 "Of me?" 
 
 "No, no — not really of you, upon my oath; but some 
 one else.'' 
 
 "And yet all these years you have held the horror over 
 my head and have made wicked capital out of it." 
 
 "I wanted the changeling — that was why." 
 
 I threw him from me, so that he staggered against the 
 wall. 
 
 "You are such a despicable beast," I said, "that I'll 
 pollute my hands with you no longer. Answer me one 
 thing more. Where's the letter my father wrote to me 
 when you were leaving Winton?" 
 
 "It went to your old lodgings. The man handed it 
 to me to give to you when I called there." 
 
 "And you tore it up?'' 
 
 "Yes. I didn't want you to know Zyp and I were 
 married." 
 
 "Now, I've done with you. For Zyp's sake I give you 
 the chance of escaping from the dreadful fate that awaits 
 you if you get in that other's way. I warn you — nothing 
 further. For the rest, never come near me again, or 
 look to me to hold out a finger of help to you. Beyond 
 that, if you breathe one more note of the hideous slander 
 with which you have pursued me for years, I go heart 
 and soul with Duke in destroying you. You may be 
 guilty of Modred's death, as you are in God's sight the
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 179 
 
 murderer of that unhappy child who has gone to His 
 judgment." 
 
 "I didn't kill him," he muttered again; and with that, 
 without another word or look, I left him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A SUDDEN DETERMINATION. 
 
 The inquest was over; the jury had returned a merci- 
 ful verdict; the mortal perishing part of poor, weak and 
 lovable Dolly was put gently out of sight for the daisies 
 to grow over by and by. 
 
 Jason had been called, but, not responding, and his 
 presumed evidence being judged not necessarily material 
 to the inquir}'-, had escaped the responsibility of an exam- 
 ination and, as I knew, for the time being at least a 
 deadlier risk. Mention of his name left an ugly stain on 
 the proceedings, and that was all. 
 
 Now, night after night, alone with myself and my de- 
 spair, I sat brooding over the wreck and ruin of my life. 
 Zyp, so far as this life was concerned, could never now 
 be mine; and full realization of this had burst upon me 
 only at the moment when the moral barrier that had 
 divided me from her was broken down. That wound 
 must forevermore eat like a cancer within me. 
 
 Then, in the worst writhing moments of my anguish, 
 a new savage lust of sleuth began to prickle and crawl 
 over me like a leprosy. If all else were taken from me 
 I still had that interest to cheer me through life — the 
 hounding of my brother's murderer. This feeling was 
 curiously intermingled with a revival in my heart of loy- 
 alty to Modred. He had been my friend — at least inex- 
 tricably kin to me in a common cause against the world. 
 When I turned to the vile figure of the brother who sur- 
 vived, the dead boy's near-forgotten personality showed 
 up in a light almost lovably humorous and pathetic. My 
 fevered soul bathed itself in the memory of his whimsi-
 
 180 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 calities, till very tenderness begot an oath that I would 
 never rest till I had tracked down his destroyer. 
 
 And was Jason that? If it were so, I could afford to 
 stand aside for the present and leave him to the mercy 
 of a deadlier Nemesis he had summoned to his own un- 
 doing. 
 
 Set coldly, at the same time, on a justice that should 
 be passionless, I bore in mind my brother's hint of a 
 suspicion that involved some other person whom he left 
 nameless. This might be — probably was — a mere ruse 
 to throw me off the scent. In any case I should refuse 
 to hold him acquitted in the absence of directer evi- 
 dence. 
 
 Still I could not stay a certain speculative wandering 
 of my thoughts. If not Jason — who then? There were 
 in the house that night but the usual family circle and 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe. What possible temptation could 
 induce any one of them to a deed so horrible? Jason 
 alone of them had the temptation and the interest, and, 
 above all, the nature to act upon a hideous impulse. On 
 Jason must lie the suspicion till he could prove himself 
 innocent. 
 
 It was not until about the third night of my gloomy 
 pondering that the sudden resolution was formed in me 
 to leave everything and return to my father. The fact of 
 Zyp's reference to the letter he had sent me had been so 
 completely absorbed in the tense excitement of the last 
 few days that when in a moment it recurred to me I 
 leaped to my feet and began pacing the room like a caged 
 animal that scents freedom. 
 
 So the old man in his loneliness desired me back 
 again. Why not go? The accustomed life here seemed 
 impossible to me any longer. The notoriety attaching 
 to these pitiful proceedings was already making my regu- 
 lar attendance at the ofifice a sore trial. Duke had sent 
 in his resignation the very morning of his attack on me 
 before Jason's house. All old ties were rent and done 
 with. I was, in a modest way, financially independent, 
 for Ripley's generous acknowledgment of my services, 
 coupled with my own frugal manner of life, had enabled
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 181 
 
 me to put into certain investments sufficient to produce 
 an interest that would keep me, at least, from starvation. 
 And, in addition, how could I prosecute my secret 
 inquiries better than on the very scene of the deed? I 
 would go. My decision was sudden and final. I would 
 
 go- 
 Then and there I sat down and wrote a brief letter to 
 
 my father. 
 
 "I have only within the last few days," I said, "learned 
 of the letter you wrote me three months ago. Jason de- 
 stroyed it lest I should find out he was married to Zyp. 
 I now tell you that I am ready to do as you wish — to 
 return and live with you, if you still desire it. In any 
 case, I can endure my present life here no longer. Upon 
 receipt of a word from you I will come." 
 
 As I wrote, the wind, bringing clouds of rain with it, 
 was booming and thundering against the window. Soft 
 weather had succeeded to the ice-breathing blasts of a 
 few days back, and I thought of a lonely grave out there 
 in the night of London, and of how just now the water 
 must be gushing in veins and runnels over its clayey 
 barrow. 
 
 Dolly — Dolly! May it wash clean your poor wounded 
 heart. "After life's fitful fever" you sleep well; while we 
 — oh, shamed and fallen child! Which of us who walks 
 straightly before our fellows would not forego passion 
 and revenge, and all the hot raptures of this blood-red 
 world, to lie down with you deep in the cool, sweet earth 
 and rest and forget? 
 
 I went out and posted my letter. The streets were 
 swept clean of their human refuse. Only a few belated 
 vehicles trundled it out against the downpour, setting 
 their polished roofs as shields against the myriad-pointed 
 darts of the storm. 
 
 Feeling nervous and upset, I was approaching my own 
 door, when a figure started from a dark angle of the wall 
 close by and stood before me. 
 
 "Duke!" I cried. 
 
 He was drenched with rain and mud — his vlark clothes 
 splashed and saturated from boot to collar. His face in
 
 182 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 the drowned lamplight was white as wax, but his eyes 
 burned in rings of shadow. I was shocked beyond ex- 
 pression at his dreadful appearance. 
 
 "What have you been doing with yourself?" I cried. 
 "Duke! Come in, for pity's sake, and rest, and let us 
 talk." 
 
 "With you?" he muttered, in a mad, grating voice. 
 "With any Trender? I came to ask you where he's in 
 hiding— that's all." 
 
 "I know no more than you do." 
 
 "You lie! You're keeping his secret for him. What 
 were her claims compared to family ties — devil's ties — 
 such as yours? You know, but you won't give him up 
 to me." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He raised and ground his hands together in exquisite 
 passion. 
 
 "They drive me to madness," he cried, "but in the end 
 — in the end I shall have him! To hold him down and 
 torture the life out of him inch by inch, with the terror 
 in his eyes all the time! Why, I could kill him by that 
 alone — by only looking at him." 
 
 He gloated over the picture called up in his soul. If 
 ever demon's eyes looked from a human face, they looked 
 from his that night. 
 
 "Duke," I whispered in horror, "you have terrible 
 cause for hate, I know; but oh, think of how one grain 
 of forgiveness on your part would stand you with — with 
 God, Duke." 
 
 He gave a wretched, sickening laugh. 
 
 "By and by," he cried. "But tell me first where he's 
 hiding!" 
 
 "I don't know," I said. "Duke " and I held out a 
 
 yearning hand to him. 
 
 At that he struck at me savagely and, running crooked- 
 ly into the night, was lost in the rainy darkness.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 I GO HOME. 
 
 So much of strange incident had crowded with action 
 the long years of my Hfe in London, that, as I walked 
 from the station down into the old cathedral town, a 
 feeling of wonder was on me that the hand of time had 
 dealt so gently with the landmarks of my youth. Here 
 were the same old gates and churches and houses I had 
 known, unaltered unless for an additional film of the 
 fragrant lichen of age. The very ruins of the ancient 
 castle and palace were stone by stone such as I remem- 
 bered them. 
 
 There was frost in the air, too ; so that sometimes, as I 
 moved dreamily onward, a sense as if all that gap of vivid 
 life were a vanished vision and unreality moved strongly 
 in me. Then it seemed that presently I should saunter 
 into the old mill to find my father and Zyp and Jason 
 sitting down as usual to the midday meal. 
 
 My appearance was so changed that none of all w^ho 
 would formerly have somewhat sourly acknowledged my 
 passing with a nod now recognized me. 
 
 Suddenly I caught sight of Dr. Crackenthorpe, moving 
 on in front of me in company with another man. The 
 doctor was no more altered than his surroundings, 
 judged at least by his back view. This presented the 
 sam.e long rusty coat of a chocolate color — relic of a by- 
 gone generation, I always thought — cut after a slightly 
 sporting fashion, which he wore in all my memory of him 
 throughout the winter; half- Wellington boots, into which 
 the ends of his trousers were tucked, and a flat-topped, 
 hard felt hat, under the brim of which his lank tails of 
 brick-colored hair fell in dry, thin tassels. 
 
 The man he walked with seemed old and bent, and 
 he moved with a spiritless, hesitating step that appeared 
 to cause the other some impatience.
 
 184 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 I was so far from claiming knowledge of this second 
 person that, when he turned his head aside a moment 
 to gaze upon something as I came near, it was with a 
 most painful shock that I discovered it to he my father. 
 
 I hurried up, calling to him. He gave a great start — 
 they both did — and turned round to meet me. 
 
 Then I was terribly taken aback to see the change 
 that had come over him. He, whom four years ago I 
 had left hale, self-reliant, powerful in body and intellect, 
 was to all appearance a halting and decrepit old man, in 
 whom the worst sign was the senile indecision of his 
 eyes. 
 
 He came at me, holding out both his hands in welcome 
 with trembling eagerness, and I was much moved to see 
 some glint of tears furrowing his cheeks. 
 
 "Renalt, my boy — Renalt, my boy!" he cried in a glad- 
 some, thin voice, and that was all ; for he could find words 
 for no more, but stood looking up in my face — I topped 
 him now — with a half-searching, half-deprecating ear- 
 nestness of perusal. 
 
 "Well, dad," I answered, cheerfully — for I would give 
 no hint of surprise before the other — "you said 'come,' 
 and here I am." 
 
 "A brave fellow — a brown, strong man!" He was 
 feeling me over as he spoke — running his thumb down 
 the sinews of my hands — pinching the firm arm in my 
 sleeve. 
 
 "A strong man, my boy," he said. "I bred him — he's 
 my son — I was the same myself once." 
 
 "You find your father altered — eh, Mr. Bookbinder?" 
 
 "If he is at all, doctor, it's nothing that won't improve 
 on a little management and wholesome company." 
 
 "Well, he's had plenty of mine." 
 
 "Then his state's accounted for," I said. 
 
 The long man looked at me with an expression not 
 pleasant. 
 
 "Ay," he said. "There's the old spirit forward again. 
 We've done very well without it since the last of the fry 
 took themselves off."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 185 
 
 "It's not company you batten on, doctor," I said. "But 
 loneliness breeds other evils than coin-collecting.'' 
 
 He gtared at me a moment, then took off his hat with an 
 ironical sweep. 
 
 "I mustn't forget my manners to a London rattle," he 
 said. "No doubt you pride yourself on a very pretty 
 wit, sir. But while you talk my lunch grows cold; so 
 I'll even take the liberty of wishing you good-morning." 
 
 He walked off, snapping his fingers on either side of 
 him. 
 
 When he was gone, I took my father's arm and passed 
 it through mine. 
 
 "Strong boy," he said, affectionately — then whispered 
 in my ear: "That's a terrible man, Renalt! Be careful 
 before you offend him." 
 
 I looked at him in startled wonder. This was not how 
 he was used to speak. 
 
 "I hold him as cheap as any other dog," said I. 
 
 He patted my hand with a little sigh of comfortable 
 admiration. 
 
 "I want you at home," he said, "all to myself. I'm 
 glad that you've come, Renalt. It's lonely in the old mill 
 nowadays." 
 
 As we walked, my heart was filled with remorseful pon- 
 dering over the wrecked figure at my side. Why had I 
 never known of this change in it? What had caused it, 
 indeed? Gloomy, sinister remembrances of my one- 
 time suspicion of some nameless hold that the doctor had 
 over my father stirred in me and woke a deep anger 
 against fate. Were we all of us, for no fault of our own, 
 to be forever stunted in our lives and oppressed by the 
 malign influence of the place that had given us birth? 
 It was hateful and monstrous. What fight could a hu- 
 man being show against foes who shot their poison from 
 places beyond the limits of his understanding? 
 
 A trifie more aged looking — a trifle more crazy and 
 dark and weather-stained — the old mill looked to my 
 returning vision, and that was all. The atmosphere of 
 the place was cold and eerie and haunted as ever. 
 
 But a great feast awaited the returned prodigal. The
 
 186 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 sitting-room table fairly sparkled with unwonted dainties 
 of the season, and a red lire crackled on the hearth. 
 
 My father pressed me into a chair; he heaped good 
 things upon my plate ; he could not do enough to prove 
 the warmth of his welcome and the pathos of loneliness 
 that underlay it. 
 
 "Here's to my strong son!" he cried, pledging me 
 gayly in a glass of weak wine and water; "my son that 
 I'm feasting for all the doctor — for all the doctor, I 
 say!" 
 
 "The doctor, dad?" 
 
 "He wouldn't have had it, Renalt. He said it was 
 throwing pearls before swine and most wicked waste. I 
 wouldn't listen to him this time — not I." 
 
 "Why, what has he got to do with it?" 
 
 "Hush !" he paused in his sipping and looked all about 
 him, with a fearful air of listening. 
 
 "He's a secret man," he whispered, "and the mill's as 
 full of ears as a king's palace," 
 
 I made no answer, but went on with my meal, though 
 I had much ado to swallow it; but to please my father I 
 made a great show of enjoying what was put before me. 
 
 One thing I noticed with satisfaction, and that was 
 that my father drank sparingly and that only of wine 
 watered to insipidity. Indeed, I was to find that a com- 
 plete change in him in this respect was not the least 
 marvelous sign of the strange alteration in his tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 The meal over, we drew our chairs to the fire, and 
 talked the afternoon away on desultory subjects. By 
 and by some shadowy spirit of his old intellectual self 
 seemed to flash and flicker fitfully through his conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 The afternoon deepened into dusk; strange phantoms, 
 wrought of the leaping flame, came out of corners or 
 danced from wall to ceiling and were gone. He was in 
 the midst of a fine flow of words descriptive of some 
 metaphysical passages he had lately encountered in a 
 book, when his voice trailed oiif and died away. He
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 187 
 
 crept to me and whispered in my ear: "He's there, behind 
 the door!" 
 
 I jumped to my feet, rushed across the room and — met 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe on the threshold. 
 
 "Can't you come in hke a decent visitor?" I cried, 
 stamping my foot on the floor. 
 
 He looked pale and, I thought, embarrassed, and he 
 backed a little before my onset. 
 
 "Why, what's all this?" he said. "I walked straight 
 up the stairs, as a body should." 
 
 "You made no noise," I said, black and wrathful. 
 "What right have you to prowl into a private house in 
 that fashion?" 
 
 For a moment his face fell menacing. But it cleared 
 — if such may express the lightening of those muddy 
 features — almost immediately. 
 
 "Here's a fine reception!" he cried, "for one who comes 
 to greet the returned prodigal in all good comradeship; 
 and to an old friend, too!" 
 
 "You were never ours," I muttered. 
 
 He plucked a bottle of gin from under his arm, where 
 he had been carrying it. 
 
 "Your father has given up the pernicious habit," he 
 said, with a grin, "but I thought, perhaps, he'd break his 
 rule for once on such a stupendous occasion as this. Let 
 us pledge you in a full bumper, Mr. Renalt." 
 
 "Pledge whom you like," I answered, surlily, "but don't 
 ask a return from me. I don't drink spirit." 
 
 "Then you miss a very exquisite and esthetic pleasure, 
 I may say. Try it this only time. Glasses, Mr. Trender." 
 
 I saw my father waver, and guessed this unwonted 
 liberality on the part of the doctor was calculated to some 
 end of his own. In an access of rage I seized the full 
 bottle and spun it with all my might against the wooden 
 wall of the room. It crashed into a thousand flying 
 splinters, and the pungent liquor flooded the floor be- 
 neath. 
 
 For an instant the doctor stood quite dumfounded, 
 and went all the colors of the prism. Then he walked 
 very gently to the door and turned on the threshold.
 
 188 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "You were always an unlicked cub," he said, softly, 
 "but this transcends all your past pleasantries. 
 
 "I mean it to," I said, still in a towering passion. "I 
 intend it as a hint that you had best keep away from here. 
 I've no cause to remember you with love, and from this 
 time, understand, you've no claim of friendship upon this 
 household." 
 
 "I will remember," he said. "I always do. Perhaps 
 I've another sort of claim, though. Who knows?" 
 
 He nodded at me grimly once or twice, like an evil 
 mandarin, and walked off, down the stairs. 
 
 I looked at my father. He was sitting, his hands clasp- 
 ing the elbows of his chair, with a wild, lost look upon his 
 face. 
 
 "What have you done?" he whispered. "Renalt, what 
 have you done? We are in that man's power to ruin us 
 at a word !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 
 
 The explanation I had desired for the morrow I deter- 
 mined to bring about there and then. I went and stood 
 above the old man and looked down upon him. 
 
 "Dad," I said, softly, "once before, if you remember, 
 I came to you heart-full of the question that I am now 
 going to put to you again. I was a boy then, and likely 
 you did right in refusing me your confidence. Now I 
 am a man, and, dad, a man whose soul has been badly 
 wounded in its sore struggle with life." 
 
 He had drooped forward as I began, but at this he 
 raised his head and looked me earnestly in the eyes. 
 
 "I know, Renalt. It was I broke the bottle then, as 
 you have now. You have taken the lead into your own 
 hands. What is it you'd ask?" 
 
 "Don't you know, dad?" 
 
 "Yes, I know. Give me a little time and perhaps some 
 day ril tell you."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 189 
 
 "Why not now, dad?" 
 
 He seemed to muse a little space, with his brows gone 
 into furrows of calculation. 
 
 "Why not?" he muttered. "Why not?" 
 
 Suddenly he leaned forward and said softly: 
 
 "Has it ever concerned you to think what might be 
 the source of your father's income?" 
 
 "I have thought of it, dad, many and many a time. It 
 wasn't for me to ask. I have tried to force myself to 
 believe that it came from our grandfather." 
 
 "He was a just man, Renalt, and a hard. I married 
 against his will and he never spoke to me afterward." 
 
 "But the mill " 
 
 "The mill he left to me, as it had been left to him. He 
 would not, in his justice, deprive me of the means of 
 living. 'What my hands have wrought of this, his may 
 do,' he wrote. But all his little personal estate he willed 
 elsewhere." 
 
 "And you never worked the mill?" 
 
 "For a time I worked it, to some profit. We began 
 not all empty-handed. She brought a little with her." 
 
 "My mother?" 
 
 At the word he half-started from his chair and sunk 
 back into it again. His eyes blazed as I had not seen 
 them do since my return. 
 
 "For twenty years and more," he shrieked, "that name 
 has never been on your lips — on the lips of any one of 
 you. I would have struck him down without pity that 
 spoke it!" 
 
 I stood looking at him amazed. For a moment he 
 seemed transformed — translated out of his fallen self — 
 for a moment and no more. His passion left him quak- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried, with a gasp, and looked up at me 
 beseeching — "you're not offended — you are not of- 
 fended, Renalt?" 
 
 "No, no," I said, impatiently. "You must tell me why, 
 dad. You will, won't you?" 
 
 He answered with a sobbing moan. 
 
 "You, her son, must not know. Haven't I been faith-
 
 190 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 ful to her? Have I ever by word or sign dishonored 
 her memory in her children's ears — my boy, have I?" 
 
 "I have never heard you mention her till now. I 
 have never dreamed of her but as a nameless shadow, 
 father." 
 
 "Let her be so always. She wrecked my life — in a day 
 she made me the dark brute you remember well. I was 
 not so always, Renalt. This long, degraded life of de- 
 spair and the bestial drowning of it were her doing — 
 hers, I tell you. Remorse! It has struggled to master 
 me, and 1 have laughed it away — all these years I have 
 laughed it away. Yet it was pitiful when she died. A 
 heart of stone would have wept to see her. But mine was 
 lead — lead — lead." 
 
 He dropped his head on his breast. I stood darkly 
 pondering in the quiet room. There seemed a stir and 
 rustling all round within the house, as if ghostly foot- 
 falls were restlessly pacing out their haunting penance. 
 
 "Renalt," said my father, presently; "never speak of 
 her; never mention her by that name. She passed and 
 left me what I am. I closed the mill and shut its door 
 and that of my heart to every genial influence that might 
 help it to forget. I had no wish to forget. In silence 
 and solitariness I fed upon myself till I became like to a 
 madman. Then I roused and went abroad more, for I 
 had a mission of search to attend to." 
 
 "You never found him?" 
 
 The words came to my lips instinctively. How could 
 I fail to interpret that part, at least, of the miserable 
 secret? 
 
 "To this day — never." 
 
 He answered preoccupied — suddenly heedless of my 
 assurance in so speaking. A new light had come to his 
 face — an unfamiliar one. I could have called it almost 
 the reflection of cunning — vanity — a self-complacent 
 smugness of retrospect. 
 
 "But I found something else," he cried, with a twitch- 
 ing smirk. 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 He leaned forward in a listening attitude.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 191 
 
 "Hush!" he murmured. "Was that a noise in the 
 house?" 
 
 "I heard nothing', dad." 
 
 He beckoned me to stand closer — ^to stoop to him. 
 
 "A jar of old Greek and Roman coins." 
 
 He fell back in his chair and stared up at me with 
 frightened eyes. The mystery was out, and an awful dis- 
 may seized him that at length in one moment of sentiment 
 he had parted with the secret that had been life to 
 him. 
 
 "What have I said?" he whispered, stilly. "Renalt, 
 you won't give any heed to the maundering of an old 
 man?" 
 
 I looked down on him pityingly. 
 
 "Don't fear me, father," I said, almost with a groan. 
 "I will never breathe a word of it to anybody." 
 
 "Good, dear boy," he answered, smiling. "I can trust 
 you, I know. You were always my favorite, Renalt, 
 and " 
 
 He broke off with a sudden, sharp cry. 
 
 "My favorite," and he stared up at me. "My favorite? 
 So kings treat their favorites!" 
 
 He passed a nervous hand across his forehead, his 
 wild eyes never leaving my face. I could make nothing 
 of his changing moods. 
 
 "What about the jar of coins?" I said. 
 
 "Ah!'' he muttered, the odd expression degrading his 
 features once more. "They were such a treasure it was 
 never one man's lot to acquire before or since — heaven's 
 compensation for the crueltv of the world." 
 
 "Where did you find them?" 
 
 "In an ancient barrow of the dead." he whispered, look- 
 ing fearfully around him — "there, on the downs. It had 
 rained heavily, and there had been a subsidence. I was 
 idly brooding, and idly flung a stone through a rent in 
 the soil. It tinkled upon something. I put in my hand 
 and touched and brought away a disk of metal. It was 
 a golden coin. I covered all up and returned at night, 
 unearthed the jar and brought it secretly home. It was 
 no great size, but full to the throat of gold. Then I
 
 Ifl2 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 knew that life had found me a new lease of pleasure. I 
 hid the jar where no one could discover it and set about 
 to enjoy the gift. It came in good time. The mill had 
 ceased to yield. My store of money was near spent. I 
 selected three or four of the likeliest coins and carried 
 them to a man in London that bought such things — a 
 numismatist he called himself. If he had any scruples 
 he smothered them then and afterward, in face of such 
 treasures as it made his eyes shoot green to look upon. 
 He asked me at first where I had got them. Hunting 
 about the downs, I said. That was the formula. He 
 never asked for more. He gave me a good price for 
 them, one by one, and made his heavier profit, no doubt, 
 on each. They yielded richly and went slowly. They 
 made an idle, debauched man of me, who forgot even his 
 revenge in the glut of possession." 
 
 He seemed even then to accuse himself, through an 
 affectation rather than a conviction of avarice. 
 
 "They went slowly," he repeated; "till — till — Renalt, 
 I would have loved you as boy was never loved, if you 
 
 had killed that doctor, as you killed " he stopped and 
 
 gave a thin cry of anguish. 
 
 "I didn't kill Modred, father. I know it now." 
 
 "No, no — you didn't," he half-whined in a cowering 
 voice. "Don't say I said it. I caught myself up." 
 
 "We'll talk about that presently. The doctor " 
 
 "That night, you remember," he cried, passionately, 
 "when I dropped a coin and he saw it — that was the be- 
 ginning. Oh, he has a hateful greed for such things. 
 A wicked, suspicious nature. He soon began cajoling, 
 threatening, worming my secret out of me. I had to 
 silence him now and again or he would have exposed 
 me to the world and wrenched my one devouring happi- 
 ness from me." 
 
 "You gave him some of the coins?" 
 
 "He has had enough to melt into a grill as big as St. 
 Lawrence's, and he shall fry on it some day. More than 
 that — more than that!" 
 
 He clenched his hands in impotent fury. 
 
 "There was one thing in the jar worth a soul's ran-
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 193 
 
 som — a :ameo, Renalt, that I swear was priceless — I, 
 who speak from intuition — not knowledge. The beauty 
 of the old world was crystallized in it. An emperor 
 would ave pawned his crown to buy it." 
 
 His words brought before me with a shock the night 
 of Modred's death, when I had stood listening on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "One evening — a terrible evening, Renalt — when I 
 went to fetch a new bribe for him from the hiding-place 
 (he demanded it before he would move a finger to help 
 that poor boy upstairs), I found this cameo gone. He 
 swore he hadn't set eyes on it, and to this day I believe 
 he lied. How can I tell — how can I tell? Twenty times 
 a week, perhaps, my vice brought the secret almost with- 
 in touch of discovery. Sometimes for days together I 
 would carry this gem in my pocket, and take it out when 
 alone and gaze on it with exquisite rapture. Then for 
 months it would lie safely hidden again. If I had drop- 
 ped and lost it in one of my fits — as he suggested — 
 should I have never heard of it again? Renalt" — he held 
 out two trembling hands to me — "it was the darling of 
 my heart! Find it for me and I will bless you forever." 
 
 He ended almost with a sob. I could have wept my- 
 self over the pitiful degeneration of a noble intellect. 
 
 "Father, you said he cajoled — threatened. Didn't you 
 ever reveal to him " 
 
 "Where the jar was hid? No; a million times, no! He 
 would have sucked me dry of the last coin. He knew that 
 I had made a rich find — no more." 
 
 "And on the strength of that vague surmise you have 
 allowed him to blackmail you all these years?" 
 
 He hung his head, as if cruelly abashed. 
 
 "You don't know the man as I do," he cried, in a 
 low voice. "He is a devil — not a man." 
 
 I was utterly shocked and astounded. 
 
 "Well," I said at length. "I won't ask you for your 
 secret. To share it with any one would kill the zest, no 
 doubt." 
 
 He lifted his head with a thin wail. 
 
 I put my hand gently on his shoulder. 
 
 13
 
 194 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Dad," I said, "I must never leave you again." 
 
 He seized my hand and kissed it. 
 
 "Harkee, Renalt," he whispered. "Many are gone, 
 but there are some left. Could I find out where the 
 cameo is, we would take it, and what remains, and leave 
 this hateful place — you and I — and bury ourselves in 
 some beautiful city under the world, where none could 
 find us, and live in peace and comfort to the end." 
 
 "Peace can never be mine again, father. Would you 
 like to know why? Would you like to know what has 
 made a sorrowful, haunted man of me, while you were 
 living on at the old mill here these five years past?" 
 
 "Tell me," he said. "Confide in this old, broken, sel- 
 fish man, who has that love in his heart to seek com- 
 fort for you where he can find none himself." 
 
 Then, standing up in the red dusk of the room, I gave 
 him my history. "Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught 
 in malice." And he sat with face darkened from me, and 
 quivered only when he heard of Jason's villainy. 
 
 And at the end he lifted up his voice and cried: 
 
 "Oh, Absolom, my son — my son, Absolom!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXH. 
 
 OLD PEGGY. 
 
 * 
 
 The months that immediately followed my home-com- 
 ing were passed by me in an aimless, desultory temporiz- 
 ing with the vexed problems that, unanswered, were 
 consuming my heart. 
 
 I roamed the country as of old and renewed my ac- 
 quaintance with bird, fish and insect. Starting to gather 
 a collection of butterflies and moths — many of which 
 were local and rare — with the mere object of filling in 
 the lapses of a restless ennui and in some dull gratitude 
 to a pursuit that had helped me to a little degree of late 
 success, I rapidly rose to an interest in its formation 
 that became, I may say, the then chief happiness of my
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 195 
 
 life. To my father, also, it brought, in the arrangement 
 and classification of specimens, a certain innocent pleas- 
 ure that helped to restore him to some healthier show 
 of manliness moral and physical. 
 
 Poor, broken old man! I would not now have stulti- 
 fied his pathetic confidence in me for the biggest bribe 
 the world could hold out. 
 
 Yet it must not be supposed I ever really for a mo- 
 ment lost sight of the main issues of a mystery that was 
 bitten into my heart with an acid that no time could take 
 the strength from. Sometime, sooner or later, I knew it 
 would be revealed to me who it was that killed Modred. 
 
 As to that lesser secret of the coins — it troubled me 
 but little. Free of that dread of possible ruin that ap- 
 peared to cling hauntingly to my father, I was not disin- 
 clined to the belief that the complete dissipation of his 
 bugbear estate might prove after all his moral salvation. 
 Remove its source of irritation, and would not the sore 
 heal? 
 
 Sometimes in the full pressure of this thought I found 
 it almost in my mind to hunt and hunt until I found his 
 hiding-place and to commit its remaining treasures to the 
 earth or the waters. Then it would seem a base thing to 
 do — a mean advantage to take of his confidence — and I 
 would put the thought from me. 
 
 Still, however I might decide ultimately, this determi- 
 nation dwelt firmly and constantly in me — to oppose by 
 every means in my power any further levying of black- 
 mail on the part of the doctor. 
 
 This unworthy eccentricity had not, to my knowledge, 
 been near the mill since that night of my return. That 
 he presently found means, nevertheless, of communicat- 
 ing with his victim, I was to find out by a simple chance. 
 
 June had come upon us leading this placidly monoto- 
 nous life, when, returning one afternoon from a ramble 
 after specimens, I found my father sitting upstairs in a 
 mood so preoccupied that he did not notice my en- 
 trance. His head was bowed, his left arm drooping over 
 one end of the table. Suddenly hearing my footsteps in
 
 196 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 the room, he started and a gold coin fell from his hand 
 and spun and tinkled on the boards. 
 
 "What's that?" I said. 
 
 He stooped and clutched it, and hugging it to his 
 breast looked up in my face with startled eyes. But he 
 gave no answer. 
 
 "Is it necessary to change another, dad?" 
 
 "No," he muttered. 
 
 A thought stung me like a wasp. 
 
 "Is it for a bribe?" I demanded. Still he kept silence. 
 
 "Father," I said, "give it to me." 
 
 "Renalt— I can't; I mustn't." 
 
 "Give it to me. If you refuse — I threaten nothing — but 
 — give it to me!" 
 
 He held it forth in a shaking hand. I took it and 
 slipped it into my pocket. 
 
 "Now," I said, sternly, "I am going to see Dr. Crack- 
 enthorpe." 
 
 He rose from his chair with a cry. 
 
 "You are mad, I tell you! You can do nothing — 
 nothing." 
 
 "It is time this ceased for good and all, father. I stand 
 between you now — remember that. You have to choose 
 between me and that villain. Which is it to be?" 
 
 "Renalt — my son. It is for your sake!" 
 
 "I can look after my own interests. Which is it to be?" 
 
 He dropped back into his chair with a groan. 
 
 "Go, then," he muttered, "and God help you!" 
 
 I turned and left him.^ My heart was blazing with a 
 fierce resentment. But I would not leave the house till 
 my veins ran cooler, for no advantage of temper should 
 be on the side of that frosty bloodsucker. 
 
 I wandered downstairs, past the door of the room of 
 silence, but the rough jeering of the wheel within drove 
 me away to where I could be out of immediate earshot 
 of it. 
 
 From the kitchen at the back came the broken, whin- 
 ing voice of old Peggy Rottengoose, who yet survived 
 and waited upon the meager household with a ghoulish 
 faithfulness that no time could impair.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 197 
 
 The words of some sardonic song came sterilely from 
 her withered lips. She was apt at such grewsome 
 ditties: 
 
 "I saw three ravens up a tree — 
 Heigho! 
 I saw three ravens up a tree; 
 And they were black as black could be — 
 All down by the greenwood side, O! 
 
 "I stuck my penknife in their hearts — 
 Heigho! 
 I stuck my penknife in their hearts; 
 And the more I stuck it the blood gushed out; 
 All down by the greenwood side, O!" 
 
 I softly pushed open the door, that stood ajar, and 
 looked in. The old creature was sitting crooning in a 
 chair, a picture or print of some kind, at which she was 
 gazing in a sort of hungry ecstasy, held out and down 
 before her at arm's length. I stole on tiptoe behind her 
 and sought to get a glimpse at that she devoured with 
 her rheumy eyes. 
 
 "Why, what are you doing with that, Peg?" I said, 
 with a start of surprise. 
 
 Cunning even under the spur of sudden discomfiture, 
 she whipped the thing beneath her apron before she 
 struggled to her feet and faced round upon me. 
 
 "What ails ye, Renalt?" she wheezed, in a voice like 
 that of one winded by a blow — "to fright a body, sich 
 like?" 
 
 "You needn't be frightened, unless you were doing 
 something you shouldn't, you know." 
 
 "Shud and shudn't," she said, her yellow imder jaw, 
 scratched all over with fine wrinkles, moving like a 
 barbel's. "I doesn't take my morals fro' a Trender." 
 
 "You take all you can get, Peggy. Why not a picture 
 with the rest?" 
 
 "My own newy!" she cried, with an attenuated scream 
 — "blessed son to Amelia as were George's first wife and 
 died o' cramps o' the cold dew from a shift hung out on 
 St. Bartlemey's day." 
 
 "Now, Peggy," I said sternly, "I saw that picture and
 
 108 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 it wasn't of your nephew or of any other relation of yours. 
 It was a silhouette, as they call it, of my brother, Modred, 
 made when he was a little fellow, by some one in a show 
 that came here, and it used to hang in Modred's room." 
 
 "Ye lie, Renalt!" she cried, panting at me. "It's 
 Amelia's l)oy — and mayn't I enjoy the fruits o' my own 
 heritage?" 
 
 "Let me look at it, then; and if I'm wrong I'll ask 
 your pardon." 
 
 "Keep arf!" she cried, backing from me. "Keep arf, 
 or I'll tear your weasand wi' my claws!" 
 
 I made a little rush and clutched her. She could not 
 keep her promise without loosening her hold of the pic-, 
 ture, but she butted at me, with her cap bobbing, and 
 dinted my shin with her vicious old toes. Then, seeing 
 it was all useless, she crumpled the paper up into a ball 
 and, tossing it from her, fell back in her chair and threw 
 her apron over her head. 
 
 I dived for the picture and smoothed out its creases. 
 
 "Peggy!" I said. 
 
 "I tuk it — I tuk it!" wailed the old woman. "I tuk it 
 fro' the wall when I come up wi' the blarnkets and nub- 
 body were there to see!" 
 
 "Why did you take it and why have you riddled it with 
 holes like this?" 
 
 She slipped down on her trembling knees. 
 
 "Don'tee be hard on me, Renalt — don'tee! I swear, 
 I were frighted myself at what I done. I didn't hardly 
 guess it would act so. Don'tee have me burnt or 
 drownded, Renalt. It were a wicked thing to a body 
 old enough to be your grandam, and I've but a little 
 glint o' time left." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Peggy. You'd no bus- 
 iness to take the picture, of course, and still less to treat 
 it like this. But your nature's a thieving one, and I sup- 
 pose you can't help it. Get ofif your knees. It's done, 
 and there's an end of it." 
 
 She stopped her driveling moan and looked up at me 
 queerly, I thought. 
 
 "Ay, I'd no call to do it, of course," she said. "Just
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 199 
 
 a body's absence o' mind, Renalt, ye see — same as prick- 
 ing pastry in time to a toone like. I thought maybe if 
 ye saw it ye'd want to tell the old man upstairs, and he's 
 got the strong arm yet, for all the worm in his brain." 
 
 "I sha'n't tell him this time, but don't let me catch you 
 handling any of our property again" ; and I left the room. 
 
 A little flustered by my late tussle and hardly yet in a 
 mood for the interview I clearly foresaw would be no 
 amicable one, I wandered out, turning my footsteps, not 
 at present in the direction of the doctor's house, but to- 
 ward that part of the river called the "weirs," which ran 
 straight away from the mill front. This was a pleasant, 
 picturesque stretch down which the water, shaded by 
 many stooping trees and bushes, washed and gurgled 
 brightly. A railed pathway ran by it and, to the same 
 side, cottages at intervals and little plats of flowering 
 parterres. 
 
 It was a reach which, unpreserved, was much favored 
 of the townsfolk for fishing. 
 
 A man was whipping the stream now in its broadest 
 part, and I stopped to watch him. He was a rosy, well- 
 knit fellow of 35 or so, with a good-humored, bibulous 
 eye and a foolish underjaw. 
 
 "Any sport?" I asked. 
 
 "Plenty o' sport," said he, "but no fish." 
 
 "You're a philosopher, it seems." 
 
 "Mebbe I arm, for what it may mean. A pint of ale 
 'ud cure it." 
 
 "Why not a pint of water? It's there and to spare." 
 
 "The beggar's tap, master. I arns my living." 
 
 "Well, buy your pot of ale out of it." 
 
 "I'd rather you tuk the responsibility ofif me." 
 
 "Well," said I, with a grin, "let's see you catch a fish 
 and I'll stand treat." 
 
 He threw for some time in silence. 
 
 "I must be ofif," said I. 
 
 "Fair play, master! I harsn't got my fish yet." 
 
 "I can't wait all day for that." 
 
 "Then, pay up. You put no limit to the time."
 
 200 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I laughed and gave him the money, and he spat upon 
 it for hick. 
 
 "You come fro' yon old mill, don'tee?" said he. 
 
 "Yes, I do. You know me, it appears. Who may 
 you be?" 
 
 "They carls me saxton ower at St. John's yonder." 
 
 I received his answer with a little start. Were these 
 the hands that had dug- the grave for my dead brother?" 
 
 "They call you? What do you call yourself?" I said. 
 
 "High priest to the worms, wi' your honor's leave." 
 
 He stuck his tongue in his cheek and whipped out his 
 fly again. This time it disappeared with a fat blob and his 
 hand came smartly up. I watched him while he wheeled 
 in his floundering prize. 
 
 "Ay," he went on, as he stooped to unhook the trout, 
 "the worms and I works on the mutual-profit system. 
 I feeds them and they feeds me. Sometimes" — he looked 
 round and up at me slyly — "they shows a power o' grati- 
 toode ower an uncommon rich meal and makes me a 
 particlar acknowledgment o' my services." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXni. 
 
 FACE TO FACE, 
 
 In the cool of the evening I knocked at Dr. Cracken- 
 thorpe's front door. No one answering — his one servant 
 was gadding, probably — I tried the handle, found it to 
 be on the latch only, and walked in. The house was 
 quiet as a desert, save that from the doctor's private con- 
 sulting-room, as he called it, issued a little, weak, snor- 
 ing sound. 
 
 I paused in the dusky passage before tapping at the 
 closed door of this room. The whole place was faintly 
 stringent with the atmosphere that comes from a poor 
 habit of ventilation — an atmosphere like that emitted 
 from crumbling old leather-bound folios. A ragged strip 
 of carpet, so trodden up its middle to the very string as
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE, 201 
 
 to give the impression of a cinder-path running between 
 dully flowering borders, climbed the flight of stairs be- 
 fore me, and stretched itself upon the landing above in 
 an exhausted condition. 
 
 In a shallow alcove to one side of me stood a gaunt 
 and voiceless old grandfather clock, A gas-browned 
 bust of Pitt, rendered ridiculous by a perfect skull-cap of 
 dust, stood on a bracket over a door opposite and a few 
 anatomical prints of a dark and melancholy cast broke 
 the monotony of the yellow walls. 
 
 Rendered none the less depressed in my errand by 
 these dismal surroundings, I pulled myself together and 
 tapped roundly on the doctor's door. No response fol- 
 lowed. I knocked again and again, without result. At 
 length I turned the handle and stepped of my own ac- 
 cord into the room. 
 
 He was sitting at the table, half his body sprawled over 
 it and an empty tumbler rolled from one of his hands. 
 Overhead, the row of murderers' busts looked down 
 upon him wath every variety of unclean expression, and 
 seemed to prick their ears with sightless rapture over that 
 bestial music of his soul. 
 
 The doors of a high cabinet, that in other brief visits 
 I had never seen but closely locked, now stood open be- 
 hind him, revealing row upon row of shelves, whereon 
 hundreds of coins of many metals lay nicely arranged 
 upon cotton wool, A few of these, also, lay about him 
 on the table, and it was evident that a drunken slumber 
 had overcome him while reviewing his mighty collec- 
 tion. 
 
 So deep was he in stupor that it was not until I ham- 
 mered and shook the very table that he so much as 
 stirred, and it was only after I had slipped round and 
 jogged him roughly on the shoulder that he came to him- 
 self. 
 
 Then he dragged his long body up, swaying a little at 
 first, and turning a stupid glazed eye on me two or three 
 times and from me to the scattered coins and back again. 
 
 Suddenly he scrambled to his feet and backed from 
 me.
 
 202 THE MtLL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Thieves!" he yelled. "Thieves!" 
 
 "That'll do," I said, coolly. "I'm not the thief in this 
 house. Dr. Crackenthorpc.'' 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he cried in a furious voice. 
 "How did you get in? What do you want?" 
 
 "I want a word with you — •I'll tell you what when 
 you're quieter. As to getting in? I knocked half a 
 dozen times and could get no answer. So I walked in." 
 
 "Curse the baggage!" he muttered. "Can't I rely upon 
 one of them? I'll twist her pretty neck for this." 
 
 "You need twist nothing on my account. If I had 
 failed to catch you now I would have dogged you for the 
 opportunity." 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it?" he said, with a laugh and a savage 
 sneer. "Well, state your business and be ofif." 
 
 He spoke ferociously, but on the instant, seeing my 
 eye caught by something lying on that part of the table 
 his body had covered, dived for it and had it in his grasp. 
 Then with a backward sweep of his hand he closed the 
 cabinet doors and stood facing me. 
 
 "Now, sir," he said. 
 
 "Dr. Crackenthorpc," I answered, "you won't bully me 
 away from my purpose. Fm a better man than you, 
 and a stronger, I believe; but I won't begin by threat- 
 ening." 
 
 "And that's very kind," he put in mockingly. "Still 
 we'd better come to business, don't you think?" 
 
 "I'm coming to it and straight. What's that you've 
 got in your hand?" 
 
 "What I intend to keep there. Is that all?" 
 
 "It's a cameo you stole from my father. Don't take 
 the trouble to deny it" 
 
 "I don't take any trouble on your account, my good 
 fellow. It's a cameo, as you very properly observe, but 
 it happens to belong to me." 
 
 "By thieving, I'll swear. Now, Dr. Crackenthorpe, I 
 intend to make you disgorge that cameo, together with 
 one or two other trifles you've coerced my father into 
 handing over to you." 
 
 "No?" he said, in the same jeering tone.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 203 
 
 "Further than that, I intend to put a stop here and at 
 once to that blackmaihng process you've carried on for 
 a number of years." 
 
 "Blackmaihng's a very good word. It imphes a reci- 
 procity of interests. And how are you going to do all 
 this?" 
 
 "You shall hear at the assizes, maybe." 
 
 He gave a laugh — quite rich for him; walked to the 
 table, picked up deHberately the coins lying strewn there ; 
 stepped to the cabinet, deposited all therein; shut and 
 locked it, and put the key in his pocket. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Bookbinder," he said, facing me again, 
 "you've a very pretty intelligence; but you've not ac- 
 quired in London that knowledge of the nine points of 
 the law without which the tenth is empty talk. Here's 
 a truism, also, that's escaped your matured observation, 
 and it's called 'be sure of your facts before you speak.' " 
 
 "Am I not?" I cried, contemptuously. 
 
 "We'll see. Even a Crichton may suffer trifling lapses 
 of memory. Let me lead yours back to that melancholy 
 morning of your departure from the parent nest. Let 
 me recall to you the gist of a few sentences that passed 
 between your father and myself prior to the advent of 
 your amiable brother, who was so hard on you. Some 
 mention of a lost trifle was made then, I believe, and 
 permission given me to keep it if I happened to alight 
 upon it. Wasn't that so?" 
 
 "I can remember something of the sort," I muttered, 
 gloomily. 
 
 "Ah, so far so good. Now, supposing that lost trifle 
 were the very trinket your most olDservant eyes just now 
 caught sight of? — I don't say it was; but we will pre- 
 sume so, for the sake of argument — supposing it were, 
 should I not be entitled to consider it my own?" 
 
 "You may be lying," I said, angrily. "Probably you 
 are. Where did you find it?" 
 
 "That is as much outside the question as your very 
 offensive manner." 
 
 "You've always been the bane of our house. What do 
 I care what vo'u think of mv manner? The sharper it
 
 204 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 cuts, the better pleased am I. You've worked upon 
 moods and weaknesses of the old man with your infernal 
 cunning and got him under your thumb, as you think. 
 Don't be too sure. You'll find an enemy of very dif- 
 ferent caliber in me. There's a law for blackmailers, 
 though you mayn't think it." 
 
 He cocked his head on one side a moment, like a vile 
 carrion crow; then came softly and pushed a lean finger 
 at my breast. 
 
 "And a law for fratricides," he said, quietly. 
 
 I laughed so disdainfully that he forgot himself on the 
 instant in a wild burst of fury. 
 
 "Toad! Filthy, poisonous viper!" he yelled. "You 
 think to combat me with your pitiful little sword of brass! 
 Have I overlooked your insolence, d'ye think? Speak a 
 word further — one word, you pestilent dog, and I'll 
 smash you, body and soul, as I smash this glass!" 
 
 In his rabid frenzy he actually seized and threw upon 
 the floor the tumbler from which he had lately been 
 drinking, and, putting his heavy heel on it, crushed it 
 into a thousand fragments. 
 
 "Oh!" he moaned, his breath chattering like a dry leaf 
 in the wind, "I'll be even with you, my friend^I'll be 
 even with you! You dare — you dare — you dare! You, 
 the poor dependent on my bounty, whom I could wither 
 with a word. The law you call upon so glibly has a 
 long arm for murderers. You think a little lapse of 
 years has made you safe" — he laughed wildly — "safe? 
 Holy saints in heaven! I've only to step over to the 
 police station — five minutes — and you're laid by the heels 
 and a pretty collar weaving for your neck." 
 
 He checked himself in the torrent of his rage and 
 lifted his hand menacingly. 
 
 "Harkee!" he cried. "I can do that and at a word I 
 would! Now, d'ye set your little tin plate against my 
 bludgeon?" 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 He seemed to doubt my answer, as if his ears had 
 misinterpreted it, for he went on: 
 
 "If you value your life keep out of my way. Take the
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 205 
 
 lesson from your father. He knew what I could do if 
 I chose; and he took the best means in his power to 
 buy my silence." 
 
 I gave a cry of fierce triumph. 
 
 "So — the secret is out! It was to save me, as he 
 thought, that my father parted with his treasure!" 
 
 The blackmailer gave no answer. 
 
 I went and stood close up against him, daring him 
 with the manliness he lacked. 
 
 "You are a contemptible, dastardly poltroon," I said, 
 with all the coldest scorn I could muster. 
 
 He started back a little. 
 
 "If I had killed my brother in good reality, I would 
 go to my hanging with joy if the only alternative were 
 buying my safety from such a slimy, crawling reptile 
 as you!" 
 
 "If?" he echoed, with a pale effort at another laugh. 
 
 " 'If was what I said. Pretty doctor you, not to know, 
 as I have since found out, that the boy died by other 
 means than drowning !'' 
 
 In an ungovernable burst of fury I took him by the 
 throat and drove him back against the table — and he 
 offered no resistance. 
 
 "You dog!" I cried. "Oh, you dog, you dog! You 
 did know it, of course, and you had the devil's heart to lie 
 to my father and beat him down in the dust for your own 
 filthy ends! Had I a hand in my brother's death? You 
 know I had not any more than you — perhaps not so 
 much!" 
 
 On the snap of the thought I spurned him from me 
 and staggered back. 
 
 "Why," I cried, staring at him standing cowering and 
 sullen before me. "Had you, if the truth were known? 
 You were in the house that night!" 
 
 He choked once or twice and, smoothing down the 
 apple in his throat with a nervous hand, came out of his 
 corner a pace or two. 
 
 "You can put two and two together," he said in a 
 shrill voice, defiant still, but with a whining ring in it.
 
 206 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "What interest could I possibly have in murdering your 
 brother? For the rest — you may be right." 
 
 "And you can say it and plume yourself upon having 
 successfully traded on the lie?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a recovering grin, "I think I can." 
 
 I turned from him, sick at his mere presence. 
 
 "And now," said he, "I intend to trade upon the truth." 
 
 I forced myself to face round upon him again. "The 
 boy," he said, looking down hatefully and shifting some 
 papers on the table with his finger-tips, "it was obvious 
 to any but the merest ignoramus, never died of drown- 
 ing." 
 
 "How then?" 
 
 "From the appearances — of strangulation, I should 
 say." 
 
 "Strangulation? Who " 
 
 "Do you want these trifles back? Ask your father 
 first why he had Modred's braces in his pocket the morn- 
 ing after? He was very drunk that night — furiously 
 drunk; and he left me alone in the parlor for awhile." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 I VISIT A GRAVE. 
 
 All that night I tossed and tossed, in vain efifort to 
 court the sleep that should quench the fever in my racked 
 and bewildered brain. My errand had been a failure. In 
 every sense but the purely personal, it had been a failure. 
 And now, indeed, that personal side was the one that 
 least concerned me. As to every other soul in whom I 
 was interested, it seemed that a single false step on my 
 part might lead to the destruction of any one of them. 
 Where could I look for the least comfort or assistance? 
 
 My father had glanced anxiously at me when I re- 
 turned the evening before. 
 
 "It has been as you prophesied," I said. "The man 
 is a devil."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 207 
 
 He gave a heavy sigh and drooped his head. 
 
 •'What did he tell you?" he muttered. 
 
 "He told me lies, father, I feel sure. But he is too 
 cunning a villain to play without a second card up his 
 sleeve." 
 
 The old man raised imploring eyes to my face. 
 
 ''Dad!" I cried, "is it true you have bought his silence 
 all these years for my sake?" 
 
 At that he rose to his feet suddenly. 
 
 "No word of that!" he shrieked; "not a word! I can't 
 bear it!" 
 
 I looked at him with my throat swelling. 
 
 "I'll not refer to it, if you wish it," I said, gently. 
 
 "I do wish it. What does it amount to? How could 
 I do less?" 
 
 "Very well, dad. I'll keep my gratitude in my heart." 
 
 "Gratitude!" He seemed greatly excited. His voice 
 was broken with emotion. "Gratitude to me? For what? 
 For driving you from home? For dealing out your in- 
 heritance piecemeal to that hungry vulture yonder? You 
 kill me with your cruelty." 
 
 "Father!" I cried, amazed. 
 
 "No, no, Renalt! You don't mean to be! But you 
 mustn't talk of it — you mustn't! It's a long knife in my 
 soul — every word! The one thing I might have done for 
 you — I failed in. The wild girl, Renalt; that you loved — 
 oh! A little more watchfulness on my part, a little less 
 selfishness, might have saved her for you !" 
 
 He broke down a moment; then went on with a rough 
 sob: "You think I love you, and I want you to think 
 it; but — if you only knew all." 
 
 "I know enough. I hold you nothing to blame in all 
 you have referred to." 
 
 He waved me from him, entreating me to leave him 
 alone awhile, and he was so unstrung that I thought 
 it best to comply. 
 
 But now a new ghost shook my very soul in its walk- 
 ing, and it was the specter of the blackmailer's raising. 
 
 Was it possible — was it possible that my father that 
 night — in some fit of drunken savagery
 
 208 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I put the thought from me, with loathing, but it re- 
 turned again and again. 
 
 One fair morning it occurred to me to go and look 
 upon the grave I had never yet visited. Perhaps, I 
 thought, I should find inspiration there. This vengeful, 
 bewildered pursuit — I did not know how long I should 
 be able to endure it. Sometimes, reviewing the latter, 
 I felt as if it would be best to abandon the chase right 
 then; to yield the chimera to fate to resolve as she might 
 judge fit or never to resolve at all, perhaps. Then the 
 thought that only by running to earth the guilty could I 
 vindicate the innocent, would steel me more rigidly than 
 ever in the old determination. 
 
 The ancient church, in the yard of which Modred was 
 buried, stands no great distance away upon a slope of 
 the steep hill that shuts in the east quarter of Winton. 
 
 As I passed from the road through the little gate in 
 the yard boundaries a garden of green was about me — an 
 acre of tree and shrub and grass set thickly with flower- 
 ing barrows and tombstones wrapped in lichen, like vel- 
 vet for the royal dead. The old church stood in the midst, 
 as quiet and staid and peaceful there in its bower as if 
 no restless life of a loud city hummed and echoed all 
 about it. 
 
 I paused in indecision. For the first time it occurred 
 to me that I had made no inquiry as to the position of 
 my brother's grave; that I did not even know if the site 
 of his resting-place was marked by stone or other humbler 
 monument. While I stood the sound of a voice cheerily 
 singing came to me from the further side of a laurel bush 
 that stood up from the grass a rood away. I walked 
 round it and came plump upon my philosophical friend 
 of the "weirs," knee-deep in a grave that he was lustily 
 excavating. 
 
 "Hullo," I said, and "Hullo," he answered. 
 
 "You seem to find your task a pleasant one?" said I. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "What makes 'ee think thart, now?'' 
 
 He leaned upon his spade and criticised me. 
 
 "You sing at it, don't you?"
 
 THE MILL, OF SILENCE. 209 
 
 "Mebbe I do. Men sing sometimes, I've heard, when 
 they've got the horrors on 'em." 
 
 "Have you got the horrors, then?" 
 
 "Not in the sense o' drink, though mayhap I've had 
 them, too, in my time." 
 
 He Hfted his cap to scratch his forehead and resumed 
 his former position. 
 
 "Look'ee here," he said. "I stand in a grave, I do. 
 I've dug two fut down. He could wake to a whisper so 
 be as you laid him there. Did he lift his arm, his 
 fingers 'ud claw in the air like a forked rardish. I go a 
 fut deeper — and he'd struggle to bust himself out, and, 
 not succeeding, there'd be a Httle swelling in the soil 
 above there cracked like the top of a loaf. I go another 
 fut, and he's safe to lie, but he'd hear arnything louder 
 than a bart's whistle yet. At two yard he'll rot as straight 
 and dumb as a dead arder." 
 
 "What then?" I said. 
 
 "What then? Why, this: Digging here, week in, week 
 out, I thinks to myself, what if they buried me six feet 
 deep some day before the life was out o' me.'' 
 
 "Why should they?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't they? Men have been buried quick 
 before now, and why not me?" 
 
 I laughed, but looking at him, I noticed that his fore- 
 head was wet with beads of perspiration not called forth 
 by his labor. 
 
 "How long have you been digging graves?" I asked 
 in a matter of way to help him recover his self-possession. 
 
 "Six year come Martlemas." 
 
 He resumed his work for awhile and I stood watching 
 him and pondering. Presently I said: "You buried my 
 brother, then?" 
 
 "Ay," he answered, heaving out a big clod of earth 
 with an effort, so strained that it seemed to twist his face 
 into a sort of leering grin. 
 
 "I was ill when my brother died," I said, "and have 
 lived since in London. I don't know where he lies. Show 
 me and I'll give you the price of a drink." 
 
 He jumped out of the pit with alacrity and flung his 
 u
 
 210 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 coat over his shoulders, tying the danghng arms across 
 his breast. 
 
 "Thart's easy arned," he cried, hilariously. "Come 
 along," and he clumped off across the grass. 
 
 "See there!" he said, suddenly, stopping me and 
 pointed to a mangy and neglected mound that lay under 
 a corner of the yard wall. 
 
 "Is that it?" 
 
 He looked at me a moment before he answered. 
 Through all his heartiness there was a queer suggestion 
 of craft in the fellow's face that puzzled me. 
 
 "It might be for its state," he said, "but it isn't. You 
 may as soon grow beans in snow as grass on a murdered 
 marn's grave." 
 
 "Does a murdered man lie there?" 
 
 "Ay. A matter of ten year ago, it may be. He wur 
 found one summer morn in a ditch by the battery yon, 
 and his skull split wi' a billhook. Nubbody to this day 
 knows his name or him as did it." 
 
 A grim tragedy to end in this quiet garden of death. 
 We moved on again, not so far, and my guide pointed 
 down. 
 
 "There he lies," he said. 
 
 A poor shallow little heap of rough soil grown com- 
 pact with years. A few blades of rank grass standing 
 up from it, starved and stifif like the bristles on a hog's 
 back. All around the barrows stretched green and 
 kindly. Only here and on that other were sordid deso- 
 lation. No stone, no boards, no long-lifeless flower even 
 to emphasize the irony of an epitaph. Nothing but en- 
 tire indifference and the withering footmark of time. 
 
 "I mind the day," said the sexton. "Looking ower the 
 hedge yon I see Vokes' pig running, wi' a straw in's 
 mouth. 'We shall have rain,' says I, and rain it did wi' 
 a will. Three o' them came wi' the coffin — the old mam 
 and a young 'un — him 'ud be your brother now — and 
 the long doctor fro' Chis'll. In the arternoon, as I was 
 garthering up my tools, the old marn come back by 
 hisself and chucked a sprig o' verv'n on the mound. 'Oho,' 
 thinks I. 'That'll be to keep the devil fro' walking.' The
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 211 
 
 storm druv up while he wur starnding there and sent him 
 scutthng. I tuk shelter i' the church, and when I come 
 out by and by, there wur the witch-weed gone — washed 
 fro' the grave, you'll say, and I'll not contradict ye; but 
 the devil knows his own." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 He turned and spat behind him before answering. 
 
 "He died o' cold i' the inside, eh?" 
 
 "Something of that sort. The doctor's certificate 
 said so." 
 
 "Ah!" He took o& his cap again and rubbed his hot 
 head all over with a whisp of handkerchief. "Supposing 
 he'd been laid two fut and no more — it wur a smarl mat- 
 ter arter the rain to bust the lid and stick his fingers 
 through." 
 
 "A small matter, perhaps, for a living man." 
 
 He glanced sidelong at m.e, then gingerly pecked at 
 the mound with his foot. 
 
 "No grass'U ever grow there," said he. 
 
 "That remains to be seen." 
 
 I took a sixpence from my pocket and held it out to 
 him. 
 
 "Look here," I said. "Take this, and Fll give you one 
 every week if you'll do your best to make and keep it 
 like — like the other graves." 
 
 He put out his hand instinctively, but withdrew it 
 empty. 
 
 "No, no," he said; "it's no marner o' good." 
 
 "Try." 
 
 "I'd rather not. Good-marning to ye," and he turned 
 his back on me and walked straight o&, with his shoul- 
 ders hunched up to his ears. 
 
 I watched his going moodily, but with no great sur- 
 prise. It was small matter for wonder that Modred's 
 death should have roused uncanny suspicions among the 
 ignorant and superstitious who knew of us. The mys- 
 tery that overhung our whole manner of life was suffi- 
 cient to account for that. 
 
 For long after the sexton had resumed his work — so 
 long, indeed, that when I rose to go, only his head and
 
 212 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 shoulders bobbed up and down above the rim of the pit 
 he was digging — I sat on the grass beside that poor 
 sterile mound and sought inspiration of it. 
 But no voice spoke to me from its depths. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ONE SAD VISITOR. 
 
 The autumn of that year broke upon us with sobbing 
 winds and wild, wet gusts of tempest laden with flying 
 leaves. In the choked trenches, drowned grasses swayed 
 and swung like torn skirt fringes of the meadows ; in the 
 woods, drenched leaves clung together and talked, 
 through the lulls, of the devastation that was wrecking 
 their aftermath of glory. 
 
 It had been blowing in soft, irresistible onrushes all 
 one dank October day, and all day had I spent in the 
 high woods that crown the gentle hills three or four 
 miles to the southwest of the city. The air in the long, 
 quiet glades was mystic with the smell of decay; the heels 
 of vanishing formiS seemed to twinkle from tangled bends 
 of undergrowth as I approached them. Then often, in 
 going by a spot I could have thought lately tenanted, a 
 sense would tingle through me as of something listening 
 behind some aged trunk that stood back from my path. 
 
 Gradually dark shut in, and I must needs thread my 
 way among the trees, while some little show of light re- 
 mained, if I did not wish to be belated in the dense 
 thickets. It would not have troubled me greatly had 
 this actually happened. To yield my tired limbs and 
 wearier soul to some bed of moss set in the heart of an 
 antique wood seemed a blessed and most restful thing 
 to do. But the old man awaited me at home, and thither 
 my duty must carry me. 
 
 I had traversed a darkling alley of leafage, treading 
 noiseless on the spongy floor of it, and was coming out 
 into a little lap of tree-inclosed lawn that it led to when
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 213 
 
 I stopped in a moment and drew myself back with a 
 start. 
 
 Something was there before me — a fantastic moving 
 shape, that footed the grass in a weird, sinuous dance 
 of intricate paces, and waving arms, and feet that hardly 
 rustled on the dead leaves. It was all wild, elfin; in- 
 efifably strange and unearthly. I felt as if the dead past 
 were revealed to me, and that here I might lay down my 
 burden and yield the poor residue of life to one last 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Dipping, swaying; now here, now there, about the 
 dusky plat of lawn; sometimes motionless for an instant, 
 so that its drooping skirts and long, loosened hair made 
 but one tree-like figure of it; again whirling into motion, 
 with its dark tresses flung abroad — the figure circled 
 round to within a yard of where I was standing. 
 
 Then in a loud, tremulous tone I cried "Zyp!" and 
 sprung into the open. 
 
 She gave a shriek, craned her neck forward to gaze 
 at me, and, falling upon her knees at my feet, clasped 
 her arms about me. 
 
 For a full minute we must have remained thus; and I 
 heard nothing but the breathless panting of the girl. 
 
 "Zyp," I whispered at last, "what are you doing here, 
 in the name of heaven?" 
 
 "I wanted to see you, Renny. I have walked all the 
 way from Southampton. Night came upon me as I was 
 passing through the wood — and — and I couldn't help it 
 —I couldn't help it." 
 
 "This mad dancing?" 
 
 "I'm so unhappy. Renny, poor Zyp is so unhappy!" 
 
 "Does this look like it?" 
 
 "The elves caught me. It was so lovely to shake oflf 
 all the weight and the misery and the womanliness." 
 
 "Are you tired of being a woman, Zyp?" 
 
 "Tired? My heart aches so that I could die. Oh, I 
 hate it all! No, no, Renny, don't beheve me! My little 
 child! My little, little child! How can I have her and 
 not be a woman !" 
 
 "Get up, Zyp, and let's find our way out of this."
 
 }J 
 
 214 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Not till you've promised me. Where can we talk 
 better? The foolish people never dare to walk here at 
 night. You love the woods, too, Renny. Oh, why didn't 
 I wait for you? Why, why didn't I wait for you?" 
 
 "Come, we must go." 
 
 "Not till you've promised to help me." 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 She caught my hand and kissed it as she knelt; then 
 rose to her feet and her dark eyes burned upon me in 
 the gloom. 
 
 "You didn't expect to see me?" 
 
 "How could I? Least of all here. 
 
 "It's on the road from Southampton. At least, if it 
 isn't, the woods drew me and I couldn't help but go." 
 
 "Why have you come from Southampton?" 
 
 "We fled there to escape him." 
 
 "Him? Who?" Yet I had no need to ask. 
 
 "That horrible man. Oh, his white face and the eyes 
 in it! Renny, I think Jason will die of that face." 
 
 I remembered Duke's words and was silent. 
 
 "It comes upon us in all places and at all hours. Wher- 
 ever we go he finds means to track us and to follow — 
 in the streets; in churches, where we sometimes sit now; 
 at windows, staring in and never moving. Renny," she 
 came close up against me to whisper in my ear, and put 
 her arm round my neck like the Zyp of old. Perhaps she 
 was half-changeling again in that atmosphere of wood- 
 land leafiness. "Renny — once he tried to poison Jason!" 
 
 "Oh, Zyp, don't say that!" 
 
 "He did — he did. Jason was sitting by an open win- 
 dow in the dark, and a tumbler of spirit and water was 
 on the table by him. He was leaning back in his chair, 
 as if asleep, but he was really looking all the time from 
 under his eyelids. A hand came very gently through the 
 window, pinched something into the glass, and went 
 away again quite softly." 
 
 "Why didn't Jason seize it — call out — do anything that 
 wasn't abject and contemptible?" 
 
 "You don't know how the long strain has told upon 
 him. Sometimes in the beginning he thought he must
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 215 
 
 face it out, for life or death, and end the struggle. But 
 he isn't really brave, I think." 
 
 "No, Zyp, he isn't." 
 
 "And now it has gone too far. All his spirit is broken. 
 He clings to me like a child. He sits with his hand in 
 mine, staring and listening and dreadfully waiting. And 
 that other doesn't mean to kill him now, I think — not 
 murder him, I mean. He sees he can do it more hide- 
 ously by following — by only following and looking, 
 Renny." 
 
 In a moment she bowed her head upon my arm and 
 burst into a convulsive flood of crying. I waited for the 
 first of it to subside before I spoke again. These, al- 
 most the only tears I had ever known fall from her, were 
 eloquent of her change, indeed. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, presently, in a broken voice. "He 
 didn't treat me well at first — my husband — but this pite- 
 ous clinging to me now — something chokes " she 
 
 flung her head back from me and wrenched with her 
 hands at the bosom of her dress, as if the heart under- 
 neath were swollen to breaking. Then she tossed up her 
 arms and, drooping her head, once more fell to a pas- 
 sion of weeping. 
 
 "Zyp," I said, quietly, when she could hear me, "what 
 is it you want me to do?" 
 
 "We want money, Renny " she gasped, still with 
 
 fluttering sobs, drying her eyes half-fiercely as if in re- 
 sentment of that brief self-abandonment. "He has no 
 spirit to make it now as he used. We have escaped to 
 Southampton, intending to go abroad somewhere, and 
 lose ourselves and be lost. We fled in a fright, unthink- 
 ing, and now we can get no further. You'll help us, 
 Renny, won't you?" 
 
 "I'll help you, Zyp, now and always, if you need it — 
 always, as far as it is possible for me to." 
 
 "We don't want much — enough to get away, that's all. 
 If he could only be free a little while, I think perhaps 
 he might recover partly and be strong to seek for work." 
 
 "It will take me a dav or two." 
 
 "So long? Oh, Renny!"
 
 216 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "I must go to London to raise it. I can't possibly man- 
 age it otherwise." 
 
 She gave a heavy forlorn sigh. 
 
 "I hope it won't come too late?'' 
 
 "You can trust me, dear, not to delay a minute longer 
 over it than is absolutely necessary." 
 
 "You are the only one I can always trust," she said, 
 with a little, wan, melancholy smile. 
 
 A sleek shine of moonlight was spreading so that I 
 could see her face turned up to me. 
 
 "You will come on to the mill, Zyp?" 
 
 "Not now; it is useless. I hear my baby calling, 
 Renny." 
 
 "But— what will you do?" 
 
 "Walk back to Southampton." 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "Part of the way, at least. When I get tired I shall 
 sleep." 
 
 "Sleep? Where?" 
 
 "Under some tree or bush. Where could I better?" 
 
 "Zyp! You mustn't. Anything might happen to you." 
 
 Her face took a flash of scorn. 
 
 "To me — in the woods or the open fields? You for- 
 get who I am, Renny." 
 
 No insistence or argument on my part could alter her 
 determination. Return she would, then and there." 
 
 "Well," I said at last, hopeless of shaking her, "how 
 shall I convey the money to you?" 
 
 "Tason shall come and fetch it." 
 
 "Jason?" 
 
 "Yes. I can't leave the child again. Besides, it will 
 be better for him to move and act than sit still always 
 watching and waiting." 
 
 "Very well, then. Let him come when he likes. To- 
 morrow I will get the money." 
 
 She came and took my hand and looked up in my 
 face. "Good-by, you good man," she said. "Give me 
 one kiss, Renny." 
 
 I stooped and touched her cheek with my lips.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 217 
 
 "That is for the baby," I said, "and God bless Zyp and 
 the little one." 
 
 She backed from me a pace or two, with her dark eyes 
 dreaming. 
 
 "Did you think I could ever be hke this, Renny? I 
 wonder if they will turn to m'e as they used?" 
 
 She dropped upon her knees before a little plant of 
 yellow woundwort that grew beside a tree. She caressed 
 it, she murmured to it, she gave it a dozen fond names 
 in the strangest of elfin language. It did not stir. It 
 remained just a quiet, drowsy woodland thing. 
 
 "Ah!'' she cried, leaping to her feet, "it's jealous of the 
 baby. What do I care?" She gave it a little slap with 
 her hand. "Wake up, you sulky thing!" she cried— "I'm 
 going to tell you something. There's no flower like my 
 baby in all the world !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 I GO TO LONDON. 
 
 I walked home that night in a dream. The white road 
 lay a long, luminous ribbon before me; the v^et hedges 
 were fragrant with scented mist; there was only the 
 sound in my ears of my own quick breathing, but in my 
 heart the echo of the sweet wild voice that had but now 
 so thrilled and tortured me. 
 
 I thought of her swerving presently from her dreary 
 road southward, to sleep under some bush or briar, fear- 
 less in her beauty — fearless in her confidence of the rich 
 nature about her that was so much her own. She seemed 
 a thing apart from the world's evil ; a queenliest queen of 
 fancy,' that had but to summon her good fellows if 
 threatened. 
 
 "Sweet safety go with you, my fairy!" I cried, and, cry- 
 ing, stumbled over a poor doe rabbit sitting in the road, 
 witl: £::lazing eves and the stab of the ferret tooth be- 
 hind her ear.
 
 218 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Zyp! Zyp!" I muttered, gazing sorrowfully on the 
 dying bunny, "are you as much earth, after all, as this 
 poor hunted brute? Ah, never, never let your kinsfolk 
 strike you through your motherhood." 
 
 I found my father sitting up for me amid the gusty 
 lights and shadows of the old mill sitting-room. He 
 welcomed me with a joy that filled my heart with re- 
 morse at having left him so long alone. 
 
 "Dad," I said, "I have seen Zyp!" 
 
 He only looked at me in wonder. 
 
 "She was coming to implore my help to enable her 
 and — and her husband to escape — to get away abroad 
 somewhere." 
 
 "Escape? From what?" 
 
 "That man — my one-time friend — that I told you 
 about. He has pursued them all the year with deadly 
 hatred. Jason is half-mad with terror of him, it seems." 
 
 My father's face darkened. 
 
 "He summoned his own Nemesis," he said. "What do 
 they want — money?" 
 
 "Yes. I promised her what I could afiford. To-mor- 
 row I must run up to London to raise it." 
 
 "On what security?" 
 
 "A mortgage, I suppose. I have some small invest- 
 ments in house property.'' 
 
 He mused a little while. 
 
 "It is better," he said, by and by, "to leave all that 
 intact. We must part with another coin or so, Renalt." 
 
 "If you think it best, father. I wouldn't for my soul 
 go back from my promise." 
 
 "Will you take them up and negotiate the business? 
 I grow feeble for these journeys." 
 
 "Of course I will, if you'll give me the necessary in- 
 structions." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I'll have them ready for you to-morrow," he said. 
 
 Then for a long time he sat gazing gloomily on the 
 floor. 
 
 "Where are they?" he said, suddenly. 
 
 "Zyp and Jason? At Southampton. She walked from
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 219 
 
 there, and I met her in the woods, she would come no 
 further, but started on her way back again," 
 
 "How are you going to get the stuff to them, then?" 
 
 "Jason is coming here to fetch it." 
 
 He rose from his chair, with startled eyes. 
 
 "Here? Coming here?" he cried. "Renalt! Don't 
 bring him — don't let him!" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "He's a bad fellow — a wicked son! He'll drain us of 
 all! What the doctor's left he'll take! Don't let him 
 come !" 
 
 He spoke wildly — imploringly. He held out his hands, 
 kneading the fingers together in an agony of emotion. 
 
 "Dad !" I said. "Don't go on so ! You're overwrought 
 with fancies. How can he possibly help himself to more 
 than we decide to give him? Try to pull yourself to- 
 gether — to be your old strong self.'' 
 
 "Oh!" he moaned, "I do try, but you know so little. 
 He's a brazen, heartless wretch! We shall die paupers." 
 
 His voice rose into a sort of shriek. 
 
 "Come!" I said, firmly, "you must command your- 
 self. This is weak to a degree. Remember, I am with 
 you, to look after your interests — your peace — to defend 
 you if necessary." 
 
 He only moaned again: "You don't know." 
 
 "I know this," I said, "that by Zyp's showing_ my 
 brother is a broken man — helpless, demoralized — in a 
 pitiable state altogether." 
 
 He seemed to prick his ears somewhat at that. 
 
 "If he must come," he said, "if he must come, watch 
 him — grind him under — never let him think for an in- 
 stant that he keeps the mastery." 
 
 "He shall never have cause to claim that, father." 
 
 He spoke no more, but crept to his room presently 
 and left me pondering his words far into the night. 
 
 Later on, as I lay awake in bed, I heard his room 
 door open softly and the sound of his footsteps on the 
 stairs. This, however, being no unfamiliar experience 
 with us, disturbed me not at all.
 
 220 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 In the morning at breakfast he handed me a couple 
 of ancient gold coins. 
 
 "Take these," he said; "they should bring £5 apiece." 
 
 His instructions as to the disposal of the relics I need 
 not dwell upon. Their consignee, a highly respectable 
 tradesman in his line, would no doubt consider any men- 
 tion of his name a considerable breach of confidence. I 
 had my own opinion as to the laws of treasure-trove, and 
 he may have had his as to my father. When, armed with 
 my father's warranty, I visited this amiable "receiver," 
 T found him to be an austere-looking but pleasant gentle- 
 man, with an evident enthusiasm for the .scholarly side of 
 his business. He gave me the price my father had men- 
 tioned, and bowed me to the door, with a faint blush. 
 
 It was so early in the day by the time I had finished 
 my business that, deeming it not possible that Jason 
 could reach the mill before the evening at earliest, I de- 
 termined upon returning by an afternoon train, that I 
 might make a visit that had been in my»mind since I first 
 knew I was to revisit London. It was to a dull and 
 lonely cemetery out Battersea way, where a poor work- 
 ing girl lay at rest. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when I came to the lodge 
 gate of the burial-place and inquired there as to the 
 position of the grave. 
 
 Indeed, in the quarter where I found her the graves 
 lay so close that it seemed almost as if the coffins must 
 touch underground. 
 
 My eyes filled with humble tears as I stood looking 
 down on the thin green mound. A little cross of stone 
 stood at the head and on it "D. M." and the date of her 
 death. The grave had been carefully tended — lovingly 
 trimmed and weeded and coaxed to the greenest growth 
 in those nine short months. A little bush rose stood at 
 the foot, and on the breast of the hillock, a bunch of 
 rich, fading flowers lay. They must have been placed 
 there within the last two or three days only— by the 
 same hands that had gardened the sprouting turf — that 
 had raised the simple cross and written thereon the date 
 of a great heart's breaking.
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 221 
 
 I placed my own sad token of autumn flowers nearer 
 the foot of the mound, and, going to the cross, bent 
 and kissed it. My eyes were so bHnded, my throat so 
 strangled, that for the moment I felt as if, as I did so, 
 it put its arms about my neck and that Dolly's soft cheek 
 was laid against mine, I know that I rose peaceful with 
 the assurance of pardon ; and that, by and by, that gentle, 
 unresting spirit was to extend to me once more, in the 
 passing of a dreadful peril, the saving beneficence of its 
 presence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A FACE. 
 
 Dark was falling as on my return I came within sound 
 of the mill race. I thought I could make out a little 
 group of people leaning over the stone balustrade of 
 the bridge as I approached. Such I found to be the 
 case, and among them Dr. Crackenthorpe standing up 
 gaunt in his long brown coat. 
 
 I was turning in at the yard, when this individual hailed 
 me, and by doing so brought all the faces round in my 
 direction. I walked up to him. 
 
 "Well?" I said. 
 
 "These good folk are curious. It's no affair of mine, 
 but half a minute ago there came a yell out of the old 
 cabin yonder fit to wake the dead." 
 
 "Well?" I said, again, with a mighty assumption of 
 coolness I hardly felt. 
 
 "Oh, don't suppose I care. It only seemed to me that 
 some day, perhaps, you'll have the place stoned about 
 your ears, if you don't let a little more light in." 
 
 A murmur went up from the half-dozen rustics and 
 brainless idlers. 
 
 "We don't warnt no drownding ghosteses in Winton," 
 said a voice. 
 
 I went straight up to them. 
 
 "Don't you?" I said. "Then you'd best keep out of
 
 222 THE MILL, OF SILENCE. 
 
 reach of them that can make you that and something 
 worse. I suppose some of you have cried out with the 
 lumbago before now?" 
 
 "That warn't no lumbago cry, master." 
 
 "Wasn't it, now? Have you ever had it?" 
 
 "No— I harsn't." 
 
 "I'll give you a good imitation" — and I made a rush at 
 the fellow who spoke. The crowd scattered, and the 
 man, suddenly backing, toppled over with a crack that 
 brought a yell out of him. 
 
 "See there!" I cried. "You scream before you are 
 touched even. A pretty fool you, to gauge the meaning 
 of any noise but your own gobbling over a slice of bread 
 and bacon." 
 
 This was to the humor of the others, who cackled 
 hoarsely with laughter. 
 
 "If you want to ask questions," I said, turning upon 
 them, "put them to this doctor here, who sits every day 
 in a room with a row of murderers' heads looking down 
 upon him." 
 
 With that I walked off in a heat, and was going toward 
 the house, when Dr. Crackenthorpe came after me with 
 a stride and a furious menace. 
 
 "You'll turn the tables, will you?" he said, in a suffo- 
 cating voice. "Some day, my friend — some day!" 
 
 I didn't answer him or even look his way, but strode 
 into the mill and banged the door in his face. 
 
 As I entered our sitting-room, I found Jason standing 
 motionless in the shadow a few feet from my father's 
 chair. 
 
 The old man welcomed me with an agonized cry of 
 rapture, and endeavored to struggle to his feet, but 
 dropped back again as if exhausted. I went and stood 
 over him, and he clung to one of my hands, as a drown- 
 ing man might. 
 
 "Who cried out just now?" I asked, fiercely, of Jason. 
 
 He gulped and cleared his throat, but could only point 
 nervelessly at the cowering figure before him. 
 
 "Father! What is the matter?"
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 223 
 
 "You wouldn't come, Renalt — you wouldn't come! I 
 prayed for you to come." 
 
 "What has he been doing?" 
 
 "It was all the old horror over again. Send him away! 
 Don't let him come near me!" 
 
 I was falling distracted. I turned to Jason once more. 
 
 "Come! Out with it!" I said. "What have you been 
 doing?" 
 
 He strove to smile. His face was ghastly — pinched 
 and lined. 
 
 "Nothing," he said at last, with a choking cluck in 
 his throat, "I have done nothing." 
 
 "Don't believe him," moaned my father. "He wanted 
 all; he wanted to sink me to ruin." 
 
 "I wanted to ruin nobody!" cried my brother, finding 
 his voice in a wail of despair. "I'm desperate, that's all 
 — desperate to escape — and he ofifers me little more than 
 he'd give to a beggar." 
 
 "I tell him I'm not far from one myself! He won't 
 believe it. He threatened me, Renalt. He brought the 
 hideous time back again." 
 
 A light broke upon me, as from a furnace door snapped 
 open. 
 
 "Dad," I said, gently, "will you go to your room and 
 leave the rest to me?" 
 
 I helped him to his feet — across the room. His eyes 
 watched the other all the time. It was pitiful to see his 
 terror of him. 
 
 Jason stood where he had planted himself, waiting my 
 return with hanging head and fingers laced in front of 
 him. 
 
 I led the old man to the foot of the stairs. Then I 
 returned to the room and stood before my brother. 
 
 "I understand it all now," I said, in a straight, quiet 
 voice. "The 'some one else' you suspected, or pretended 
 to, was our father!" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "While I was in London you traded upon this pre- 
 tended knowledge to force money out of the old man.'' 
 
 No answer.
 
 224 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Your silence will do. What can I say but that it was 
 like you? To traffic upon a helpless man's miserable 
 apprehensions for your own sordid ends — and that man 
 your father! To do this while holding a like threat oyer 
 another's head — your brother's — still for your own pitiful 
 ends. And all the time who knows but you may be the 
 murderer?" 
 
 "I am not the murderer. You persist, and — and it's 
 too cruel." 
 
 "Cruel! To you? Who killed Modred?" 
 
 "I believe it was dad." 
 
 "I believe upon my soul it's a lie!" 
 
 "He thinks it himself, anyhow." 
 
 "Is it any good saying to you that a man of his habits, 
 as he was then, might be driven to believe anything of 
 himself?" 
 
 "Why did he have the braces in his pocket, then?" 
 
 "He had carried the boy up-stairs — you know that. 
 He had been bathing and his things were scattered." 
 
 "It isn't all. Modred had discovered his secret." 
 
 In spite of myself I started. 
 
 "What secret?'" I said. 
 
 "Where the coins were hidden." 
 
 "What coins?" 
 
 For the first time he looked at me with a faint leer of 
 
 cunning. 
 
 "I won't condescend to prevaricate for any purpose, 
 I said. "I do know about the treasure, because he told 
 me himself, but I swear I know to this day nothing 
 about its hiding-place." 
 
 He looked at me curiouslv. v 
 
 "Well," he said, "Modred had found it out, anyway." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Didn't he ofifer to give Zyp something in exchange 
 for a kiss that night we watched them out of the win- 
 dow?" 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "It was gold. I saw it. He must have found his way 
 to the store and stolen it. Mayn't it be, now, that dad
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 225 
 
 discovered he had been robbed, and took the surest way 
 to prevent it happening again?" 
 
 "No — a thousand times!" I spoke stanchly, but my 
 heart felt sick within me. 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "So," I said, in a high-strung voice, "this was your 
 manner of business during my absence; that the way to 
 the means that helped you up to London? A miserable 
 discover}^ for you — for I gather from your words you, 
 too, found out about the hiding-place. You had better 
 have left it alone — a million times you had better." 
 
 Still he was silent. 
 
 "Did Zyp know, too?" 
 
 "No — not from my telling. I can't answer for what 
 she may have found out for herself. She sees in the 
 dark," 
 
 "How much did you have, from first to last? But I 
 suppose you helped yourself whenever you needed it?" 
 
 "I didn't — I swear I didn't! I never put finger on the 
 stufif till dad handed it over to me. What right had he 
 to keep us without a penny all those years, when riches 
 were there for the taking?" 
 
 "He could do what he liked with his own, I conclude. 
 At any rate, the end justified the means. A pretty use 
 you made of your vile extortion — a bloody vengeance 
 is the price you pay for it!" 
 
 At that he gave a sudden cry. 
 
 "I'm lost — I know it! Help me to escape. Renny, 
 help me to escape." 
 
 "Do you think you deserve that of me, Jason?" 
 
 He dropped upon his knees, an abject, wailing figure. 
 
 "I don't — I don't! But you're generous — Renalt, I 
 always thought you good and generous, when I laughed 
 at you most. Save me from that terror! He strikes at 
 me in the dark — I never know where his hideous face will 
 show next. He follows me — haunts me — tries to poison 
 me, to torture me to death! Oh, Renny, help me!" 
 
 "Answer me truly first. For how long were you rob- 
 bing the old man?" 
 
 "I may have had small sums of him for a year — nothing 
 
 13
 
 S2C THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 much. When Zyp and I made up our minds to go, I 
 bid for a larger, and he gave it me." 
 
 "He didn't know you were married?'' 
 
 "He wouldn't hear of it — it's the truth. He meant her 
 for you. I think, and the worst threats I could use never 
 shook him from his refusal to countenance us." 
 
 "Brave old man!" 
 
 "Renny — help me!" 
 
 "For Zyp's sake," I said, sternly — "yes. Were it not 
 for her appeal, I tell you plainly you might perish for 
 me. 
 
 He looked so base kneeling there in his craven deg- 
 radation that I could not forbear the stroke. 
 
 "My father provides the means," I said. "I went to 
 London to-day to realize it. Here it is, and make the 
 most of it." 
 
 He took it from me with trembling hands. 
 
 "Ten pounds," he said, blankly. "No more?" 
 
 "Isn't it enough?" 
 
 "Enough to get away with, not enough to find a living 
 on across the water." 
 
 "It's all you'll get — that's final. Remember now that 
 I stand here by my father. Always remember that when 
 your fingers itch for hush money — and remember who 
 it was that was once my friend." 
 
 He rose and crept to the door with bowed head. 
 Some old vein of tenderer feeling gushed warm in me. 
 
 "Jason," I cried, "I forgive you for all you have done 
 to me." 
 
 He turned and came back to me, seized me by the 
 wrist — and his eyes were moist with tears. 
 
 "For pity's sake come a little way with me, Renny. 
 You don't know what I suffer." 
 
 "A little way on your road, do you mean?" 
 
 "Yes. I daren't go by train. He might be there. I 
 must walk; and I dread — Renny, supposing I should 
 meet him on the way?" 
 
 "Why, that's nonsense. Haven't you just come alone?" 
 
 "I was driven by the thought of what I was seeking, 
 then. It was bad enough. But, now I've got it, all
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 227 
 
 nerve seems shaken out of me. I'm afraid of the dark." 
 
 Was this the stuff that villains are made of? Almost 
 I could find it in me to soothe and comfort the poor, ter- 
 rified creature. 
 
 "Very well," I said. "I will walk part of the way with 
 you." 
 
 His wan cheek flushed with gratitude. I got my hat 
 and stick, and ran up to my father to tell him whither I 
 was off. 
 
 As I came downstairs again Jason was disappearing 
 into the loft, where the stones were, that stood opposite 
 the sitting-room. The wheel underneath was booming 
 as usual and the great disks revolved softly with a rub- 
 bing noise. I saw him go to the dim window, that stood 
 out as if hung up in the black atmosphere of the room, 
 a square of latticed gray. It was evidently his intention 
 to reconnoiter before starting, for the window looked 
 upon the bridge and the now lonely tail of the High 
 street. 
 
 Suddenly a sort of stifled rushing noise issued from 
 his lips, and he stole back on tiptoe to the passage with- 
 out the room. There, in the weak lamplight, he fell 
 against the wall, and his face was the color of straw 
 paper and his lips were ashen. 
 
 "He's there," he said, in a dreadful whisper. "He's 
 standing on the bridge waiting for me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 A NIGHT PURSUIT. 
 
 I rushed across the room and looked out through the 
 dim glass. At first I could make out nothing until a 
 faint form resolved itself suddenly into a face, gray and 
 set as the block of stone it looked over. 
 
 It never moved, but remained thus as if it were a 
 sculptured death designed to take stock forever with a 
 petrified stare of the crumbling mill.
 
 228 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the outlines, I 
 saw that it leaned down in reality, with its chin resting 
 on its hands that were crossed over the top of the para- 
 pet. Even at that distance I should have known the 
 mouth, though the whole pose of the figure were not 
 visible to convince me. 
 
 Jason looked at me like a dying man when I returned 
 to him. The full horror of a mortal fright, than which 
 nothing is more painful to witness, spoke from his lungs, 
 that heaved as if the sweet air had become a palpable 
 thing to enter within and imprison his soul from all hope 
 of escape. He tried to question me, but only sunk back 
 with a moan. 
 
 "Now," I said, "you must summon all your resolution. 
 Act promptly and in half an hour you will be beyond 
 reach of him." 
 
 My own nerves were strung to devouring action. A 
 kind of exultation fired me to master this tyranny of pur- 
 suit. Whatever might be its justification, the tactics of 
 aggressive force should at least be open and human, I 
 thought. 
 
 "You don't want to pass the night here?" 
 
 He made a negative motion with his head. 
 
 "I think you're right. It might only be postponing 
 the end. Will you place yourself in my hands?" 
 
 He held out his arms to me imploringly. 
 
 "Very well. Now, listen to me. There he will re- 
 main in all likelihood for some time, not knowing he is 
 discovered. We must give him the slip — escape quietly 
 at the back, while he is intent on the front." 
 
 I could only make out that his white lips whispered: 
 "You won't leave me?" 
 
 "Not till all danger is past. I promise you." 
 
 I went over the house and quietly tested that every 
 bolt and catch was secure. Then I fetched a dram of 
 spirit, and made the poor, demoralized wretch swallow 
 it. It brought a glint of color to his cheek — a little firm- 
 ness to his limbs. 
 
 "Another," he whispered.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 229 
 
 "No," I answered. "You want the nerve to act; not 
 the overconfidence that leads to a false step. Come." 
 
 Together we stole to the rear of the building where 
 the little platform hung above the race. I locked the 
 door behind us and pocketed the key. 
 
 "Now," I said, "quietly and no hesitating. Follow 
 me. 
 
 The stream here sought passage between the inclosed 
 mill-head, with its tumbling bay and waste weir — the 
 sluice of which I never remember to have seen shut — 
 on the one side, and on the other the wall of an adjoining 
 garden. This last was not lofty, but was too high to 
 scale without fear of noise and the risk of attracting ob- 
 servation. Underneath the heavy pull of the water would 
 have spun us like straws ofl our feet had we dropped 
 into it there. 
 
 There was only one way, and that I had calculated 
 upon. To the left some branches of a great sycamore 
 tree overhung the wall, the nearest of them some five 
 feet out of reach. Climbing the rail of the platform, I 
 stood upon the outer edge and balanced myself for a 
 spring. It was no difficult task to an active man, and 
 in a moment I was bobbing and dipping above the black 
 onrush of the water. Pointing out my feet with a vigor- 
 ous oscillating action, I next swung myself to a further 
 branch, which I clutched, letting go the other. Here I 
 dangled above a little silt of weed and gravel that stood 
 forth the margin of the stream, and onto it I dropped, 
 finding firm foothold, and motioned to Jason to follow. 
 
 He was like to have come to grief at the outset, for 
 from his nerves being shaky, I suppose, he sprung short 
 of the first branch, hitting at it frantically with his fingers 
 only, so that he fell with a bounding splash into the 
 water's edge. The pull had him in an instant, and it 
 would have been all up with him had I not foreseen the 
 result while he was yet in midair and plunged for him. 
 Luckily I still held on to the end of the second branch, 
 to which I clung with one hand, while I seized his coat 
 collar with the other. For half a minute even then it 
 was a struggle for life or death, the stout wood I held
 
 230 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 to deciding the balance, but at last he gained his feet, 
 and I was able to pull him, wallowing and stumbling, 
 toward me. It was not the depth of the water that so 
 nearly overcame us, for it ran hardly above his knees. 
 It was the mighty strength of it rushing onward to the 
 wheel. 
 
 He would have paused to regain his breath, but I 
 allowed him no respite. 
 
 "Hurry !'' I whispered. "Who knows but he may have 
 heard the splash?" 
 
 He needed no further stimulus, but pushed at me to 
 proceed, in a flurried agony of fear. I tested the water 
 on the further side of the little mound. It was possible 
 to struggle up against it along its edge, and of that possi- 
 bility we must make the best. Clutching at the wall with 
 crooked fingers for any hope of support, we moved up, 
 step by step, until gradually the wicked hold slackened 
 and we could make our way without bitter struggle. 
 
 Presently, to the right, the wall opened to a slope of 
 desert garden ground that ran up to an empty cottage 
 standing on the fall of the hill above. Over to this we 
 cautiously waded, and climbed once more to dry land, 
 drenched and exhausted. 
 
 No pause might be ours yet, however. Stooping al- 
 most to the earth, we scurried up the slope, passed the 
 cottage, and never stopped until we stood upon the road 
 that skirts the base of the hill. 
 
 A moment's breathing space now and a moment's re- 
 flection. Downward the winding road led straight to the 
 bridge and the very figure we were flying. Yet it was 
 necessary to cross the head of this road somehow, to 
 reach the meadows that stretched over the lap of the 
 low valley we must traverse before we could hit the 
 Southampton highway. 
 
 Fortunately no moon was up to play traitor to our 
 need. I took my brother by the coat sleeve and led him 
 onward. He was trembling and shivering as if with an 
 ague. Over the grass, by way of the watery tracks, we 
 sped — passing at a stone's throw the pool where Modred 
 had nearly met his death, breaking out at last, with a
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 231 
 
 panting burst of relief, into the solitary stretch of road 
 running southward. Before us, in the glimmering dark, 
 it went silent and lonely between its moth-haunted 
 hedges, and we took it with long strides. 
 
 My brother hurried by my side without a word, sub- 
 duing his breathing even as much as possible and walk- 
 ing with a light, springing motion on his toes; but now 
 and again I saw him look back over his shoulder, with 
 an awful expression of listening. 
 
 It was after one of his turns that Jason suddenly 
 whipped a hand upon my arm and drew me to a stop. 
 
 "Listen!" he whispered, and slewed his head round, 
 with a dry chirp in his throat. 
 
 Faintly — very faintly, a step on the road behind us 
 came to my ears. 
 
 "He's following!" murmured my brother, with a sort 
 of despairing calmness. 
 
 "Nonsense," I said; "how do you know it's he? It's a 
 public highway." 
 
 "I do know. Hark to the step!" 
 
 It was a little nearer. There was a queer dragging 
 sound in it. Was it possible that some demon inspired 
 this terrible man to an awful species of clairvoyance? 
 How otherwise could he be on our tracks? Unless, in- 
 deed, the splash had informed him! 
 
 There was a gap in the hedge close by where we stood, 
 and not far from it, in the field beyond, a haystack loom- 
 ing gigantic in the dark. With a rapid motion I dived, 
 pulling Jason after me — and stooping low, we scurried 
 for the shelter, and threw ourselves into the loose stuflf 
 lying on the further side of it. There, lying crushed into 
 the litter, with what horror of emotion to one of us God 
 alone may know, we heard the shuffling footsteps come 
 rapidly up the road. As it neared the gap, my brother's 
 hand fell upon mine, with a convulsive clutch. It was 
 stone cold and all clammy with the ooze of terror. As 
 the footstep passed he relaxed his hold and seemed to 
 collapse. I thought he had fainted, but mercifully I 
 was mistaken. 
 
 The step behind the hedge seemed to go a little further.
 
 232 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 then die out all at once. I thought he had passed be- 
 yond our hearing, and lay still some moments longer 
 listening — listening, through the faint rustling sounds of 
 the night, for assurance of our safety. 
 
 At length I was on the point of rising, when a strained 
 hideous screech broke from the figure beside me and I 
 saw him sway up, kneeling, and totter sideways against 
 the wall of hay. With the sound of his voice I sprung 
 to my feet — and there was the pursuer, come silently 
 round the corner of the stack, and gazing with gloating 
 eyes upon his victim. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A STRANGE VIGIL. 
 
 Had Jason fainted, as I thought he had, his enemy 
 would have been upon him before I was aware of his 
 presence even. As it was, in an instant I had interposed 
 my body between them. 
 
 For a full minute, perhaps, we remained thus, like fig- 
 ures of stone, before I found my voice. 
 
 "You can go back," I said, never taking my eyes off 
 him. "It's too late." 
 
 He gave no answer, nor did he change his position. 
 
 "I won't appeal to you," I said, "by any claim of old 
 friendship, to leave this poor wretch in peace. If com- 
 mon humanity can make no way with you, how shall 
 any words of mine?" 
 
 He made a little sidling movement, to which I cor- 
 responded with a like. 
 
 "You're welcome to measure your strength with mine," 
 I said. "You'll have to do it before you can think to get 
 at him." 
 
 He looked at me with glittering eyes, as if debating 
 my power to stop him. 
 
 "Duke !" I cried, "be merciful ! If his crime was great, 
 he has repented."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 233 
 
 He Spoke at last, screwing out an ugly high little 
 chuckle, with a straining of his whole body, like a cock 
 crowing. 
 
 "Why, so have I!" he said. "There's a place waiting 
 for the two of us among the blessed saints, while she's 
 frying down below." 
 
 "It was hers to forgive, and she has forgiven, I know. 
 Be merciful and worthy of her you are to meet some 
 day." 
 
 "What can I do more disinterested, then, than send 
 him repentant to sit with her. There's a noble revenge 
 to take! If he'd stopped in London I'd have allowed 
 him a little longer, perhaps; but, as he wants to escape, 
 I must make sure, or the devil might have me by the leg, 
 you see." 
 
 All the time we spoke, Jason was cowering among the 
 hay, his breath sounding in quick gasps. Now he gave 
 out a pitiful moan, and Duke bent his head waiting for 
 a repetition, as if it were music to him. 
 
 "For the last time, be merciful, Duke." 
 
 "Well, so I will." 
 
 He spoke looking up at me, with his head still bent 
 sideways, and, in that position, felt in one of his pockets. 
 
 "If the gentleman will condescend to take this," he 
 said, standing suddenly erect and holding out a little 
 white paper packet in his hand, "I will go and welcome. 
 But I must see him swallow it first." 
 
 "Poison?" 
 
 "Not at all. A love potion — nothing more." 
 
 Duke stole toward me insidiously, holding out the 
 pai)er. Tlie moment he was within reach I struck it out 
 of his hand. While my arm was yet in the air, he came 
 with a rush at me — caught his foot in a projecting root — 
 staggered and fell with a sliding thump upon the grass. 
 
 "Keep behind!" I shouted to Jason, who was uttering 
 incoherent cries and running to and fro like a thing 
 smitten with a sunstroke. He stopped at sound of niy 
 voice; then came and clung to me, feeling me to be his 
 last hope. 
 
 For a moment Duke lay as if stunned; then slowly
 
 234 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 gathered himself together and rose to his feet — rose only 
 to collapse again, with a snarHng curse of agony. He 
 glowered up at us, moaning and muttering, and nursing 
 his injured Hmb; for so it seemed that, in falling, he had 
 cruelly twisted and sprained one of his ankles. 
 
 When the truth broke upon me I turned round upon 
 my brother with a great breath of gratitude and relief, 
 
 "Run!" I cried. "You can be miles away before he 
 will be able to move, even." 
 
 Jason leaped from me, his eyes staring maniacally. 
 
 "You fool!" I cried; "go! Leave him to me! You 
 can be at Southampton before he is out of the field here. 
 Even if he is able to walk by morning, which I doubt, he 
 has me to reckon with!'' 
 
 Some little nerve came to him, once standing outside 
 the baneful influence of the eyes. He dashed his hand 
 across his forehead, gave me one rapid, wild glance of 
 gratitude and renewed hope, and, turning, ran for his life 
 into the darkness. 
 
 As his footsteps clattered faintly down the road I re- 
 turned to grapple with his enemy. 
 
 I almost stumbled over him as I turned the comer. 
 He had rolled and struggled so far in his rabid frenzy; 
 and now, seeing me come back alone, he set up a yell 
 of rage, reviling and cursing me and hurling impotent 
 lightnings of hate after his escaped victim. 
 
 Gradually the storm of his passion mouthed itself away 
 and he lay silent on the ground like a dead thing. Then 
 I moved to him; knelt and softly pulled him by the 
 sleeve. 
 
 "Duke, shall I bind it up for you?" 
 
 "What? My heart?" He spoke with his face in the 
 grass. "Bind it in a sling, you fool — it's a heavy stone — 
 and smite the accursed Philistine on the forehead with it." 
 
 "Has this bitter trouble dehumanized you altogether? 
 Do you blame me in this? He was my brother." 
 
 "And you were my friend. What is the value of it 
 all? I would have crushed you like a beetle if you stood 
 in my way to him. Deviltry is the only happiness. I 
 think he was beforehand with me in that. What a poor
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 235 
 
 idiot to let him be! I might have enjoyed a minute's 
 bHss for the price of my soul, and now my only hope of 
 it is by killing him." 
 
 "That you shall never do if I can prevent it." 
 
 He rolled over on his back, thrust his arms beneath his 
 head and lay staring at me with deeply melancholy eyes. 
 
 "Let's cry an armistice for the night," he said, in a low, 
 gentle voice. 
 
 "Forever, Duke!" 
 
 "Between us two? Why not — on all questions but the 
 one?" 
 
 "Find some pity in your heart, even for him." 
 
 "Never!" He jerked out an arm and shook it sav- 
 agely at the sky. "Never!" 
 
 I gave a heavy sigh. 
 
 "Well," I said, "let's look to your foot, at least." 
 
 "Is he beyond my reach?" 
 
 "Quite. You can put it out of your head. Even if 
 your' limb were sound you'd never catch him now. With 
 the morning they go abroad." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "Honestly, I don't know." 
 
 "You found him the funds?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He groaned and turned his face away for a moment. 
 I busied myself over his bruised ankle. Presently he 
 said : 
 
 "How long am I to lie here?" 
 
 "Till I can see to cut you a stick from the hedge. You 
 wouldn't be able to limp a step without one." 
 
 "Very well. Will you sit by me?" 
 
 "As long as you like." 
 
 "I have no likes or dislikes now, Rennv, and only one 
 hate." 
 
 "We won't talk of that." 
 
 "Not now. This field is the neutral ground. Once 
 outside it, the armistice ends." 
 
 "Duke!" 
 
 "How can it be otherwise, Renny, my old friend? Are 
 you going to back me in the chase? Unless you do,
 
 23C THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 you must see that it is impossible for us to come to- 
 gether." 
 
 "I see nothing — feel nothing, but a vast, interminable 
 sorrow, Duke." 
 
 "And -I — you have a gentle hand, Renny. So had she. 
 She bound up my wrist for me once, when I had crushed 
 it in the galley-puller. Shall we recall those days?" 
 
 My heart swelled to hear him in this softened mood, as 
 I thought. Alas! It was only a brief interval of lucidity 
 in his madness. 
 
 "Ah, if we could look beyond!'' I finally answered, with 
 a deep sigh. 
 
 "We can — we do. Imagination isn't guided by rule of 
 thumb. Even here the promise dawns slowly. Scabs 
 are thickest on the body when it's healing of its fever. 
 They will fall ofif by and by, for all the dismal shrieks 
 that degeneration has seized us." 
 
 He closed his eyes and lay back upon his hands once 
 more. 
 
 "Imagination? Was this ever my world? There is a 
 wide green forest, and the murmur of its running brooks 
 is all of faces sweet as flowers and voices that I know, for 
 I heard them long ago in a time before I existed here. 
 And I walk on, free forever of the aching past; the eter- 
 nity of most beautiful possibilities and discoveries before 
 me; joyous all through but for one sad little longing that 
 encumbers me. Not for long — no, not for long. On a 
 lawn fragrant with loving flowers and gathered here 
 and there to deep silence by the stooping shadows, I 
 come upon her — my love; my dear, dear love. And she 
 kisses the sorrow from my eyes, and holds me to her and 
 whispers, 'You have come at last.' " 
 
 His voice broke with a sob. Glancing at him, I saw 
 the tears running down his cheeks. This grief was sacred 
 from word of mine. I rose softly and set to pacing the 
 meadow at a little distance. By and by, when I returned, 
 I saw him sitting up. The mood had passed, but he was 
 still gentle and human. 
 
 Till dawn was faint in the sky we sat and talked the 
 dark hours away. The sun had risen and Duke was
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 237 
 
 watching something in the grass, when suddenly he 
 shook himself and turned to me. 
 
 "Cut me my stick, Renny," he said. "The pilgrim 
 must be journeying." 
 
 "Come home with me, Duke." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Look!" he said, "I have tried to read a lesson of a 
 spider as Bruce did. I broke and tangled the little fel- 
 low's web like a wanton and what did he do but roll 
 the rubbish up into a ball and swallow it. I can't get 
 rid of my web in that way, Renny." 
 
 I did my utmost to hold him to his softer mind. He 
 would not listen, but drove me from him. 
 
 "Cut me my stick," he said, "or I shall have to crawl 
 down the road on all fours." 
 
 I did his bidding sadly. Propped up by me on one 
 side, he was able with the help of his stafif to limp pain- 
 fully from the field. Outside it, he sat himself down on 
 the hedge bank. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Trender," he said. 
 
 "Duke, let me at least help you to the town." 
 
 "Not a step, I'm obliged to you. I shall get on very 
 well by and by. Good-morning." 
 
 I seized and shook his hand — it dropped listlessly from 
 mine — hositated; looked in his face, and, turning from 
 hhn, strode sorrowfully off homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 A STORY AND ITS SEQUEL. 
 
 Nine months had passed since my parting with Duke 
 on the hillside, and my life in the interval had flowed on 
 with an easy uneventful monotony that was at least re- 
 storative to my turbulent soul. We had not once heard 
 during this stretch of time from Jason or Zyp, and could 
 only conclude that, finding asylum in some remote corner 
 of the world, they would not risk discovery in it by word
 
 238 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 or sign. Letters, like homing pigeons, sometimes go 
 astray. 
 
 Duke had put in no second appearance. Dr. Cracken- 
 thorpe kept entirely aloof. All the tragedy of that dark 
 period, crushed within a single year of existence, seemed 
 swept by and scattered like so much road dust. Only 
 my father and I remained of the strutting and fretting 
 actors to brood over the parts we had played; and one 
 of us was gray at heart forevermore, and the other waxing 
 halt and old and feeble. 
 
 Now, often I tried to put the vexing problem of my 
 brother's death behind me; and yet, if I thought for a 
 moment I had succeeded, it was only to be conscious of 
 a grinning skeleton at my back. 
 
 And in this year a strange and tragic thing happened 
 in Winton that was indirectly the cause in me of a fresh 
 fungus growth of doubt and dark suspicion; and it fell 
 out in this wise: 
 
 Some twenty years before, when I was a mere child 
 (the story came to me later), a great quarrel had taken 
 place between two citizens of the old burg. They were 
 partners, before the dispute, in a flourishing business, 
 and the one of them who was ultimately worsted in the 
 argument had been the benefactor of the man that tri- 
 umphed. The quarrel rose on some question as to the 
 terms of their mutual agreement, the partner who had 
 been taken into the firm out of kindness claiming the 
 right to oust the other by a certain date. The techni- 
 calities of the matter were involved in a mass of obscurity, 
 but anyhow they went to law about it and the beneficiary 
 won the case. The other was forced to retire, to all in- 
 tents and purposes a ruined man, but he bore with him 
 a possession that no judge could deprive him of — a deep, 
 deadly hatred against the reptile whose fortunes he had 
 made and who had so poisonously bitten him in return. 
 He was heard to declare that alive or dead he would 
 have his enemy by the heel some day, and no one doubted 
 but that he meant it. 
 
 Some months later, as the successful partner was re- 
 turning home from his office one winter night, a pistol
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 239 
 
 shot cracked behind him and he was constrained to meas- 
 ure his portly figure in the slush of the street. There 
 his late partner came and looked upon him and gave a 
 weltering grunt, like a satisfied hog, and kicked the body 
 and went his way. But his victim was scarcely finished 
 with in the manner he fancied. The ball, glancing from 
 a lamp-post, had smashed the bones of his right heel 
 only, and he was merely feigning death. When his ene- 
 my was retired he crawled home on his hands and knees, 
 leaving a sluggish trail of crimson behind him, and, once 
 safe in the fortress of his household, sent for the doctor 
 and an inspector of police. 
 
 The would-be murderer was of course captured, tried 
 and sentenced to a twenty-year term of penal servitude. 
 He made no protest and took it all in the nature of things. 
 But, before leaving the dock, he repeated — looking with 
 a quiet smile on his becrutched and bandaged oppressor 
 sitting pallidly in the court — his remarkable formula 
 about "alive or dead" having him by the heel some day. 
 
 Then he disappeared from Winton's ken and for six- 
 teen years the town knew him no more, and his victim 
 prospered exceedingly and walked far into the regions 
 of wealth and honor, for all a painful limp that seemed 
 as if it should have impeded his advance. 
 
 At the end of this time a little local excitement was 
 stirred by the return of the criminal, out on ticket-of- 
 leave, and presenting all the appearance of a degraded, 
 battered and senile old man. His one-time partner — 
 a town councilor by then — resented his intrusion exceed- 
 ingly; but finding him to be impervious, apparently, to 
 the sting of memory, and presumably harmless to sting 
 any more on his own account, he bestirred himself to 
 quarter the driveling wreck on an almshouse — a pro- 
 ceeding which gained him much approval on the part of 
 all but those who retained recollection of the origin of 
 the quarrel. 
 
 In this happy asylum the poor ruin breathed his last 
 within a month of its admission, and the rubbish of it 
 was buried — not in the pauper corner of some city ceme- 
 tery, as one might suppose, but in the very yard of the
 
 240 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 cathedral itself. For, curiously enough, the fading crea- 
 ture before his death had claimed lying-room in a family 
 vault sunk in that august inclosure, and his claim was 
 found to be a legitimate one. 
 
 I knew the place where he lay, well; for an end of the 
 old vault they had opened for his accommodation tun- 
 neled under a pathway that cut the yard obliquely, and, 
 passing along it one's feet hit out the spot in a low re- 
 verberating thud of two steps that spoke of hollowness 
 beneath the gravel. 
 
 The July of the present year I write of being the 
 fourth from that poor thing's death and burial, was 
 marked by one of the most terrific thunderstorms that 
 have ever in my memory visited Winton. 
 
 If there was one man abroad in those bitter hours, 
 there was one only, I should say, and he paid a grewsome 
 price for his temerity. He was returning home from a 
 birthday party, was that fated councilor, and, fired with 
 a Dutch courage, must have taken that very path across 
 the yard under which his once partner lay, and which 
 he generally for some good reason rather avoided. What 
 followed he might never describe himself, for that was 
 the last of him. But a strange and eerie scene met the 
 sight of an early riser abroad in the yard the next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 It appeared that a bolt had struck and wrenched a 
 huge limb from one of the great lime trees skirting the 
 path; that the heavy butt of this, clapping down upon 
 that spot of the gravel under which the end of the vault 
 lay, had splintered the massive lid stone into half a dozen 
 pieces, so that they collapsed and fell inward, crashing 
 upon and breaking open in their fall the pauper's cofifin 
 imderneath. 
 
 "Whom God seeks to destroy, He first maddens." Into 
 this awful trap, in the rain and storm and darkness, Mr. 
 Councilor walked plump, and there he was found in the 
 morning, dead and ghastly, his already once-wounded 
 leg caught in a crevice made by the broken stone and 
 wood — ^his heel actually resting in the bony hand of his 
 enemy who had waited for him 90 long.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 241 
 
 All that by the way. It was a grim enough story by 
 itself, no doubt, but I mention it only here as bearing 
 indirectly upon a little matter of my own. 
 
 Old Peggy had retailed it to me, with much grisly 
 decoration, on the afternoon following the night of the 
 tempest. The thorns of her mind were stored with a 
 wriggling half-hundred of such tales." 
 
 By and by I walked out to visit the scene of the trag- 
 edy. It was dark and gloomy and still threatening 
 storm. There was little left of the ruin of the night. The 
 fallen branch had been sawed to lengths and carted away, 
 and only its litter remained; the vault had been covered 
 in again with a great slab lifted and brought from one 
 of the precinct pathways that were paved with ancient 
 gravestones; a solitary man was raking and trimming 
 the gravel over the restored surface. The crowds who 
 no doubt had visited the sp^t during the day were dwin- 
 dled to a half-dozen morbid idlers, and a sweeping flaw 
 of tempest breaking suddenly from the clouds even as I 
 approached drove the last of these to shelter. 
 
 I myself scuttled for a long low tunnel that pierced 
 a south wing of the cathedral and promised the best 
 cover available. This was to be reached by way of a 
 double-arched portal which enjoyed the distinction of 
 conveying ill-luck to any who should have the temerity 
 to walk through a certain one of its two openings. 
 
 Turning when I reached the archway, I saw that the 
 solitary grave-trimmer was running for the same shelter 
 as myself. With head bent to the storm, he bolted 
 through the gate of ill-omen; stopped, recognized his 
 error, hurriedly retraced his steps; spat out the evil and 
 came through the customary opening at slower pace. 
 As he approached me I saw, what I had not noticed be- 
 fore, that he was my friend the sexton of St. John's. 
 
 "Good-afternoon," said I, as he walked under the tun- 
 nel, seized off his cap and jerked the rain drops from it. 
 
 I fancied there was a queer wild look on his face, and 
 at first he hardly seemed to be able to make me out. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, suddenly. "Good-arternoon to you." 
 
 Even then he didn't look at but beyond me, following 
 
 18
 
 242 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 with his bloodshot eyes, as it were, the movements of 
 something on the stone wah at my back. 
 
 "So you're translated, it appears?" 
 
 "Eh?" he said, vaguely. 
 
 "You're promoted to the yard here, aren't you?" 
 
 "I come to oblige Jem Sweet, ars be down wi' the 
 arsmer," he said. 
 
 "That was friendly, anyhow. It was an unchancy task 
 you took upon yourself." 
 
 "What isn't?" he shouted, quite fiercely, all in a mo- 
 ment. "Give me another marn as'll walk all day wi' the 
 devil arm in arm, as I does." 
 
 "You found him down there, eh?" 
 
 He took ofi his cap and flung it with quick violence 
 at the wall behind me, then pounced upon it lying on 
 the ground, as if something were caught underneath it. 
 
 "My!" he muttered, rising with the air of a schoolboy 
 who has captured a butterfly, and, seeking to investigate 
 his prize, made a frantic clutch in the air, as if it had 
 escaped him. 
 
 "What's that?" said I, "a wasp?" 
 
 "A warsp!" he cried in a sort of furious fright. "Who 
 ever see a pink warsp wi' a mouth like a purse and blue 
 inside?" 
 
 He stood by me, shaking and perspiring, and suddenly 
 seized me with a tremulous hand. 
 
 "They shudn't a' sent me down there," he whispered; 
 "it give me the horrors, it did, to see that they'd hurried 
 him quick, and that for fower year he'd been struggling 
 and wrenching to get out." 
 
 "I'm afraid that the devil's got you indeed, my friend." 
 
 "It's all along o' thart. He come and he looked down 
 upon me there in the pit." 
 
 "Who did? The devil?" 
 
 "Him or thart Chis'll doctor. It's all one. I swat 
 cold, I tell ye. I see his face make a ugly fiddle-pattern 
 on the sky. My mate, he'd gone to dinner and the yard 
 was nigh empty. 'Look'ee here,' I whispered up to him. 
 'He were hurried quick, as they hurried that boy over 
 in St. John's, yonder, that you murdered.' "
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 ACROSS THE WATER. 
 
 For an instant the blood in my arteries seemed to 
 stop, so that I gasped when I tried to speak. 
 
 "What boy was that?" I said, in a forced voice, when 
 I could command myself. 
 
 "What boy? — eh? — what boy?" His eyes were wan- 
 dering up and down the wall again. "Him, I say, as they 
 hurried quick — young Trender o' the mill." 
 
 "How do you know he wa^-^buried alive? How could 
 he have been if he was murdered?" 
 
 "How do I know? He were murdered, I say. I'm 
 George White, the sexton — and what I knows, I knows." 
 
 "And the doctor murdered him?" 
 
 "Don't I say so?" 
 
 He had hardly spoken, when he put his hand to his 
 head, moved a step back and stood staring at me with 
 horror-stricken, injected eyes. 
 
 "My God!" he muttered. "He whispered there into 
 the pit that if I said to another what I said to him I were 
 as good as a dead man." 
 
 The panic increased in him. I could see the tortured 
 soul moving, as it were, behind the flesh of his face. 
 When the nerve of endurance snapped he staggered and 
 fell forward in a fit. 
 
 Helpless to minister to a convulsion that must find its 
 treatment in the delirium ward of a hospital, I ran to the 
 police station, which was but a short distance away, and 
 gave information of the seizure I had witnessed. A 
 stretcher was sent for the poor, racked wretch; he was 
 carried away spluttering and writhing, and so for the 
 time being my chance of questioning him further was 
 ended. 
 
 Now, plainly and solemnly: Had I been face to face
 
 244 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 with an awful fragment of the truth, or had I been but 
 the chance hearer of certain deUrious ravings on the part 
 of a drink-sodden wretch — ravings as baseless as the 
 unsubstantial horror at which he had flung his cap? 
 
 That the latter seemed the more probable was due to 
 an obvious inconsistency on the part of the half-insane 
 creature. If the boy had been murdered, how could he 
 have been buried alive? Moreover, it was evident that 
 the sexton was near a monomaniac on the subject of liv- 
 ing interments. Moreover, secondly, it was altogether 
 improbable and not to be accounted for that the keen- 
 witted doctor should intrust a secret so perilous to such 
 a confederate. And what object had he to gain by the 
 destruction of Modred, beyond the satisfying of a little 
 private malice perhaps? An object quite incompatible 
 with the fearful danger of the deed. 
 
 On the other hand, I could not but recall darkly that 
 the sexton, on the morning when, apparently sane and 
 sensible, he had conducted me to my brother's grave, 
 had thrown out certain vague hints and implications, 
 which, hardly noticed by me at the time, assumed a 
 lurider aspect in the light of his more definite charge; 
 that, by Zyp's statement to me after my illness, it would 
 seem that Dr. Crackenthorpe had shown some eagerness 
 and made voluntary offer of his services, in the matter 
 of hushing up the whole question of Modred's death; 
 that it was not impossible that he also had discovered 
 the boy's knowledge of the secret of the hiding-place and 
 had jumped at a ready opportunity for silencing forever 
 an unwelcome confederate. 
 
 Stung to sudden anxious fervor by this last thought, 
 I broke into a hurried walk, striving by vigorous motion 
 to coax into consistent order of progression the dread 
 hypothesis that so tore and worried my mind. Suddenly 
 I found that, striding on preoccupied, I was entering that 
 part of the meadowland wherein lay the pool of uncanny 
 memories. It shone there before me, like a silver rent 
 in the grass, the shadow of a solitary willow smudged 
 upon its surface, and against the trunk of the tree that 
 stood on the further side of the water a long, dusky figure
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 245 
 
 was leaning motionless. It was that of the man who 
 was most in my thoughts; and, looking at him, even at 
 that distance, something repellant in his aspect seemed 
 to connect him fittingly with the stormy twilight around 
 him that was imaged in my soul. 
 
 Straight I walked down to the water's edge and hailed 
 him, and, though he made no response, I saw conscious- 
 ness of my presence stir in him. 
 
 "I want a word with you!" I called. "Shall I shout 
 it across the river?'' 
 
 He slowly detached himself from his position and saun- 
 tered down to the margin over against me. 
 
 "Proclaim all from the housetops, where I am con- 
 cerned,'' he answered in a loud voice. "Who is it wants 
 me, and what has he to say?" 
 
 "You know me, I suppose?'' 
 
 "I have not that pleasure, I believe." 
 
 "Never mind. I have just come from talk with a con- 
 federate of yours — the sexton of St. John's." 
 
 "I know the man certainly. Is he in need of my 
 services?" 
 
 "He would say 'God forbid' to that, I fancy. He's had 
 enough of you, maybe." 
 
 "Oh, in what way?" 
 
 "In the way of silencing awkward witnesses." 
 
 "Pray be a trifle less obscure." 
 
 "I have this moment left him. He was seized with a 
 fit of some sort. He'd rather have the devil himself to 
 wait upon him than you, I expect." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I had some talk with him before he went off his head. 
 Do you wish to know what he charged you with?" 
 
 "Certainly I do." 
 
 "Murder!" 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe looked at me across the water a 
 long minute; then, never taking his eyes off my face, 
 lifted up the skirts of his coat and began to shaml)le and 
 jerk out the most ludicrous parody of a dance I have ever 
 seen. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped and was doubled 
 up in a suffocating cackle of laughter.
 
 246 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 Presently recovering himself, he walked off down the 
 bank to a point where the stream narrowed, and motioned 
 me to come opposite him. 
 
 "It's not from fear of you and your sexton," he ex- 
 plained, still gasping out the dry dust of his humor. 
 "Your exquisite pleasantry has weakened my vocal 
 chords— that's all." 
 
 I treated him to a long stare of most sovereign con- 
 tempt. For all his assumed enjoyment, I fancied he was 
 pretty observant of my mood and that he was calculating 
 the nature of the charge I had fired at him. 
 
 "And whom did I murder?" he said, making a great 
 show of mopping his face with his handkerchief. 
 
 "Say it was my brother Modred." 
 
 "I'm glad, for your sake, to hear you qualify it. You 
 should be, that there is no witness to tliis gross slander. 
 I presume you to be, then, one of that pleasant family 
 of Trender, who have a local reputation none of the 
 sweetest." 
 
 He came down close to the water's edge — we were 
 but a little distance apart there — and shook a long finger 
 at me. 
 
 "My friend, my friend," he said, sternly, "your excuse 
 must be the hot-headedness of youth. For the sake of 
 your father, who once enjoyed my patronage, I will for- 
 bear answering a fool according to his folly. For his 
 sake I will be gentle and convincing, where it is my plain 
 duty, I am afraid, to chastise. This man you speak of 
 is a heavy drinker, and is now, by your own showing, 
 on the verge of delirium tremens. Do you take the gross 
 imaginings of such a person for gospel?" 
 
 "Dr. Crackenthorpe," I said, quietly, "your threats fall 
 on stony ground. I admit the man is hardly responsible 
 for his statements at the present moment; only, as it hap- 
 pens, I have met and spoken with him before." 
 
 I thought I could see in the gathering darkness his 
 lips suck inward as if with a twitch of pain. 
 
 "And did he charge me then with murdering your 
 brother?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE 247 
 
 "He said what, viewed in the light of his after outburst, 
 has awakened grave suspicions iij me." 
 
 He threw back his head with a fresh cackle of laughter. 
 
 "Suspicions!" he cried. "Is that all? It's natural to 
 have them, perhaps. I had mine of you once, you 
 know." 
 
 "You lie there, of course. By your own confession, 
 you lie." 
 
 "And now," he went on, ignoring my interruption, 
 "they are diverted to another." 
 
 "Will you answer me a question or two?" 
 
 "If they are put with a proper sense of decorum I will 
 give them my consideration." 
 
 "Do you know where my father keeps the treasure, the 
 bulk of which you have robbed him of?'' 
 
 "Most offensively worded. ' But I will humor you. I 
 never had need" — he shot out an evil smile — "of obtain- 
 ing my share of the good things by other than legiti- 
 mate means." 
 
 "Do you know?" 
 
 "No, I don't, upon the honor of a gentleman." 
 
 "Did my brother that's dead know?" 
 
 "Really, you tempt me to romance to satisfy your crav- 
 ing for information. I was not in your brother's con- 
 fidence." 
 
 "Was there the least doubt that my brother was dead 
 when he was buried?'' 
 
 "Ah! I see. You have been hunting chimeras in 
 George White's company. It is the man's were wolf, 
 my good friend. You may take my professional cer- 
 tificate that no such thing happened." 
 
 I looked at him, my soul lowering with doubt and the 
 gloom of bafified vengeance. 
 
 "Have you anything further to ask?" he said, with 
 mocking politeness. "Any other insane witness to cite 
 on behalf of this base and baseless prosecution?" 
 
 "None at present." 
 
 I turned and walked a step or two, intending to leave 
 him without another word, but, on a thought, strode back 
 to the waterside.
 
 248 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Listen you !" I cried. "For the time you are quit of 
 me. But bear in mind that I never rest or waver in my 
 purpose till I have fo'und who it was that killed my 
 brother." 
 
 With that I went from him. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 JASON'S SECOND VISIT. 
 
 It behooves me now to pass over a period of two years 
 during which so little happened that bore directly upon 
 the fortunes of any concerned in this lamentable history 
 that to touch upon them would be to specify merely the 
 matter-of-fact occurrences of ordinary daily life. To me 
 they were an experience of peace and rest such as I had 
 never yet known. I think — a long- sleep on the broad 
 sands of forgetfulness, whitherward the storm had cast 
 me, and from which it was to tear me by and by with 
 redoubled fury and mangle and devour my heart in glut- 
 tonous ferocity. 
 
 As yet, however, the moment had not come, and I 
 lived and went my way in peace and resignation. 
 
 The first forewarning came one September afternoon 
 of that second year of rest. 
 
 I had been butterfly-hunting about the meadows that 
 lay to the west of the city, when a particularly fine speci- 
 men of the second brood of Brimstone tempted me over 
 some railings that hedged in the ridge of a railway cut- 
 ting that here bisected the chalky slopes of pasture land. 
 I was cautiously approaching my settled quarry, net in 
 hand, when I started with an exclamation that lost me 
 my prize. 
 
 On the metals, some distance below, a man whose at- 
 titude seemed somehow familiar to me was standinof. 
 
 I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked down, with 
 bewilderment and a little fear constricting my heart. 
 
 He stood very still, staring up the line, and a thickness
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 249 
 
 came in my throat, so that I could not for the moment 
 call to him as I wanted to. For there was an ominous 
 suggestion in his posture that sent a wave of sickness 
 through me — a suggestion of rigid expectation, like that 
 one might fancy a victim of the old reign of terror would 
 have shown as he waited his turn on the guillotine. 
 
 And as I paused in indecision — at that moment came 
 a surging rumble and a puff of steam from a dip in the 
 hills a hundred yards away, and the figure threw itself 
 down, with its neck stretched over the shining vein of 
 iron that ran in front of it. And I cried "J^son!" in a 
 nightmare voice, and had hardly strength to turn my 
 head away from the sight that I knew was coming. Yet 
 through all my sick panic the shadow of a thought flashed 
 — blame me for it who will — "Let me bear it and not give 
 way, for he is taking the sure way to end his terror.'' 
 
 The thunder of the monster death came with the 
 thought — shook the air of the hills — broke into a piercing 
 scream of triumph as it rushed down on its victim — 
 passed and clanged away among the hollows, as if the 
 crushed mass in its jaws were choking it to silence. Then 
 I brushed the blind horror from my eyes and looked 
 down. 
 
 He was lying on the chalk of the embankment below 
 me; he was stirring; he sat up and looked about him 
 with a bewildered stare. The tragedy had ended in 
 bathos after all. At the last moment courage had failed 
 the poor wretch and he had leaped from the hurtling 
 doom. 
 
 Shaking all over, I scrambled, slipping and rolling, 
 down the slope, and landed on my feet before him. 
 
 "Up!" I cried; "up! Don't wait to speak or explain! 
 They'll telegraph from the next stopping-place, and you'll 
 be laid by the heels for attempted suicide." 
 
 He rose staggering and half-fell against me. 
 
 "Renny," he whimpered in a thick voice and clutched 
 at my shoulders to steady himself. "My God! I nearly 
 did it— didn't I?" 
 
 "Come away, I tell you. It'll be too late in another 
 half-hour."
 
 250 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I ran him, shambling and stumbling, down the cut- 
 ting till we had made a half-circuit of the town and were 
 able to enter it at a point due east to that we had left. 
 Then at last, on the slope of that quiet road we had 
 crossed when escaping from Duke, I paused to gather 
 breath and regard this returned brother of mine. 
 
 It was a sorry spectacle that met my vision, a person- 
 ality pitiably fallen and degraded during those thirty 
 months or so of absence. It was not only that the mere 
 animal beauty of it was coarsened and debauched into a 
 parody of itself, but that its informing spirit was so blunt- 
 ed by indulgence as to have lost forever that pathetic 
 dignity of despair, with which a hounding persecution 
 had once inspired it. 
 
 As I lo.oked at him, at his dull, bloodshot eyes and 
 loose pendulous lower lip, my heart hardened despite 
 myself and I had difficulty in addressing him with any 
 show of civility. 
 
 "Now," I said, "what next?" 
 
 He stared at me quite expressionless and swayed where 
 he stood. He was stupid and sodden with drink, it was 
 evident. 
 
 "Let's go home," he said. "I'm heavy for sleep as a 
 hedgehog in the sun." 
 
 I set my lips and pushed him onward. It was hopeless 
 entirely to think of questioning him as to the reason 
 of his sudden reappearance, and under such circum- 
 stances, in his present state. The most I could do was 
 to get him within the mill as quietly as possible and settle 
 him somewhere to sleep ofif his debauch. 
 
 In this I was successful beyond my expectations, and 
 not even my father, who lay resting in his room — as he 
 often did now in the hot afternoons — knew of his return 
 till late in the evening. 
 
 In the fresh gloom of the evening he stirred and woke. 
 His brain was still clouded, but he was in, I supposed, 
 such right senses as he ever enjoyed now. At the sound 
 of his moving I came and stood over him. He stared 
 at me for a long time in silence, as he lay. 
 
 "Do you know where you are?" I said at last.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 251 
 
 "Renny — by the saints!" He spoke in a dry, parched 
 whisper. "It's the mill, isn't it?'' 
 
 "Yes; it's the mill. I brought you here filthy with 
 drink, after you'd tried to throw yourself under a train 
 and thought better of it." 
 
 He struggled wildly into a sitting posture and his eye- 
 lids bhnked with horror. 
 
 "I thought of it all the way in the train — coming up — 
 from London," he said in a shrill undervoice. "When I 
 got out at the station I had some more — the last straw, 
 I suppose — for I wandered, and found myself above the 
 place — and the devil drove me down to do it." 
 
 "Well, you repented, it seems." 
 
 "I couldn't — when I heard it. And the very wind of it 
 seemed to tear at me as it passed." 
 
 "What brings you to London? I thought you were 
 still abroad." 
 
 "What drove me? What always drives me? That 
 cruel, persecuting demon !" 
 
 "He found you out over there, then?" 
 
 "I can't hide from him. I've never had a week of rest 
 and peace after that first year. It was all right then. 
 I threw upon the green cloth the miserable surplus of 
 the stuff you lent me and won. For six months we lived 
 like fighting cocks. We dressed the young 'un in the 
 color that brought us luck. My soul, she's a promising 
 chick, Renny. You're her uncle, you know; you can't 
 go back from that." 
 
 "Where did he come across you?" 
 
 "In a kursaal at Homburg. We were down in the 
 mouth then. Six weeks of lentils and sour bread. I saw 
 him looking at me across the petits chevaux table — curse 
 his brute's face! We never got rid of him after that. 
 Give me some drink. My heart's dancing like a pea on 
 a drum." 
 
 "There's water on the wash-hand stand." 
 
 "Don't talk like that. There's a fire here no water can 
 reach." 
 
 "I see there is. You've added another strand to the 
 rope that's dragging you down,"
 
 252 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He fell back on the bed, writhing and moaning. 
 
 "What's the good of moralizing with a poor fool con- 
 demned to perdition? It's my only means of escaping 
 out of hell for a moment. Sometimes, with that in me, 
 I'm a man again." 
 
 "A man!" 
 
 "There — get it for me, like a dear old chap, and don't 
 talk. It's so easy for a saint to point a moral." 
 
 He was so obviously on the verge of utter collapse that 
 I felt the lesser responsibility would be to humor him. 
 I fetched what he begged for and he gulped down a wine- 
 glassful of the raw stuff. 
 
 "Now," I said, "are you better?" 
 
 "A little drop more and I'm a peacock with my tail 
 up." He tossed off a second dose of almost like pro- 
 portion. 
 
 "Now," he said, dangling his legs over the bedside, 
 and giving a foolish reckless laugh, "question, mon frere, 
 and I will answer." 
 
 Though his manner disgusted and repelled me, I must 
 needs get to the root of things. 
 
 "You fled from him to England again?" 
 
 "To London, of all places. It's the safest in the world, 
 they say; where a man may leave his wife and live in the 
 next street for twenty-five years without her knowing it." 
 
 "You haven't left yours?" 
 
 "No — we stick together. Zyp's trumps, she is, you 
 long-faced moralizer; not that she holds one by her looks 
 any longer. And that's to my credit for sticking to her. 
 You missed something in my being beforehand with you 
 there, I can tell you." 
 
 Was this pitiful creature worth one thrill of passion or 
 resentment? I let him go on. 
 
 "For months that devil followed us," he said. "At last 
 he forced a quarrel upon me in some vile drinking-place 
 and brought me a challenge from the man he was sec- 
 onding. You should have seen his face as he handed 
 it to me! It took all the fighting nerve out of me. I 
 swear I would have stood up to his fellow if he had found 
 another backer,"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 253 
 
 "And you ran away?" 
 
 "What else could I do?" 
 
 "And he pursued you again?" 
 
 "There isn't any doubt of it — though his dreadful face 
 hasn't appeared to me as yet." 
 
 "You had the nerve, it seems, to travel down here all 
 alone?" 
 
 "I borrowed it. Sometimes now, when the stufif runs 
 warm in me, I feel almost as if I could turn upon him 
 and defy him. I'm in the mood at this moment. Why 
 doesn't he come when I'm ready for him? Oh, the brute! 
 The miserable, cowardly brute!" 
 
 He jumped to his feet, gnashing his teeth and shaking 
 his fists convulsively in the air. 
 
 As he stood thus, the door of the room opened, and 
 I turned to see my father fall forward upon his face, with 
 a bitter cry. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 ANOTHER RESPITE. 
 
 Jason stood looking stupidly down on the prostrate 
 form, while I ran to it and struggled to turn it over and 
 up into a sitting posture. 
 
 "Father!" I cried, "I'm here — don't you know me?" 
 — then I turned fiercely to my brother and bade him 
 shift his position out of the range of the staring eyes. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he muttered, sullenly. "I've done 
 no harm. Can't he see me, even, without going off into 
 a fit?" 
 
 "Get further away; do you hear?" 
 
 He shambled aside, murmuring to himself. A little 
 tremulous sigh issued from the throat of the poor stricken 
 figure. I leaned over, seized the bottle of brandy from 
 the bed, and moistened his lips with a few drops from it. 
 
 "Does that do you good, dad?" 
 
 He nodded. I could make out that he was trying to 
 speak, and bent my head to the weak whisper.
 
 254 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "I saw somebody." 
 
 "I know — I know. Never mind that now. Leave it 
 all to me." 
 
 "You're my good son. You won't let him rob me, 
 Renny?" 
 
 "In an hour or two he shall be packed off. You needn't 
 even see him again." 
 
 "Is he back in England?" 
 
 "In London, yes." 
 
 "What does he want?" 
 
 "To see us — that's all." 
 
 "Not money?" 
 
 "No, no. He isn't in need of that just now. Can you 
 move back to your bed, do you think, if I help you?" 
 
 "You won't let him come near me?" 
 
 "He shall go straight from this room out of the house." 
 
 "Come," he said, presently; "I'll try." 
 
 I almost lifted him to his feet, and he clung to my arm, 
 stumbling beside me down the passage to his room. 
 
 When he was lying settled on his bed, and at ease once 
 more, I returned to my brother. 
 
 He was sitting in a maudlin attitude by the window, 
 and I saw that he had been at the bottle again. 
 
 "Now," I said, sternly, "let's settle the last of this with 
 a final question: What is it you want?" 
 
 He looked up at me with an idiotic chuckle. 
 
 "Wand? What everybody's always wanding, and 
 I most of all." 
 
 "You mean more money, I suppose?" 
 
 "More? Yes, mush more — mush more than you gave 
 me last time, too." 
 
 "Not so much, probably. But lest Zyp should starve 
 I'll send you what I can in the course of a few days." 
 
 He rose with a feebly menacing look. 
 
 "I'm not going till I get what I wand. I wand my 
 part of the treasure. I know where it's hid, you fool, 
 and I'm wound up for a try at it. Ge' out of my way! 
 I'll go and help myself." 
 
 He made a stumbling rush across the room and when 
 I interposed myself between the door and him he struck
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 255 
 
 out at me with a blow as aimless and unharmful as a 
 baby's. 
 
 "If you don't knock under at once," I said, "I swear 
 I'll tie you up and keep you here for Duke's next 
 coming." 
 
 He stood swaying before me a moment; then suddenly 
 threw himself on the bed, yelping and sobbing like an 
 hysterical school-girl. 
 
 "It's too cruel!" he moaned. "You take advantage of 
 your strength to bully me beyond all bearing. Why 
 shouldn't I have my share as well as you?" 
 
 "Never mind all that. Give me your address if you 
 want anything at all." 
 
 He lay some time longer yet; then fetched out a pencil 
 and scrap of paper and sulkily scrawled what I asked for. 
 
 "Now" — I looked at my watch — "there's a train back 
 to town in half an hour. You'd best be starting." 
 
 "Nice hospitality, upon my word. Supposing I stop 
 the night?" 
 
 "You're not going to stop the night, unless you wish 
 to do so in the street." 
 
 "I've a good mind to, you beast, and bring a crowd 
 about the place." 
 
 "And Duke with it, perhaps — eh?" 
 
 His expression changed to one most fulsomely fawn- 
 ing. 
 
 "Renny,'' he said, "you can't mean to treat me, your 
 own brother, like this? Let's have confidence in one 
 another and combine." He gave a little embarrassed 
 laugh. "I know where the treasure's hid, I tell you. 
 S'posing we share it and " 
 
 He stopped abruptly, with an alarmed look. Some- 
 thing in my face must have forewarned him, for he walked 
 unsteadily to the door, glancing fearfully at me. Passing 
 the brandy bottle on his way, he seized it with sudden 
 defiance. 
 
 "I'll have this, anyhow," he murmured. "You won't 
 object to my taking that much away." 
 
 Hugging it to his breast under his coat, he went from 
 the room. I followed him down the stairs; saw him out
 
 256 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 of the house: shut the door on him. Then I listened 
 for his shuffling footstep going up the yard and away 
 before I would acknowledge to myself that he had been 
 got rid of at a price small under the circumstances. 
 
 I remained at my post for full assurance of his de- 
 parture for many minutes after he had left, and when at 
 last I stole up to my father's room I found the old man 
 fallen into a doze. Seen through the wan twilight how 
 broken and decaying and feeble he seemed! 
 
 I sat by him till he stirred and woke. His eyes opened 
 upon me with a pleased look at finding me beside him, 
 and he put out a thin rugged hand and took mine into it. 
 
 "I've been asleep," he said. "I dreamed a bad son of 
 mine came back and terrified the old man. It was a 
 dream, wasn't it, Renny?" 
 
 "Only a dream, dad. Jason isn't here." 
 
 "I thought it was. It didn't trouble me much, for all 
 that. I learned confidence in the presence of this strong 
 good fellow here." 
 
 "Dad, we've £30 left of the fifty I raised two months 
 ago on that Julian medallion. May I have ten of them?" 
 
 "Ten pounds, Renalt? That's a mighty gap in the 
 hoard." 
 
 "I want it for a particular purpose. You can trust me 
 not to ask you if it were to be avoided." 
 
 He gave a deep sigh. 
 
 "Take it, then. It isn't in you to misapply a trust." 
 
 He turned his face away wath a slight groan. Poor 
 old man! My soul cried out with remorse to so trouble 
 his confidence in me. Yet what I proposed seemed to me 
 best. 
 
 He would not rise and come down to supper when I 
 suggested it. 
 
 "Let me lie here," he said. "Sometimes it seems to 
 me, Renalt, I'm breaking up — that the wheel down there 
 crows and sings for a victim again.'' 
 
 It was the first time I had ever heard him directly re- 
 fer to this stormy heart of the old place, that had throbbed 
 out so incessantly its evil influence over the lives shut 
 within range of it. It was plunging and murmuring
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 257 
 
 now in the depths below us, so insistent even at that dis- 
 tance that the soft whining of the stones in our more 
 immediate neighborhood was scarcely audible. 
 
 "It's a bewildering discovery," he went on, "that of 
 finding oneself approaching the wonderful bourne one 
 has struggled toward so long, I don't think I'm afraid, 
 Renalt, lying here in peace and watching my soul walk 
 on. Yet now, though I know I have done two great and 
 wicked deeds in my lifetime, I wouldn't put off the mo- 
 ment of that coming revelation by an hour." 
 
 I stroked his hand, listening and wondering, but I 
 made no answer. 
 
 "It's like being a little child," he said; "fascinated and 
 compelled toward a pleasant fright. When you were a 
 toddling baby, if one came at you menacing and growling 
 in fun, you'd open your eyes in doubt with fear and 
 laughter; and then, instead of flying the danger, would 
 run at it half-way and be caught up in daddy's arms and 
 kissed. That seems to illustrate death to me now. The 
 heart of that grim, time-worn playfellow may be very soft, 
 after all. It's best not to cry out, but to run to him and 
 be caught up and kissed into forgetfulness." 
 
 Oh, my father! How in my soul did I echo your 
 words! 
 
 He wandered on by such strange sidewalks till speech 
 itself seemed to intermingle with the inarticulate lan- 
 guage of dream. Is there truth after all in the senile 
 visions of age that can penetrate the veil of the supernal, 
 though the worn and ancient eyes are dim with cataracts? 
 
 As I sat alone with my thoughts that night many emo- 
 tions, significant or pathetic, wrought changing phan- 
 toms of the shadows in the dimly lighted room. Some- 
 times, shapeless and full of heavy omen, they revolved 
 blindly about that dark past life of my father, a little cor- 
 ner of the curtain over which had that evening been lifted 
 for my behoof. Sometimes they thrilled with spasms of 
 pain at the prospect of that utter loneliness that must fall 
 upon me were the old man's quiet foretelling of his doom 
 to justify itself. Sometimes they took a red tinge of 
 gloom in memory of his words of self-denunciation.
 
 258 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 What had been a worser evil in him than that long de- 
 grading of his senses? Yet, of the "wicked deeds'' he had 
 referred to, that which covild hardly be called a "deed" 
 was surely not one. Perhaps, after all, they were noth- 
 ing but the baseless product of a fancy that had indulged 
 morbidity until, as with Frankenstein, the monster it had 
 created mastered it. 
 
 Might this not be the explanation of all? Even of that 
 eerily expressed fear of his, that had puzzled me in its 
 passing, that the wheel was calling for a victim again? 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE WHEEL. 
 
 The day that followed the unlooked-for visit of my 
 brother Jason to the mill my father spent in bed. When, 
 in the morning, I took him up his breakfast, I could not 
 help noticing that the broad light flooding the room em- 
 phasized a change in him that I had been only partly 
 conscious of the evening before. It was as if, during the 
 night, the last gleams of his old restless spirit had died 
 out. I thought all edges in him blunted — the edges of 
 fear, of memory, of observation, of general interest in 
 life. 
 
 The immediate cause of this decline was, with little 
 doubt, the shock caused by my brother's unexpected re- 
 turn. To this I never again heard him allude, but none 
 the less had the last of his constitution succumbed to it, 
 I feel sure. 
 
 The midday post brought me a letter, the sight of 
 which sent a thrill through me. I knew Zyp's queer 
 crooked hand, that no dignity of years could improve 
 from its immature schoolgirl character. She wrote: 
 
 ''Dear Renny: Jason told you all, I suppose. We are back 
 again, and dependant on dad's bounty, and yours. Oh, Renny, 
 it goes to my heart to have to wurry you once more. But we 
 are in soar strates, and so hampered in looking for work from
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 259 
 
 the risk of coming across him again. At present he hasn't found 
 us out, I think, but any day he may do so. If you could send 
 us ever so little it would help us to tide over a terruble crisus. 
 The little one is wanting dainties, Renny; and we — it is hard 
 to say it — bread sometimes. But she will only eat of the best, 
 and chocalats she loves. I wish you could see her. She is my 
 own fairy. I work the prettiest flowers into samplers, and try 
 to sell them in the shops; but I am not very clever with my 
 needel; and Jason laughs at them, though my feet ake with 
 walking over these endless paving stones. Renny, dear, I must 
 be a beggar, please. Don't think hardly of me for it, but my 
 darling that's so pretty and frale! Oh, Renny, help us. Your 
 loving sister, ZYP." 
 
 "What you send, if annything, please send it to me. That's 
 why I write for the chief part. Jason would give us his last 
 crust; but — you saw him, Renny, and must know." 
 
 I bowed my head over the queer, sorrowful httle note. 
 That this bold, reliant child of nature should come to 
 this! There and then I vowed that, so long as I had a 
 shilling I could call my own, Zyp should share it with 
 me, at a word from her. 
 
 I wrote to her to this effect. I placed my whole posi- 
 tion before her and bade her command me as she listed; 
 only bearing in mind that my father, old and broken, had 
 the first claim upon me. Then I went out and bought 
 the largest and most fascinating box of chocolates I could 
 secure, and sent it to her as a present to my little un- 
 known niece, and forwarded also under cover the order 
 for the iio. 
 
 A day or two brought me an acknowledgment and an- 
 swer to my letter. The latter shall forever remain sacred 
 from any eyes but mine; and, unless man can be found 
 ready to brave the curse of the dead, shall lie with me, 
 who alone have read it, in the grave. 
 
 On the morning preceding that of its arrival, a fearful 
 experience befell me, that was like to have choked out my 
 soul then and there in one black grip of horror. 
 
 All that first day after Jason's visit my father lay abed, 
 and, whenever I visited him, was cheerfully garrulous, 
 but without any inclination to rise. The following morn- 
 ing also he elected to have breakfast as before in his
 
 260 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 room; and soon after the meal he fell into a light doze, in 
 which state I left him. 
 
 It was about ii o'clock that, sitting in the room be- 
 low, I was startled by hearing a sudden thud above me 
 that shook the beams of the ceiling. I rushed upstairs 
 in a panic and found him lying prostrate on the floor, un- 
 injured apparently, but with no power of getting to his 
 feet again. 
 
 "What's this?" I cried. "Dad! Are you hurt?" 
 
 He looked at me a little wondering and confused, but 
 answered no, he had only slipped and fallen when rising 
 to don his clothes. 
 
 I lifted him up and he couldn't stand, but sunk down 
 on the bed again with a blank, amazed look in his face. 
 
 "Renalt," he said, in a thin, perplexed voice, "what's 
 happened to the old man? The will was there, but the 
 power's gone." 
 
 Gone it was, forever. From that day he walked no 
 more — did nothing but lie on his back, calm and uncon- 
 cerned for the most part, and fading quietly from life. 
 
 But in the first discovery of his enforced inertness, 
 some peculiar trouble, unconnected with the certain ap- 
 proach of death, lay on him like a black jaundice. Sit- 
 ting by his side after I had got him back upon the bed, I 
 would not break the long silence that ensued with shal- 
 low words of comfort, for I thought that he was steeling 
 his poor soul as he lay to face the inevitable prospect. 
 
 Suddenly he turned on the bed — for his face had been 
 darkened from me — and looked at me with his lips trem- 
 bling. 
 
 "What is it, dad?" 
 
 "I'm down, Renny. I shall never rise again." 
 
 "You'll rest, dad; you'll rest. Think of the peace and 
 quiet while I sit and read to you and the sun comes in at 
 the window." 
 
 "Good lad! It isn't that, though rest has a beautiful 
 sound to me. It's the thought — harkee, Renny! It's the 
 thought that a task I've not failed in for twenty years and 
 more must come to be another's." 
 
 "What task?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 261 
 
 "There are ears in the walls. Closer, my son. The 
 task of oiling the wheel below," 
 
 "Shall I take it up, dad? Is that your wish?" 
 
 I answered stoutly, though my heart sunk within me 
 at the prospect. 
 
 "You or nobody, it must be. Are you afraid?" 
 
 "I wish I could say I wasn't." 
 
 He clutched my hand in tremulous eagerness. 
 
 "Master it! You must, my lad! Much depends on it. 
 They whisper the room is haunted. Not for you, Renalt, 
 if for anybody. Haven't I been familiar with it all these 
 years, and yet I lie here unscathed? How can it spare 
 the evil old man and hurt the just son?" 
 
 He half-rose in his bed and stared with dilated eyes 
 at the wall. 
 
 "You are there!" he cried, in a loud, quavering voice. 
 "Out of the years of gloom and torture you menace me 
 still! Why, it was just, I say! How could I have clung 
 to my purpose and defied you, otherwise? You will 
 never frighten me!" 
 
 He fell back, breathing heavily. In sorrow and alarm 
 I bent over him. Suddenly conscious of my eyes look- 
 ing down upon him, he smiled and a faint flush came to 
 his cheek. 
 
 "Dreams and shadows — dreams and shadows!" he 
 murmured. "You will take up mv task, Renalt?" 
 
 "Must I, dad?" 
 
 "Oh, be a man!" he shrieked, grasping at me. "I have 
 defied it — I, the sinner! And how can it hurt you?" 
 
 "Is it so necessary?" 
 
 "It's the key to all — the golden key! Were it to rust 
 and stop, the secret would be open to any that might 
 look, and the devil have my soul." 
 
 "Do you wish me, then, to learn the secret — whatever 
 it is?" 
 
 He looked at me long, with a dark and searching ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "I ask you to oil the wheel," he said at length — "noth- 
 ing more." 
 
 "Very well. I will do what you ask."
 
 262 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He gave a deep sigh and lay back with his eyes closed. 
 I saw the faint color coming and going in his face. Sud- 
 denly he uttered a cry and turned upon me. 
 
 "My son — my son! Bear with me a little longer. It 
 is an old habit and for long made my only joy in a dark 
 world. I find it hard to part with my fetish." 
 
 "I don't want you to part with it. What does it mat- 
 ter? I will oil the wheel and you shall rest in peace that 
 your task is being faithfully performed by another." 
 
 "Hush! You don't mean it, but every word is a re- 
 proach. I've known so little love; and here I would re- 
 ject the confidence that is the sign of more than I de- 
 serve. For him, the base and cruel, to guess at it, and 
 you to remain in ignorance ! Renalt, listen ; I'm going to 
 tell you." 
 
 "No, dad; no!" 
 
 "Renalt, you won't break my heart? What trust 
 haven't you put in me? And this is my return! Feel 
 under my pillow, boy." 
 
 "Oh, dad; let it rest!" 
 
 Eagerly, impatiently, he thrust in his own hand and 
 brought forth a shining key. 
 
 "Take it!'' he cried. "It opens the box of the wheel. 
 But first lower the sluice and turn the race into the 
 further channel. You will see a rope dangling inside in 
 the darkness. Hold on to it and work the wheel round 
 with your hands till a float projecting a little beyond its 
 fellows comes opposite you. In this you'll find a slit 
 cut, ending in an eye-hole. Pass the rope, as it dangles, 
 into this hole, and keep it in place by a turn of the iron 
 button that's fixed underneath the slit. Now step on to 
 the broad float, never letting go the rope, and the weig'ht 
 of your body will turn the wheel, carrying you downward 
 till a knot in the rope stops your descent.'' 
 
 "What then, dad?" 
 
 "My son — you'll see the place that for twenty years has 
 held the secret of my fortune."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 I MAKE A DESCENT. 
 
 If it had many a time occurred to me, since first I heard 
 of the jar of coins, that the secret of their conceahnent 
 was connected somehow within the room of silence, it 
 must have done so from that old association of my father 
 with a place that the rest of us so dreaded and avoided. 
 The scorn of superstitious terror that he showed in his 
 choice; the certainty that none would dream of looking 
 there; the encouragement his own mysterious actions 
 gave to the sense of a haunting atmosphere that seemed 
 ever to hang about the neighborhood of the room — these 
 were all so many justifications of the wisdom of his 
 choice. Now I understood the secret of that everlasting 
 lubrication; for had anything happened, when he might 
 chance to be absent, to choke or damage the structure of 
 the ancient wheel, the stoppage or ruin ensuing might 
 have laid bare the hiding-place to any curious eye; for, 
 as part of his general policy, I conclude, no veto except 
 the natural one of dread was ever laid on our entering 
 the room itself if we wished to. 
 
 "Well," I said, stifling a sigh that in itself would have 
 seemed a breach of confidence, "when am I to do my first 
 oiling, father?" 
 
 "It wasn't touched yesterday, Renalt. From the first 
 I have not failed to do it once, at least, in the twenty-four 
 hours." 
 
 "You would like me to go now — at once?" 
 
 "Ah! If you will." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 As I was leaving the room he called me back. 
 
 "There's the oil can in yonder cupboard and a bull's- 
 eye lantern fixed in a belt. You will want to light that 
 and strap it round you."
 
 264 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I went and fetched them, and, holding- them in my 
 hand, asked him if there was anything more. 
 
 "No," he said; "be careful not to let go the rope; that's 
 all." 
 
 "Why do you want me to go down, dad? Let me just 
 do the oiling and come away." 
 
 "No, now — now," he said, with feverish impatience. 
 "The murder's out and my conscience quit of it. You'll 
 satisfy me with a report of its safety, Renalt? There's a 
 brave fellow. It would be a sore thing to compose my- 
 self here to face the end, and not know but that some- 
 thing had happened to your inheritance." 
 
 My spirit groaned, but I said to him, very well; I would 
 
 go- 
 He called to me once more, and I noticed an odd re- 
 pression in his voice. 
 
 "Assure yourself, and me, of the safety of the jar. 
 Nothing else. If by chance you notice aught beyond, 
 keep the knowledge of it locked in your breast — never 
 mention it or refer to it in any way." 
 
 Full of dull foreboding of some dread discovery, I left 
 him and went slowly down the stairs. 
 
 I paused outside the ominous door, with a thought that 
 a little whisper of laughter had reached my ears from its 
 inner side. Then, muttering abuse on myself, for my 
 cowardice, I pushed resolutely at the cumbrous oak and 
 swung it open. 
 
 A cold, vault-like breath of air sighed out on me, and 
 the marrow in my bones was conscious of a little chill 
 and shiver. But I strode across the floor without further 
 hesitation and fetched from my pocket the iron key. The 
 hole it fitted into was near the edge of the great box that 
 inclosed the wheel. Standing there in close proximity to 
 the latter, I was struck by the subdued character of the 
 flapping and washing sounds within. Heard at a dis- 
 tance, they seemed to shake the whole building with their 
 muffled thunder. Here no formidable uproar greeted 
 me; and so it was, I conclude, from the concentration of 
 noise monopolizing my every sense. 
 
 I put in the key, swung open the door — and there be-
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 265 
 
 fore me was a section of a huge disk going round over- 
 whelmingly, and all splashed and dripping as it revolved, 
 with great jets of weedy-smelling water. 
 
 I say "disk," for the arms to this side had been boarded 
 in, that none, I supposed, might gather hint of what lay 
 beyond. 
 
 The eyes into which the shaft ends of the wheel fitted 
 were sunk in the floor level, flush with the lintel of the 
 cupboard door that lay furthest from the window; so that 
 only the left upper quarter of the slowly spinning mon- 
 ster was visible to me. 
 
 It turned in an oblong pit, it seemed, wooden in its 
 upper part, but going down into a narrow gully of brick, 
 at the bottom of which the race boomed and roared with 
 a black sound of fury. 
 
 If the hollow thunder of the unseen torrent had been 
 dismal to hear, the sight of it boiling down there in its re- 
 stricted channel was awful indeed. From the forward 
 tunnel through which it escaped into the tail bay, a thin 
 streak of light tinged the plunging foam of it with green 
 phosphorescence and made manifest the terror of its 
 depths. 
 
 For all my dread of the place, a strange curiosity had 
 begun to usurp in me the first instincts of repulsion. 
 Though I had been in the room some minutes, no ma- 
 lignant influence had crept over me as yet, and a hope 
 entered me that by thus forcing myself to outface the fear 
 I had perhaps triumphed over its fateful fascination. 
 
 Leaving the door of the cupboard open, I hurried from 
 the room, and so to the rear of the building and the plat- 
 form outside, where the heads of the sluices werethat 
 regulated the water flow. Here, removing the pin, I 
 dropped the race hatch and so cut off the stream from the 
 wheel. 
 
 Returning, I left open the door of the room that the 
 wholesome atmosphere outside should neighbor me, at 
 least, and means of escape, if necessary, readily offer 
 themselves; and, lighting the lantern in the belt, strapped 
 the latter round my waist. 
 
 When I came to the cupboard again the boom of water
 
 266 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 below had subsided to a mouthing murmur, and the spin 
 of the wheel was lazily relaxed, so that before it had 
 turned half its own circumference it stood still and drip- 
 ping. The sight when I looked down now was not near 
 so formidable, for only a band of water slid beneath me 
 as I bent over. Still, my heart was up in my mouth for all 
 that, now the moment had come for the essaying of my 
 task. 
 
 Oiling such parts of the machine as were within reach, 
 I next grasped the rope, which I had at the first noticed 
 hanging from the darkness above down into the pit, just 
 clear of the blades, and set to peering for the broader 
 float my father had mentioned. Luckily, the last mo- 
 tion of the wheel had brought this very section opposite 
 me, so that I had no difficulty in slipping in the rope and 
 securing it by means of the button underneath. 
 
 Then, with a tingling of the flesh of my thighs and a 
 mental prayer for early deliverance, I stepped upon the 
 blade, with a foot on either side of the rope to which I 
 clung grimly, and in a moment felt myself going down 
 into blackness. 
 
 The wheel turned gently under my weight, giving forth 
 no creak or scream; and the dark water below seemed 
 to rise at me rather than to wait my sinking toward it. 
 But though the drip and slime of the pit shut me in, there 
 was action in all I was doing so matter-in-fact as to half- 
 cure me for the moment of superstitious terror. 
 
 Suddenly the wheel stopped with a little jerk and thud 
 of the float on which I stood against a bend in the tackle 
 that passed through it. 
 
 Holding on thus — and, indeed, the tension necessary 
 to the act spoke volumes for my father's vigor of endur- 
 ance — the light from the lantern flashed and glowed 
 about the interior structure of the wheel before me. Then, 
 looking between the blades — for the periphery of the great 
 circle was not boxed in — I saw revealed to me in a mo- 
 ment the secret I had come to investigate. For, firmly 
 set in a hole dug in the brick side of the chasm at a point 
 so chosen within the sweep of the wheel that no spoke 
 traversed it when it lay motionless, and at arm's reach
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 267 
 
 only from one standing on the paddle, was a vessel of 
 ancient pottery about a foot in height, and so smeared 
 and dank with slime as that a careless grasp on its rim 
 might have sent the whole treasure clattering and rain- 
 ing through the wheel into the water below. 
 
 Cautiously I put out a hand, grasped and gently shook 
 the jar, A dull jingle came from it, and so my task was 
 accomplished. 
 
 By this time, however, I was so confident of my posi- 
 tion that I got out the oil can and began to lubricate de- 
 liberately the further shaft end of the wheel. While I 
 was in the very act, a metallic glint, struck by the lantern 
 light from some object pinned on to the huge hub that 
 crossed the channel almost directly in front of my line of 
 vision, caught my eye and drove me to pause. I craned 
 my neck to get a nearer view, and gave so great a start of 
 wonder as to lose my hold of the oiler, which fell with 
 clink and splash into the water underfoot. 
 
 Nailed to the great axle was something that looked 
 like the miniature portrait of a man; but it was so stained 
 and flaked by years of dark decay that the features were 
 almost obliterated. The face had been painted in enamel 
 on an oval of fluxed copper; yet even this had not been 
 able to resist the long corrosion of the atmosphere in 
 which it was held prisoner. 
 
 I could make out only that the portrait was that of a 
 young man of fair complexion, thin, light-haired and 
 dressed in the fashion of a bygone generation. More I 
 had not time to observe; for, as I gazed, suddenly with a 
 falling sway and a flicker the lantern at my waist went 
 out. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 CAUGHT. 
 
 In the first horror of blackness I came near to letting 
 go the rope and falling from my perch on the blade. My 
 brain went with a swing and turn and a sick wave over-
 
 268 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 whelmed my heart and flooded all my chest with nausea. 
 
 Was I trapped after all — and just when confidence 
 seemed established in me? For some evil moments I 
 remained as I was, not daring to move, to look up, even; 
 blinded only by the immediate plunge into cabined night, 
 terrible and profound. 
 
 I had left the matches above. There was no rekindling 
 of the lamp possible. Up through the darkness I must 
 climb — and how? 
 
 Then for the first time it occurred to me that my father's 
 directions had not included the method of the return jour- 
 ney. Perhaps he had thought it unnecessary. To clear- 
 er senses the means would have been obvious — a scram- 
 ble, merely, by way of the paddles, while the wheel was 
 held in position by the rope. 
 
 In the confusion of my senses I thought that my only 
 way was to swarm up the dangling rope; and, without 
 doubt, such was a means, if an irksome one, of escape. 
 Only I should have left the tackle anchored as it was to 
 the wheel. This I did not do, but, moved by a sudden 
 crazy impulse, stooped and turned the button that held 
 all in place. 
 
 It was good fortune only that saved me then and there 
 from the full consequences of my act. For, pulled taut 
 as it was, and well out of the perdendicular, the moment 
 it was released the rope swung through the slit like a 
 pendulum, carrying me, frantically clinging to it with 
 one hand, ofif the paddle. Then, before I had time to put 
 out my free hand to ward off the danger, clump against 
 the wheel I came in the return swing, and with such force 
 that I was heavily bruised in a dozen places and near bat- 
 tered from my hold. 
 
 Clawing and scratching like a drowning cat and ren- 
 dered half-stupid by the blow, I yet managed to grasp 
 the rope with my other hand, and so dangle there with 
 little more than strength just to cling on. Once I sought 
 to ease the intolerable strain on my arms by toeing for 
 foothold on the paddle again, but the wheel, swinging 
 free now, slipped from under me, so that I was nearly 
 jerked from my clutch. Then there was nothing for it
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 269 
 
 but to gather breath and pray that power might come to 
 me to swarm up the rope by and by. 
 
 Drooping my head as I hung panting, the blackness 
 I had thought impenetrable was traversed by the green 
 glint of light below that I have mentioned. The sight 
 revived me in a moment. It was like a draught of water 
 to a fainting soldier. Now I felt some connectedness 
 of thought to be possible. With a bracing of all my 
 muscles, I passed my legs about the rope and began toil- 
 ingly to drag myself upward. 
 
 I had covered half the distance, when I felt myself to 
 be going mad. How this was I cannot explain. The 
 fight against material difficulties had hitherto, it seemed, 
 left tremors of the supernatural powerless to move me. 
 Now, in a moment, black horror had me by the heart. 
 That I should be down there — clambering from the 
 depths of that secret and monstrous pit, the very neigh- 
 borhood of which had always filled me with loathing, 
 seemed a fact incredible in its stupendous unnature. 
 This may sound exaggerated. It did not seem so to me 
 then. Despite my manhood and m}'^ determination, in 
 an instant I w-as mastered and insane. 
 
 Still I clung to the rope and crawled upward. Then 
 suddenly I saw why night had fallen upon me in one 
 palpable curtain when the lantern was extinguished; for 
 the door of the cupboard was closed. 
 
 Had it only swung to? But what air was there in the 
 close room beyond to move it? 
 
 Hanging there, like a lost and fated fiend, a bubble of 
 wild, ugly merriment rose in me and burst in a clap of 
 laughter. I writhed and shrieked in the convulsion of 
 it; the dead vault rung with my hysterical cries. 
 
 It ceased suddenly, as it had begun, and, grinding my 
 teeth in a frenzy of rage over the thought of how I had 
 been trapped and snared, I swung myself violently 
 against the door, and, letting go my hold at the same in- 
 stant, burst it open with the force of my onset and rolled 
 bleeding and struggling on the floor of the room beyond. 
 
 After a minute or two I rose into a sitting posture, 
 leaning on one hand, half-stunned and half-blinded. A
 
 270 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 dense and deadly silence about me; but this was pene- 
 trated presently by a fantastic low whispering sound at 
 my back, as if there were those there that discussed my 
 fate. I turned myself sharply about. Dull emptiness 
 only of rotting floor and striding rafter, and the gathered 
 darkness of wall corners. 
 
 The sense of fanciful murmuring left me, and in its 
 place was born a sound as of something stealthily cross- 
 ing the floor away from me. At the same instant the 
 door of the room, which I had left open, swung softly to 
 on its hinges, and I was shut in. 
 
 Then, with a fear that I cannot describe, I knew that 
 the question was to be put to me once more, and that I 
 was destined to die under the torture of it. 
 
 I had no hope of escape — no thought that the passion 
 that prompted me to self-efifacement might, diverted, 
 carry me to the door in one hard dash for light and lib- 
 erty. The single direction in which my mind moved un- 
 fettered was that bearing upon the readiest means to my 
 purpose — to die, and thereto what offered itself more in- 
 sistently than the black pit I had but now risen from? A 
 run — a leap — a shattering dive — and the murmuring 
 water and oblivion would have me forevermore. 
 
 I turned and faced the dark gulf. I pressed my hands 
 to my bursting temples to still the throb of the arteries 
 that was blinding me. Then, spasmodically, my feet 
 moved forward a pace or two; I gave a long, quivering 
 sigh; my arms dropped inert, and a blessed warmth of 
 security gushed over all my being. 
 
 Pale; luminous; most dear and pitiful, an angel stood 
 before the opening and barred my way. A shadow only 
 — but an angel ; a spirit come from the sorrowful past to 
 save me, as I, alas! had never saved her. 
 
 I fell on my knees and held out my arms to her, with 
 the drowning tears falling over my cheeks. I could not 
 speak, but only moan like a child for cheer and comfort. 
 And she smiled on me — the angel smiled on me, as Dolly, 
 sweet and loving, had smiled of old. Oh, God! Oh, 
 God! Thus to permit her to come from over the deso- 
 late waste for solace of my torment !
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 271 
 
 Was all this only figurative of the warring cksh of pas- 
 sion and conscience? The presence was to me actual 
 and divine. It led rne, or seemed to lead, from the 
 mouthing death — across the room — out by the open 
 door, that none had ever shut ; and then it was no longer 
 and I stood alone in the gusty passage. 
 
 I stood alone and cured forever of the terror of that 
 mad and gloomy place, whose influence had held me so 
 long enthralled. Henceforth I was quit of its deadly 
 malice. I knew it as certainly as that I was forgiven for 
 my share in a most bitter tragedy that had littered the 
 shore of many lives with wreckage. For me, at least, 
 now, the question was answered — answered by the dear 
 ghost of one whose little failings had been washed pure 
 in the bountiful spring of life. 
 
 Presently, moved by the sense of sacred security in my 
 heart, I passed once more into the room of silence — not 
 with bravado, but strong in the good armor of self-re- 
 liance. I closed and locked the door of the cupboard 
 and walked forth again, feeling no least tremor of the 
 nerves — conscious of nothing to cause it. Thence I 
 went out to the platform, and, levering up the sluice, 
 heard the water discharge itself afresh into the hollow- 
 booming channel that held the secret of the wheel. 
 
 And now, indeed, that my thoughts were capable of 
 some order of progression, that very secret rose and 
 usurped the throne of my mind, deposing all other 
 claimants. 
 
 What weird mystery attached to the portrait nailed to 
 the axle? That it was placed there by my father I had 
 little doubt; but for what reason and of whom was it? 
 
 I recalled his wild command to me to never make ref- 
 erence to aught my eyes might chance to light upon, 
 other than the treasure I had gone to seek. In that di- 
 rection, then, nothing but silence must meet me. 
 
 Of whom was the portrait, and what the mystery? 
 
 On the thought, the attenuated voice of old Peggy 
 came from the kitchen hard by in a cracked and melan- 
 choly stave of her favorite song:
 
 272 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "I washed my penknife in the stream — 
 Heigho! 
 I washed my penknife in the stream. 
 And the more I washed it the blood gushed out — 
 All down by the greenwood side, O! 
 
 Old Peggy! When had she first estabHshed her ghoul- 
 ish reign over us? Had she been employed here in my 
 mother's time? I only knew that I could not dispart her 
 ancient figure and the mill in my memory. 
 
 I pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen. 
 She was sitting darning by the frouzy little window — a 
 great pair of spectacles on her bony nose — and looked at 
 me with an eye afifectedly vacant, as if she were a vicious 
 old parrot speculating upon the most opportune moment 
 for a snap at me. 
 
 "That's a pretty song, Peggy," I said. 
 
 "And a pretty old 'ooman to sing it," she answered. 
 
 "Were you ever young, Peggy?" 
 
 "Not that I remembers. I were barn wi' a wrinkle in 
 my brow hke a furrow-drain, and two good teeth in my 
 headpiece," 
 
 "I dare say. How old were you when you first came 
 here?" 
 
 "How old? Old enow and young enow to taste worm- 
 wood in the sarce gleeted fro' three Winton brats." 
 
 "That's no answer, you know. What's your present 
 age?" 
 
 "One hundred, mebbe." 
 
 "Was Modred born when you came?" 
 
 "Born? Eighteen bard months, to my sorrow. A 
 rare gross child, to be sure ; wi' sprawling fat puds like the 
 feet o' them crocodillies in the show." 
 
 If Peggy could be trusted, I had got an answer which 
 barred further pursuit in that direction. She could never, 
 I calculated, have been personally acquainted with my 
 mother or the circumstances of the latter's death. In- 
 deed, I could not imagine her tolerated in a house over 
 which any self-respecting woman presided. 
 
 Elsewhere I must look for some solution of the puzzle
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 273 
 
 that had added its complexity to a Hfe already laboring 
 under a burden of mystery. 
 
 But in the meantime, an older vital question re-reared 
 its head from the very hearthstone of the mill, whereon 
 it had lain so long in stupor that I might have fancied it 
 dead. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 SOME ONE COMES AND GOES. 
 
 November had come, with early frosts that flattened 
 the nasturtiums in the town gardens and stiffened belated 
 bees on the Michaelmas daisies, that were the very tav- 
 erns of nature to lure them from their decent homes. 
 
 This year the complacent dogmatism of an ancient 
 proverb was most amply justified by results: 
 
 "Be there ice in November that 'ill bear a duck. 
 There'll be nothing after but sludge and muck." 
 
 Tlie bellying winds of December were to drive up such 
 clouds of rain and storm that every gully in the meadows 
 was to join its neighbor in one common conspiracy 
 against the land, and every stream to overrun its banks, 
 swollen with the pride of hearing itself called a flood. 
 
 I had been reading one bright morning to my father 
 until he fell asleep, and was sitting on pensively with the 
 book in my hand, when I became aware of a step mount- 
 ing the stairs below and pausing at the sitting-room door. 
 I rose softly at once, and, descending, came plump upon 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe, just as he was crossing the threshold 
 to enter. 
 
 He was very sprucely dressed, for him, with a spray 
 of ragged geranium in his button-hole; and this, no less 
 than the mere fact of his presence in the house, filled me 
 with a momentary surprise so great that I had not a word 
 to say. Only I bowed him exceedingly politely into the 
 parlor and civilly asked his business. 
 
 An expression of relief crossed his face, I thought, as 
 
 18
 
 274 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 though he had been in two minds as to whether I should 
 take him by the collar and summarily eject him there and 
 then. 
 
 "I haven't seen your father about lately," he jerked out, 
 with some parody of a smile that, I concluded, was 
 designated to propitiate. "I called to inquire if the old 
 gentleman was unwell.'' 
 
 "He is practically an invalid," I said; "he keeps entire- 
 ly to his own room." 
 
 "Indeed? I am concerned. Nothing serious, I trust? 
 My services, I need not say, are at the command of so 
 valued an old friend." 
 
 "He needs no services but mine. It is the debility of 
 old age, I fear — nothing more." 
 
 "Yet he is a comparatively young man. But it's true 
 that to mortgage one's youth too heavily is to risk the 
 premature foreclosing of old age." 
 
 "I dare say. Was there any other object in vour 
 visit?" 
 
 "One other— frankly." 
 
 He held out a damp hand to me. It shook rather. 
 
 "I'm tired of this duel of cross-purposes. Will you 
 agree to cry an armistice — peace, if you like?" 
 
 I took him in from head to foot — a little to his discom- 
 fiture, no doubt. 
 
 "Is this pure philanthropy. Dr. Crackenthorpe?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Most pure and disinterested," said he. "I claim, with- 
 out ofifense, the grievance as mine, and I am the first to 
 come forward and cry. Let there be an end to it." 
 
 "Not so fast. You start on a fundamental error, A 
 grievance, as I take it, can only separate friends. There 
 can be no question of such a misunderstanding between 
 us, for we have always been enemies." 
 
 "That's your fancy," cried he; "that's your mistaken 
 fancy! I'm not one to wear my heart on my sleeve. 
 If I've always repressed show of my innate regard for 
 you, you're not to think it didn't exist." 
 
 "Why waste so many words? That's a good form of 
 regard, to act the btvUdog to us, as you always did. It
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 275- 
 
 was a cliasteniiig sense of duty, I suppose, that induced 
 you to leave me for years under an ugly stigma when 
 you knew all the time that I was innocent. Is your 
 valued friendship for the old man best expressed by 
 blackmailing and robbing him on the strength of a frag- 
 ment of circumstantial evidence?" 
 
 "I have made myself particeps criminis. Does that 
 go for nothing? A little consideration was due to me 
 there. A moiety of the treasure he was squandering, 
 I took advantage of my influence to secure in trust for 
 his children. You shall have it all back again some day, 
 and should show me profound gratitude in place of sin- 
 ister disbelief." 
 
 "A fine cheapening of cupidity, and well argued. How 
 long were you thinking it out?" 
 
 "As to that question of the suspicions you labored 
 under — remember that any conclusion drawai from cir- 
 cumstances was hypothetical. I may have had a pro- 
 fessional opinion as to the cause of death, and a secret 
 one as to the means employed. That was conjecture; 
 but if you are fair, you will confess that, by running 
 away to London, you did much to incriminate yourself 
 in men's minds." 
 
 "I never looked upon it in that light." 
 
 "I dare say not. Innocence, from its nature, may 
 very often stultify itself. I think you innocent now. 
 Then I was not so certain. It was not, perhaps, till your 
 father sought to silence me, that my suspicions were 
 diverted into a darker channel." 
 
 "You put a good case," I said, amazed at the man's 
 plausibility. "You might convince one who knew less 
 of you." 
 
 "You can prove nothing to my discredit. This is all 
 the growth of early prejudice. Think that at any mo- 
 ment I might have denounced him and left the proof of 
 innocence on his shoulders." 
 
 "And killed the goose with the golden eggs? I am 
 not altogether childish, Dr. Crackenthorpe, or quite 
 ignorant of the first principles of law. In England the
 
 276 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 burden of proof lies on the prosecution. How would 
 you have proceeded?" 
 
 "I should at least have eased my conscience of an 
 intolerable load and escaped the discomforting reflection 
 that I might be considered an accessory after the fact." 
 
 "As indeed you are in the sight of heaven by your own 
 showing, though I swear my father is as innocent of the 
 crime as I am." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating ges- 
 ture. 
 
 "Anyhow, my position shows my disinterestedness," 
 he said. 
 
 "And you are growing frightened over it, it seems. 
 Well, take whatever course pleases you. From our 
 point of view, here, I feel quite easy as to results." 
 
 "You misapprehend me. This visit is actuated by no 
 motive but that of friendliness. I wish to bury the 
 hatchet and resume the pleasant relations that existed 
 of old." 
 
 "They were too one-sided. Besides, all the conditions 
 changed upon my return." 
 
 "And no one regretted it more than I. I have from 
 the first been your true friend, as I have attempted to 
 show. You have a valuable inheritance in my keeping. 
 Indeed" — he gave a sort of high embarrassed titter — "it 
 would be to your real advantage to hand the residue 
 over to me before he has any further opportunity of dis- 
 sipating it." 
 
 I broke into a cackle of fierce laughter. 
 
 "So," I cried, "the secret is out! I must compliment 
 you on a most insatiable appetite. But, believe me, you 
 have more chance of acquiring the roc's egg than the 
 handful!" 
 
 He looked at me long and gloomily. I could feel 
 rather than hear him echo: "The handful." But he 
 made a great effort to resume his conciHatory tone when 
 he spoke again. 
 
 "You jump to hot-headed conclusions. It was a simple 
 idea of the moment, and as you choose to misinterpret it,
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 277 
 
 let it be forgotten. The main point is, are we to be 
 friends again?" 
 
 "And I repeat that we can't resume what never existed. 
 This posturing is stupid farce that had best end. Shall 
 we make the question conditional? That cameo, that 
 you have come into possession of — we won't hazard a 
 supposition by what means — restore it, at least, to its 
 rightful owner as an earnest of your single-mindedness. 
 I, who am to inherit it in the end, give you full permis- 
 sion." 
 
 He started back, and his face went the color of a with- 
 ered aspen leaf. 
 
 "It's mine," he cried, shrilly. "I wouldn't part with it 
 to the queen!'' 
 
 "See then! What am I to believe?" 
 
 I walked close up to him. His fingers itched to strike 
 me, I could see. 
 
 "Dr. Crackenthorpe," I said, "you had best have spared 
 yourself this errand. Why, what a poor scamp you must 
 be to think to take me in with such a fusty trick. Make 
 the most of what you've got. You'll not have another 
 stiver from us. Look elsewhere for a victim. Your 
 evil mission in life is the hounding of the wretched. 
 Mine, you know. Some clews are already in my hand, 
 and, if there is one man in the world I should rejoice to 
 drag down — you are he!" 
 
 He walked to the door, and, turning, stamped his foot 
 furiously down on the boards. 
 
 "You bitter dolt!" he roared, with a withering sneer. 
 "Understand that the chance I gave you is withdrawn 
 forever. There are means — there are means ; and I " 
 
 He stopped; gulped; put his hand to his throat, and 
 walked out of the house without another word. 
 
 I stood looking after him, all blazing with anger. No 
 least fear of the evil creature was in me, but only a blank 
 fierce astonishment that he should thus have dared to 
 brave me on my own ground. What cupidity was that, 
 indeed, that could not only think to gloss over long years 
 of merciless torment by a few false suave words, but 
 could actually hope to find the profit of his condescension
 
 278 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 in a post-prandial gorging of the fragments his inordinate 
 gkittony of avarice had passed over! 
 
 However, putting all thought of him from me, I re- 
 turned to my father. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVHI. 
 
 A FRUITLESS SEARCH. 
 
 One result of Dr. Crackenthorpe's visit was that I 
 determined to then and there push my secret inquiries 
 to a head in the direction of my friend, the sexton of St. 
 John's. 
 
 I had not seen or heard of this man since the day of 
 his seizure in the archway of the close, but I thought his 
 attack must surely by now have yielded and left him sane 
 again. 
 
 That very afternoon, leaving my father comfortably 
 established with book and paper, I walked over to the 
 old churchyard under the hill and looked about among 
 the graves for some sign of him who farmed them. The 
 place was empty and deserted; it showed clearly that 
 the hand of order was withdrawn and had not been 
 replaced. 
 
 Not knowing whither to go to make inquiries, I loi- 
 tered idly about some little time longer, in the hope that 
 chance might throw some one who could direct me in 
 my way. 
 
 "Within my vision two mounds only stood out stark 
 and sterile from the tangled green of Death's garden, 
 and one was Modred's and the other the grave of the 
 murdered man. 
 
 It was only a strange chance, of course, yet a strange 
 chance it was that should smite those two out of all the 
 yard with barrenness. 
 
 As I turned I was aware of a bent old man issuing 
 from a side door of the church with a bunch of keys in 
 his hand. To him I walked and addressed my inquiries.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 279 
 
 "Ah!" he said, struggling out of a violent fit of cough- 
 ing. "George White, sir? The man's dismissed for 
 drunkenness. To my sorrer, so it is. I has to do his 
 work till they finds a substitoot. It'll be the death of me 
 this chill autumn." 
 
 "Do you know where he lives?" 
 
 "He ain't app'inted yet." 
 
 "George White, I mean?" 
 
 "He lives, if living he is, ower at Fullflood yonder. I 
 misremember the number, but it's either 17 or 27, or 
 mebbe 74. They'll tell you if you ask. Not but what 
 I'd leave him alone, if I was you, for he'll do you no 
 good." 
 
 "He can't do me any harm, at least. I think I'll 
 try." 
 
 "Go your courses, then. Young men are that bold- 
 blooded. Go your courses. You can't miss if you fol- 
 lers my directions." 
 
 I had my own opinion as to that, but I tramped off to 
 the district indicated, which lay in the western quarter 
 of the town. Chance put out a friendly hand to me. 
 
 I had paused in indecision, when a woman standing at 
 an open door behind me hailed another who was coming 
 down the pavement with a little basket over her arm. 
 
 "Good-arternoon, Mrs. White," said the first wife as 
 the other came up. "And how did ye find your marn?" 
 
 I pricked up my ears. 
 
 "No better and no worse, Mrs. Catty, and tharnk ye 
 kindly." 
 
 "The horrers has left him, I'm told." 
 
 "Ye're told true, but little recommends the going. His 
 face is the color o' my apron here — an awesome sight. 
 It's the music membrim in his stommick, 'tis said that's 
 out o' toon." 
 
 "Ah, ma dear, I know it. It's what the doctors call an 
 orgin; and the pain is grinding." 
 
 "God bless ye — it's naught to what it were. 'Tis the 
 colic o' the mind he suffers, one may say." 
 
 "Deary me, deary me! Poor Mr. White!" 
 
 "I left him a-sitting before the infirmary fire in a happy-
 
 280 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 thetic State, they names it, though to my mind he looked 
 wretched." 
 
 "And so must you be to harve your marn in the house. 
 Well, well — and dismissed from his post, too, come rain 
 or sunshine." 
 
 I hurried off, satisfied with what I had heard. If the 
 woman with the basket was not the sexton's wife, there 
 was no happy fortuity in fate. For a moment I had 
 thought I would address myself to her, but the reflection 
 that no good purpose could be answered thereby, and 
 that by doing so I might awaken suspicions where none 
 existed, made me think better of it. 
 
 Expanding her allusions, I writ down in my mind that 
 George White, taken in hand by the poHce, had been 
 remanded to the workhouse infirmary pending his recov- 
 ery from an attack of delirium tremens, and such I found 
 to be the case. Now the hope of getting anything in the 
 nature of conclusive proof from him seemed remote. At 
 least no harm could be done by me paying him a 
 visit. 
 
 Fortunately I discovered, upon presenting myself at 
 the "house," that it was a visitors' day, and that a margin 
 yet remained of the time limit imposed upon callers. 
 
 I was referred to the infirmary doctor — a withered 
 stick of a man, with an unprofessional beard the color 
 and texture of dead grass. This gentleman's broad- 
 cloth, reversing the order of things, seemed to have worn 
 out him, instead of he it, so sleek, imposing and many 
 sizes too large for him were his clothes. 
 
 He listened with his teeth, it seemed, for his lip went 
 up, exposing them every time he awaited an answer. 
 
 "George White? The man's in a state of melancholia 
 following alcoholic excess. He is only a responsible 
 creature at moments, and has hallucinations. I doubt his 
 recovery." 
 
 "I might take my chance of one of the moments, 
 sir. 
 
 "You might, if you could recognize your opportunity. 
 Is it important?'' 
 
 "Very. That's no idle assertion, I assure you. He
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 281 
 
 only knows the truth of a certain matter, the solution of 
 which affects many people." 
 
 "Well, you can try. I give you little hope. An at- 
 tendant must be within reach. There's no calculating 
 the next crazy impulse in such cases." 
 
 An attendant took me in charge and convoyed me to 
 the infirmary — a cleanly bare room, with a row of bed- 
 steads headed against a distempered wall, and nailed 
 to the latter over each patient's pillow, a djagnosis of his 
 disease and its treatment, like a descriptive label in a 
 museum. 
 
 Some of the beds were occupied; a convalescent pallid 
 figure or two lingered about the sunny windows at the 
 end of the room, and seated solitary before the fire was 
 the foundering wreck of George White. 
 
 The attendant briefly said, "That's him," and, retiring 
 a short distance away, leaned against a bedstead rail. I 
 fetched a chair from the wall and sat myself down by the 
 poor shattered ruin. 
 
 A hopeless vacuity reigned in his expression at first, 
 and presently he began to maunder and dribble forth a 
 liquid patter of words all unintelligible. 
 
 By and by some connectedness was apparent in his 
 wanderings. I stooped my head to listen. 
 
 "He's alone and asleep — the only one. Time to try — 
 sarftly, now — a fut i' the toe-hole wi' caution — and I'm 
 up and out. Curse the crumbling clay. Ah ! a bit's fell 
 on him! My God, what a grin! One eye's open! If I 
 cud sweat to moisten it, now! llm dry wi' fire and dust! 
 I'm farlin' back— I'm " 
 
 He half-rose to his feet; I put out a hand to control 
 him, but he sunk down again and into apathy in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 A few minutes and the stream of words was flowing 
 once more. 
 
 "Not so deep — not so deep, arter all. The tails o' the 
 warms wriggles on the cof^n, while their heads be stuck 
 out i' the blessed air. Two fut, I make it. I cud putt 
 my harnd through, so be as this cruel lid would heist up. 
 It's breaking — the soil's coming through the cracks.
 
 282 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 It's pouring in and choking me — it's choking me, I say. 
 Isn't there none to hear? Why, I'm sinking! The sub- 
 soil's dropped in! I shall be ten fut down and no chance 
 if " 
 
 Again the struggle; again the collapse; and by and 
 by, the monotonous murmur gathering volume as it pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 "Sing, says you — and the devil drums i' the pit if I so 
 much as whisper. Look'ee thcr — at the white square o' 
 the sky. Thart's what keeps me going. If you was to 
 blot thart out, he'd have me by the hip wi' a pinch like 
 a bloodhound's jaw. There's summut darkens! Who's 
 thart a-looking down? Why, you bloody murderer, I 
 knows you! I found you out, I did, you ugly cutthroat 
 devil. Already dead, says you? Who kills dead men? 
 There bain't a thing i' the warld I'd hold my tongue for 
 but drink — you gie it me, then. What's this? The 
 bottle's swarrning wi' maggots — arnts, black arnts. 
 You're a rare villain! Not a doctor, I say. A doctor 
 don't cut the weasands o' dead men and let out the 
 worms — millions of them — and there's some wi' faces and 
 shining rings and gewgaws. The ungodly shall go down 
 into the pit — help me out o' it — they're burying me 
 alive!" 
 
 He leaped to his feet, with drawn, ashy face. The 
 watchful attendant was at his side in a moment and had 
 put a restraining hand on him. 
 
 "You'll get nought out of him, sir," he said. "It's my 
 belief he'll never utter sane word again." 
 
 As he spoke the sexton's eyes lighted on me in their 
 wild roving, steadied, flickered and took a Httle gHnt of 
 reason. Still gazing at me, he sunk into his chair 
 again. 
 
 "Leave us alone for a minute," I said to the man. "He 
 seems to recognize me, I think." 
 
 "As long as his eyes don't wander, maybe," he an- 
 swered. "Keep 'em fixed on you"— and he withdrew to 
 his former standpoint. 
 
 "George," I said, in a low, distinct voice, "do you 
 know me?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 283 
 
 I held him with an intense gaze. He seemed strug- 
 gling in an inward agony to escape it. 
 
 "George," I said again, "do you know who I am?" 
 
 "The grave yon, where no grass grows," he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 "Yes, yes. Why doesn't it grow there?" 
 
 "Ask the " 
 
 "Ask whom? I'm listening." 
 
 "It's he— oh, my God!" 
 
 I saw the terror creep and flutter behind the surface 
 of his skin. I saw it leap out and heard a yell, as his 
 eyes escaped their thraldom; and on the instant the 
 attendant was there and struggling with him. 
 
 In the shock of it I jumped up and turned — and saw 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe standing in the doorway. 
 
 I ran at him in a sort of frenzy. 
 
 "What do you want?" I cried; "what are you here 
 for?" 
 
 I think I was about to strike him, when the wizened 
 figure of the doctor who had given me permission to 
 enter thrust itself between us. 
 
 "What's all this?" he said, in a sharp, grating voice. 
 "How dare you make this uproar, sir?" 
 
 I fell back, shaking with rage. All down the row of 
 beds pale sick faces had risen, looking on in wonder. 
 Beside the fire my escort was still struggling with the 
 madman. 
 
 "What right has he to be here — to come and spy upon 
 me?" I cried. 
 
 "This is simply outrageous! Dr. Crackenthorpe" (he 
 glanced at the newcomer with no very flattering expres- 
 sion) "is here to superintend the removal of a patient of 
 his. He must be protected from insult. I rescind my 
 permit. Johnson, see this man ofif the premises." 
 
 A second attendant advanced and took me, police 
 fashion, by the elbow. I offered no resistance. Impulse 
 had made a fool of me, and I felt it. 
 
 The sound of the scuffle by the fire still continued. As 
 I passed Dr. Crackenthorpe he made me a mocking bow, 
 hat in hand. Then, waving me aside as if I were some
 
 284 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 troublesome supplicant he desired to ignore, he advanced 
 further into the room. 
 
 Then came a sudden thud and loud exclamation, at 
 which both I and my attendant turned. 
 
 The madman had bested his enemy and dashed him to 
 the floor. A moment then he paused, his gasping mouth 
 and pale eyes indicative of his terror of the man ap- 
 proaching — a moment only, and he turned and fled. I 
 was conscious of a sudden breaking out of voices — of a 
 fearful screech ringing above them — of a hurried rush of 
 shapes — of a bound and crash and shattering snap of 
 glass. It all happened in an instant, and there was a 
 jagged and gaping fissure m a window at the end of the 
 room — and George White was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 A QUIET WARNING. 
 
 I fully expected to be summoned as a witness to the 
 inquest held on George White. However, as it turned 
 out, they left me alone, and for that I was thankful, 
 though indeed I had little to fear from any cross-exam- 
 ination; and Dr. Crackenthorpe would hardly have ven- 
 tured under the circumstances to use his professional 
 influence to my discomfiture, seeing that I had shown 
 knowledge of the fact that between him and the dead 
 man was once, at least, some species of understanding. 
 So he gave his version of the affair, without any refer- 
 ence to me, who indeed could hardly in any way be held 
 responsible for the catastrophe. 
 
 And now he lay dead, the latest victim of the inquisi- 
 tion of the wheel, I most fully beheved; a poor wretch 
 withered under its ban that would reach, it seemed, to 
 agents but remotely connected with the dark history of 
 its immediate neighbors. He was dead, and with him, 
 I could but think, had passed my one chance of probing 
 the direful mystery in that direction where the core of it 
 festered.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 285 
 
 Thereafter for weeks I walked in a stubborn rebellion 
 against fate, intensified by the thought that this stultify- 
 ing of my purpose had come upon me on the heels of my 
 triumphant mastery of that old weird influence of the 
 mill — a triumph that had seemed to pronounce me the 
 very chosen champion of truth to whom all ways to the 
 undoing of the wicked should be revealed. 
 
 But, now, as the month drew to its close, a new anxiety 
 came to humble me with the pathos of the world, and to 
 assimilate all restless emotions into one pale fog of 
 silence, gray and sorrowful. 
 
 On a certain morning, looking in my father's face 
 when I brought him his breakfast, I read something 
 there, the import of which I would not consider or dwell 
 upon until I could escape and commune with myself 
 alone. 
 
 There was little external change in him and he was 
 bright and cheerful. It was only a certain sudden sense 
 of withdrawal that struck a chill into me — a sense as if 
 life, seeking to steal unobserved from its ancient prison, 
 knew itself noticed and affected to be dallying simply 
 with the rusted locks and bolts. 
 
 Realizing this presently to the full, I determined then 
 and there to put everything else to one side and to devote 
 myself single-handed to the tender ministering to his 
 last days upon earth. And grief and sadness were 
 mingled in me, for I loved the old man and could not 
 but rejoice that the inevitable should come to him so 
 peacefully. But prospect of the utter loneliness that 
 would fall upon me when he was gone woke a selfish 
 resentment that he should be taken from me and fought 
 in my heart for mastery over the better emotion. 
 
 Did he know? Not certainly, perhaps, for slowly 
 dying men give little thought to the way they wander. 
 But something in the prospect opening out before him 
 must, I think, have struck him with a dawning marvel 
 at its strangeness; as a sleeper, wakened from a weird 
 romance of dreaming, finds a w^onder of unfamiliarity in 
 the world restored to him. 
 
 It may have been that some increase of care on my
 
 286 THE MILL OlT SILENCE. 
 
 part making itself apparent was the first warning to him 
 that all was not as it used to be, for there came a night 
 when he called to me as I was leaving his room — after 
 seeing him comfortably established — in a voice with a 
 queer ring of emotion in it. 
 
 "What is it, dad?" I asked, hurrying back to his 
 bedside. 
 
 "I'm wakeful to-night, my lad; well and easy, but 
 wakeful." 
 
 "Shall I stop with you a bit longer?" 
 
 I saw he wished it and sat myself down upon the foot 
 of the bed. 
 
 "Good lad," he said. "I don't deserve all this, Renalt. 
 It should be a blank and empty thing to review a life 
 spent in idleness and self-indulgence. I ought to feel 
 that, and yet I'm at peace. Why wasn't I of your militant 
 philosophers, who treating love like any other luxury, 
 find salve for th-e bitter sting of it in a brave independence 
 of righteousness!" 
 
 "x\s well ask, dad, why in battle the bullets spare some 
 and mangle others." 
 
 "You mean the faculty of overriding fate is constitu- 
 tional, not a courageous theory, Renalt?" 
 
 "Yet I think your philosopher would be the first to 
 acknowledge its truth." 
 
 "Of course. He'd have a principle to prove. But I 
 can't gather consolation there for having wittingly sunk 
 mvself to the beasts." 
 
 '"Dad!" 
 
 "Why should I mince matters? Let me look at you 
 full face. I have never been a liar, but I've chosen to 
 deceive myself into the belief that mere brute self-indul- 
 gence was a fine revolt against the tyranny of the 
 gods." 
 
 "It may have been nature's counter-irritant to unbear- 
 able suffering." 
 
 "Sophistry, my boy. It's out of the kindness of your 
 heart, but it's sophistry. Better to die shrieking under 
 the knife than to live to be a hopeless, disfigured cripple.
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 287 
 
 Look at me lying here. What heritage of virtue, what 
 example of endurance, shall I leave to my children?" 
 
 "You have never complained." 
 
 "No comfort, Renalt — none. I nursed my resentment 
 from base fear only that by revealing it, it would dissi- 
 pate. With such a belief I have to face the Supreme 
 Court up there; and" — he looked at me earnestly — "be- 
 fore very long, I think." 
 
 I shook my head in silence. I could find no word 
 to say. 
 
 "Am I afraid?" he went on, still intently regarding me. 
 "I think not — at present. Yet I have some bitter charges 
 to answer." 
 
 "This rest will restore you again, dad." 
 
 He did not seem to hear me. His eyes left my face 
 and he continued in a murmuring voice: 
 
 "The last dispossession the old suffer is sleep, it seems. 
 Balm in Gilead — balm in Gilead!" 
 
 "What little breath will keep the spark alive," I 
 thought as I sat and watched the worn quiet figure. The 
 face looked as if molded out of wax and so moved me 
 that presently I must rise and bend over it, thinking the 
 end had actually come while I watched. 
 
 With my rising, however, a sigh broke from it, and a 
 little stir of the limbs, so that my heart that had fallen 
 leaped up again with gladness. Then he looked up at 
 me standing above him, and a smile passed Hke a gleam 
 of sunlight over his features. 
 
 "I always loved you, my son Renalt," he murmured, 
 and, murmuring, fell into a light trance once more. 
 
 The following day there was no change in his condi- 
 tion. I could have thought him floating out of life on 
 that tide of dreaming thoughts that seemed to bear him 
 up so gently and so easily. When, at moments, he would 
 rise to consciousness of my presence, he would nod to me 
 and smile; and again sink back on the pillow of gracious 
 somnolence. 
 
 I had been sitting reading to myself in my father's room 
 and all was glowing silence about me, when a sudden 
 clap at the window-casement made me start. I jumped
 
 288 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 to my feet and looked out. A vast gloomy curtain of 
 cloud was drawing up from the east; even as I looked, 
 some shafts of its bitterness drove through the joints of 
 the lattice, stabbing at me with points of ice, and I shiv- 
 ered, though the sunlight was still upon me. 
 
 The storm came on with incredible speed; within five 
 minutes of my rising clouds of hail were flogging the 
 streets, and from a whirling fog of night jangle of innum- 
 erable voices hooting and whistling broke like a besieg- 
 ing cloud of Goths upon the ancient capital. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 STRICKEN DOWN. 
 
 For ten minutes, during which the city was blind with 
 hail, I could see nothing but a thicket of white strings 
 dense as the threads in a loom; hear nothing but the 
 pounding crash of thunder and fierce hiss and clatter of 
 the driving stones. Then darkness gathered within and 
 without, and down came the storm with an access of fury 
 that seemed verily as if it must flatten out the town like 
 a scattered ants' nest. 
 
 So infernal for the moment was the uproar that I hur- 
 ried to my father's side, fearful that his soul might actually 
 yield itself to the raging tyranny of its surroundings. 
 
 He lay unmoved in the same quiet stupor of the facul- 
 ties, unconscious, apparently, that anything out of na- 
 ture's custom was enacting near him. 
 
 As suddenly as it had begun, the white deluge ceased, 
 as though the last of its reservoirs above were emptied. 
 The reaction to comparative silence was so intense that 
 in the first joy of it one scarcely barkened to the voice of 
 a great wind that had risen and was following on the 
 heels of the storm, to batten like a camp follower on the 
 wreckage of the battle that had swept by. For four 
 weary days it flew, going past like an endless army, and
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 289 
 
 laden clouds were its parks of artillery and the swords of 
 its bitterness never rested in their scabbards. 
 
 On that first evening, when tJie hailstorm had passed 
 and light was restored, I was standing by the window 
 looking out on the bridge and the street all freckled with 
 white, when a low moaning sound came to my ears. I 
 turned sharply round, thinking it was my father, but he 
 lay peaceful and motionless. I hurried to the door and 
 opened it, and there in the passage outside was old 
 Peggy, cast down upon her face, and groaning and mut- 
 tering in a pitiful manner. 
 
 I gave her a little ungallant peck with my foot. 
 
 "Now!" I cried, "what's this? What are you doing?" 
 
 Her face was hidden on her arm and she spoke up 
 mumblingly. 
 
 "Oh!" she said; "Lord— Lord! It hain't worthy o' 
 you!" 
 
 "What's the matter, I say?" 
 
 "Take the clean and well-preserved! There's better 
 fish than a poor feckless old 'ooman all fly blown like a 
 carkis wi' ungodliness!" 
 
 I gave her another little stir. 
 
 "I repent!" she shrieked. "I'll confess everything! 
 Only spare me now. Gie me a month — two months, to 
 prepare my sore wicked soul for the felon's grave." 
 
 "Peggy," I said, sternly, "get up and don't make a fool 
 of yourself." 
 
 She seemed to listen. 
 
 "Is that you, Renalt?" she said, presently. 
 
 "Get up — do you hear?" 
 
 "Keep the bolt fro' me. Pray to the Lord for a bad 
 old 'ooman. Wrastle for me, Renalt." 
 
 "Are you crazy?" 
 
 She bumped her elbows on the floor as she lay, in 
 fretful terror. 
 
 "Wrastle — wrastle!" she whined. "Don't waste your 
 breath on axing things. While you talk He enters." 
 
 "Who enters?" 
 
 "The Lord of hosts. I saw His face at the window, 
 and the breath o' His nostrils was like the sound o' guns. 
 
 19
 
 290 THE MILL OF SILENCfi. 
 
 I arlays meant to repent — I swear it on the blessed book. 
 It's a wicked thing to compact wi' the prince o' dark- 
 ness. Believe me, truth, I arlays meant it, but the pot 
 must be boiled and the beds made and where were old 
 Peggy's time? You wudn't smite a body, Lord, for 
 caring of her dooties, and I repent now. It's never too 
 late over one sinner doing penance. Oh, Lord, take 
 the young and well-favored and gie crass Rottengoose 
 a month for her sins!" 
 
 "Peggy, I haven't a doubt you've plenty to do pen- 
 ance for. But have you really the stupendous assurance 
 to think that all this storm is got up on your account? 
 Get up, you old idiot! The thunder's past and there's 
 nothing to be afraid of now." 
 
 Her lean body went in with a great sigh. For some 
 moments she lay as she was; then cautiously twisted her 
 head and peered up at me. 
 
 "Sakes alive !" she muttered, listening. "Was it all for 
 nowt, then?" 
 
 I saw the craft come back to her withered eyes in the 
 dusk. 
 
 "Heave me up, Renalt," she said. "The Lord has 
 seen the wisdom o' let alone, praise to His mercy." 
 
 "Don't presume on that, Peggy. He'll call to you at 
 His own time, though it mayn't be through a thunder- 
 storm." 
 
 "Look to yourself, Renalt. The young twigs snap 
 easiest. You may be the first to go, wi' the load o' guilt 
 you gathered in London yon for company." 
 
 "Very likely. You asked me to pray for you just 
 now, you know. What's on your mind, Peggy Rotten- 
 goose?" 
 
 I had the old sinner to her feet by this time. _ Her face 
 was a yellow, haggard thing to look at — shining like 
 stained brass. Something in it seemed to convey to me 
 that perhaps after all the angel of the storm had struck at 
 her in passing. 
 
 She looked at me morosely and fearfully. 
 
 "What but ministering to Satan's children?" she said.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 291' 
 
 "You graceless old villain, I've a mind to pitch you 
 into the race." 
 
 I made a clutch at her as I spoke, but she evaded me 
 with a wriggle and a shrill screech. 
 
 "I didn't mean it! Let me go by!" 
 
 "What have you got to repent of in the first place?" 
 
 "I was stealing the pictur' o' Modred — there! No 
 peace ha' I hard since I done it!" 
 
 I let the old liar pass, and she shuffled away, hugging 
 herself and glancing round at me once or twice as if she 
 still doubted the meaning of my threat. I paid no more 
 attention to her, but returned to my father's room. 
 
 The old man lay on his back placid and unconcerned, 
 but his eyes were open and he greeted me with a cheerful 
 little nod. 
 
 Darkness deepened in the room, and the white face 
 on the pillow became a luminous spot set weirdly in the 
 midst of it. I had not once till then, I think, admitted a 
 single feeling of disloyalty toward ni}- father to my heart. 
 Now a little unaccountable stirring of impatience and 
 resentment awoke in me. I was under some undefinable 
 nervous influence, and was surely not true to myself in 
 the passing of the mood. It seemed suddenly a mon- 
 strous thing to me that he, the prime author of all that 
 evil destiny that had haunted our lives, should be fading 
 peacefully toward the grave, while we must needs live on 
 to outface and adjust the ugly heritage of responsibilities 
 that were the fruits of his selfish policy of inaction. 
 
 Such sudden swift reactions from a long routine of 
 endurance are humanly inevitable. They may flame up 
 at a word, a look, a shying thought — the spark of divin- 
 ity glowing with indignation over intolerable injustice. 
 Then the dull decorum of earth stamps it under again 
 and we go on as before. 
 
 During that spell of rebellion, my soul passed in review 
 the incidents of a cruel visitation of a father's sins upon 
 his children. I saw the stunted minds meanly nurtured 
 in an atmosphere of picturesque skepticism. I saw the 
 natural outgrowth of this in a reckless indifference to 
 individual responsibility. Following thereon came one
 
 292 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 by one the impulse to triumph by evil — the unchecked 
 desire — the shameless deed — the road, the river and the 
 two lonely graves. 
 
 I rose to my feet and paced the room to and fro, cast- 
 ing a resentful glance now and again at the quiet figure 
 on the bed. Driven to quick desperation I strode to the 
 door, opened it and descended the stairs. 
 
 In the blaze of my anger I burst into the haunted room, 
 thinking to stay the monster with the mere breath of my 
 iury. But the cold blackness drove at me, and, for all 
 my confidence, repelled me on the very threshold. 
 
 I rushed away to the sluice, let it fall and shut off the 
 race. Then I returned, breathless and panting, and 
 looked at the open door. 
 
 "You're a very material devil," I muttered; "a boy 
 could silence your voice, for all its boastfulness." 
 
 As I spoke, again a little ugly secret laugh seemed to 
 issue from it. Probably it was only an expiring screech 
 of the axle, but it made my blood run tingling for all 
 that. 
 
 I mounted the stairs, determinedly crushing down the 
 demon of fear that sought to unman me. 
 
 "I have silenced its hateful voice," I cried to myself, 
 and whispered it again as I re-entered my father's room. 
 
 The old man lay silent and motionless as I seated 
 myself once more by the window. Now the great 
 blasts of tempest held monopoly of the ghostly house, 
 unpierced of that other voice that had been like the grind- 
 ing of the teeth of the storm. 
 
 Presently I heard him stirring restlessly in his bed, 
 and little fitful moans came from his lips. His uneasiness 
 increased; he muttered and threw his arms constantly 
 into fresh positions. Could it be that my untoward 
 silencing of that voice that for such long years had been 
 his counselor and familiar was making a vacancy in his 
 soul into which deadlier demons were stealing? 
 
 I moved to the bed and looked down upon him. As 
 I did so the old tenderness reasserted itself and the mood 
 of blackness passed away. If he had bequeathed to us a
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 293 
 
 dark heritage of suffering, it is by suffering that the soul 
 climbs from the bestial pitfalls of the senses. 
 
 As I leaned down to cover his chest that his restless 
 tossing had bared, a second tempest of hail swept furious- 
 ly upon the town. I ran to the window and looked out. 
 In the flashing radiance of the lamp that stood upon the 
 bridge opposite — for night was now settled upon the city 
 — I saw the tumult of white beat upon the stones and 
 rebound from them and thrash all the road, as it were, 
 with froth. 
 
 Suddenly a figure started up in the midst of the flick- 
 ering curtain of ice. It was there in a moment — waving 
 its wild arms — wringing its hands — shrieking, I could 
 have fancied, though no sound came to me. But, in the 
 wonder and instant of its rising, I knew it to be Duke's. 
 
 Hardly had I mastered the first shock of surprise when 
 there came the sound of a great cry behind me. I turned, 
 and there was my father sitting up in bed, and his face 
 was ghastly. 
 
 "The wheel!" he shrieked, in a suffocating voice; "the 
 wheel! I'm under it!" And fell back upon his pillow. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 A MEETING ON THE BRIDGE. 
 
 It was not immediate death that had alighted, but 
 death's forerunner, paralysis. I realized this in a mo- 
 ment. The mute and stricken figure; the closed eyes; 
 the darkly flushed face wrenched to the right and the 
 flapping breath issuing one-sided from the lips — I needed 
 no experience to read the meaning of these. 
 
 I ran to the head of the stairs and shrieked to old 
 Peggy to come up. Then I hurried to the dressing-table 
 and lighted a candle that stood thereon. As I took it in 
 my hand to approach the bed, a pane in the lattice behind 
 me weht with a splintering noise, and something whizzed 
 past my head like a hornet, and a fragment of plaster
 
 294 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 spun from the wall near. At the same instant a little 
 mufifled sound, no louder in the tumult of hail than the 
 smack of an elastic band on paper, came from the street 
 outside. 
 
 Instinctively I winced and dodged, not knowing for 
 the moment what had happened, then in the midst of my 
 distraction, fury seized me like a snake. 
 
 The blind was up; my figure plainly visible from the 
 bridge as I crossed the room. The madman outside had 
 shot at me, whether from pure deviltry or because he 
 took me for Jason I neither knew nor cared. Coming 
 on the head of my trouble, the deed seemed wantonly 
 diabolical. Had I been master of my actions I think I 
 should then and there have rushed forth and grappled 
 with the evil creature and crushed the life out of him. As 
 it was I ran to the window and dashed it open and leaned 
 forth. 
 
 He was there on the bridge still; standing up in the 
 pelting storm; bare-headed, fantastic — a thing of name- 
 less expression. 
 
 I shrieked to him and cursed him. I menaced him 
 with my fists. For the moment I was near as much 
 madman as he. 
 
 Perhaps some words of my outcry reached him 
 through the hurtling of the storm. Perhaps he recog- 
 nized me, for I saw him shrink down and cower behind 
 the stones of the bridge. I rattled to the window, pulled 
 down the blind and turned myself to the stricken figure 
 on the bed. As I did so old Peggy came breathing and 
 shambling into the room. 
 
 "What's to do?" she said, coughing feebly and glaring 
 at me. "What's to do, Renalt?'' 
 
 "Look there! What's happened— what's the matter 
 with him? It is death, perhaps!" 
 
 She shuffled to the bedside, holding in her groaning 
 chest with one hand. For a minute she must have stood 
 gazing down. 
 
 "Ay," she said at last, leering round at me. "The 
 Lord mistook the room, looking in at winder. Ralph it
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 295 
 
 was were wanted — not old Peggy, praise to His good- 
 ness." 
 
 "Is he dying?" 
 
 "Maybe — maybe not yet awhile. The dumbstroke 
 have tuk him." 
 
 "Paralysis?" 
 
 "So they carls it. Better ax the doctor." 
 
 "Look you to him, then, and look well, while I run 
 out to seek for one. I leave him in your charge." 
 
 I took her by the arm and stared in her face as I spoke. 
 My expression must have been frowning and threatening, 
 but indeed I mistrusted the old vagabond. She shrunk 
 from me with a twitch of fear. 
 
 "He'll come round wi' his face to the judgment," she 
 said; and I left her standing by the bedside and hurried 
 from the house. 
 
 Leaving the yard, I turned sharply round upon the 
 bridge. The storm had yielded, but the ground was yet 
 thickly strewed with white. Not a soul seemed to be 
 abroad. Only low down against the parapet of the 
 bridge was a single living thing, and it crouched huddled 
 as if the storm had claimed a victim before it passed. 
 
 My brain still burned with fury over the foul action 
 that had so nearly sent me from my father in his utmost 
 need. I could think of nothing at the moment but re- 
 venge, of nothing but that I must sweep this horror into 
 the river before I could hope to deal collectedly with 
 the fatality that had befallen me. I only feared that it 
 would escape me, and leaped on it, mad with rage. 
 
 I tore him up to his feet and held him from me with a 
 savage gaze, and he looked at me with a dark, amazed 
 stare, but there was no terror in his eyes. And even as 
 I held him I saw in the dim lamplight how worn and hag- 
 gard he had grown, how sunken was his white face, how 
 fearfully the monomania of revenge had rent him with 
 its jagged teeth. 
 
 "You dog!" I said. "You end in the millrace here — 
 do you understand? You are a murderer in will and 
 would have been in deed if your aim had answered true 
 to your devil's heart! Down with you!"
 
 296 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I closed with him, but he still struggled to hold me 
 off. 
 
 "I thought it was he — the other. He's left London. 
 He must be here somewhere." 
 
 There was no deprecation in his tone. He spoke in 
 a small dry voice and with an air as if none could doubt 
 that he was justified in his pursuit and must stand aside 
 or suffer by it rather than that it should cease. 
 
 "Where he is I neither know nor care," I answered, 
 set and stern. "You've raised your hand to me at last, 
 dog that you are, and that's my concern. I should have 
 known at first — that it's useless arguing mercy with a 
 devil." 
 
 I had my arms round him like steel bands. Once he 
 might have been my match, or better, but not now in his 
 state of physical degeneration. 
 
 "Yes, end it," he whispered. "I always thought to die 
 by water as she did. The chase here is exhausting me. 
 I can finish my task more effectively from the other side 
 the grave." 
 
 I gave a mocking laugh. 
 
 "You shall purge your hate in fire, there," I said. 
 "Ghostly revenge on the living is an old wives' tale." 
 
 He struggled to force an arm free and pointed down 
 at the foaming mill-tail. 
 
 "There's a voice there," he cried, "that says otherwise. 
 I read it, and so do you, for all your shaking heroics. 
 Fling me down! I escape the self-destruction that was 
 to come. Fling me down and end it!" 
 
 I tightened my arms about him. The first desperate 
 fury of my mood was leading me and with it the impulse 
 to murder. The wan, once-dear features were appeal- 
 ing to me against their will and mine. 
 
 Suddenly, while I wavered, an appalling screech burst 
 from him ; he wrenched himself free of me with one mad 
 superhuman effort, struck out at the empty air, and 
 turned and fled across the bridge and up toward the hill 
 beyond. In a moment he was lost to sight in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 In the shock of his escape I twisted about to see what
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 297 
 
 had so moved him — and, not a yard behind me, was 
 standing Dr. Crackenthorpe. 
 
 For many seconds we stared at one another speechless 
 and motionless. His face was pale and set very grimly. 
 
 At last he spoke, and "Murder!'' was the word he 
 muttered, 
 
 "He runs fast for a murdered man," I said, with a 
 sneer. 
 
 "Who was it?" he said, gazing with a strange, fixed 
 expression up the dark blown hill. 
 
 "A ghost," I answered, with a reckless laugh. "The 
 town is full of them to-night." 
 
 He looked at me gloomily. I could have thought he 
 shivered slightly. 
 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "He was my friend once. Stand out of my way. I've 
 an errand on hand. My father's had a seizure." 
 
 "Had a — come, I'll go see him." 
 
 "You won't. I won't have you near him. Stand out 
 of my way." 
 
 "You're a fool. Promptness is everything in such 
 cases." 
 
 I hesitated. For what his professional opinion was 
 worth, this man had always stood to us as adviser in 
 such small ailments as we suffered. I had no notion 
 where to seek another. My father would be unconscious 
 of his presence. At least he could pronounce upon the 
 nature of the stroke. 
 
 "Very well," I said, ungraciously. "You can see him 
 and judge what's the matter." 
 
 The old man was lying as I had left him when we 
 entered the bedroom. His eyes were still closed, and his 
 breathing sounded hard and stertorious. 
 
 "He's mortal bad, sir," Peggy said. "He'll die hard, I 
 do believe." 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe waved her away and bent over the 
 prostrate figure. As he did so its eyeHds seemed to 
 flicker, as if with dread consciousness of his approach. 
 
 "Be quick!" I said. "What has happened?"
 
 298 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 He felt the dying pulse; bent his yellow face and lis- 
 tened at the heart. He was some minutes occupied. 
 
 Presently he rose and came to me, all formal and pro- 
 fessional. 
 
 "You must prepare for the worst," he said. "He may 
 speak again by and by, but I doubt it. In my opinion it 
 is a question of a few days only. No medical skill can 
 avail." 
 
 "Is there nothing I can do?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 He bowed to me stifBy. 
 
 "I am at your service," he said, in a cold voice. "If I 
 can be of any further use to you, you will let me know. 
 You are not ignorant of where to find me, I believe." 
 
 He was walking to the door, but turned and came to- 
 ward me again. 
 
 "That one-time friend of yours," he said. "Is he stop- 
 ping in the town?" 
 
 "I really don't know, Dr. Crackenthorpe. I met him 
 by chance, and you saw he ran from me. You seem in- 
 terested in him." 
 
 "He — yes; he struck me as bearing a likeness to a — to 
 a patient I once attended. Good night." 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 A WRITTEN WORD. 
 
 My escape from that strong net of fatality that had en- 
 meshed so many years of my still young life, had been, 
 it seemed, only a merciful respite. Now the toils, re- 
 gathering about me again, woke a spirit of hopeless 
 resignation in me that had been foreign to my earlier 
 mood of resistance. Man has made of himself so plod- 
 ding an animal as to almost resent the unreality of his 
 brief vacations. He eats his way, like a wood-boring 
 larva, through a monotonous tunnel of routine, satisfied 
 with the thought that some day he may emerge into the
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 299 
 
 light on the other side, ready-winged for flight to the 
 garden of paradise. Perhaps Lazarus was humanly far- 
 seeing in refusing the rich man a drop of water. It would 
 have made the poor wretch's after lot tenfold more un- 
 endurable. 
 
 Now a feeling came over me that I could struggle no 
 more, but would lie in the web and suffer unresisting the 
 onsets of fate. My father's seizure; Duke's reappear- 
 ance and his hint as to the visit I was to expect from 
 Jason; the sudden flight of the cripple before the vision 
 of Dr. Crackenthorpe — all these were strands about my 
 soul with which I would concern myself no longer. I 
 would do my duty, so far as I could, and set my face in 
 one direction and glance aside no more. 
 
 That night I ordered Peggy to bed — for since Jason's 
 going she slept in the house — and myself passed the 
 dreary vigil of the hours by my father's side. Indeed, 
 for the three days following I scarcely lay down at all, 
 but took my food in snatches and slept by fits and starts 
 in chairs or window-corners as occasion offered. 
 
 During the whole of this time the condition of the 
 patient never altered. He lay on his back, breathing 
 crookedly from his twisted mouth; his eyes closed; the 
 whole of the right side of his body stricken motionless. 
 His left hand he would occasionally move and that was 
 the single sign of animate life he showed. 
 
 And day and night the wind blew and the hail and rain 
 came down in a cold and ceaseless deluge. The whole 
 country was flooded, I heard, and the streams risen, but 
 still the rending storm flew and added devastation to 
 misery. 
 
 It was on the afternoon of the third day that, chancing 
 to look at the old man as I sat by his bedside, I saw, with 
 a certain shock of pleasure, that his eyes were open and 
 fixed upon my face. I jumped to my feet and leaned 
 over him, and at that some shadow of emotion passed 
 across his features, as if the angel of death stood between 
 him and the window. 
 
 Presently his left hand, that lay on the coverlet, began 
 moving. The fingers twitched with a beckoning motion
 
 800 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 and he raised his arm several times and let it fall again 
 listlessly. I fancied I was conscious of some dumb ap- 
 peal addressed to me, toward which my own soul yearned 
 in sympathy. Yet, strive as I would, I could not interpret 
 it. An inexpressible trouble seemed lost and wandering 
 in the fathomless depths of the eyes; passionate utter- 
 ance seemed ever hovering on the lips, ever escaping the 
 grasp of will and sliding back into blackness. 
 
 "Dad," I said, "what is it? Try to express by a sign 
 and I will try to understand." 
 
 The hand rose again, weakly fluttered in the air and 
 dropped upon the coverlet. Thrice the effort was made 
 and thrice I failed to interpret its significance. Then a 
 little quivering sigh came from the mouth and the eyes 
 closed in exhaustion. 
 
 I racked my brains for the meaning of the sign. Some 
 trouble, it was evident, sought expression, but what — 
 what — what? My mind was all dulled and confused by 
 the incidents of the last few days. 
 
 While I was vainly struggling for a solution old Peggy 
 entered the room with tea and bread and butter for my 
 afternoon meal. She paused with the tray in her hands, 
 watching the blind groping of the fingers on the bed. 
 
 "Ay," she said, "but I doubt me ye cudn't hold a pen, 
 master." 
 
 I turned sharply to her. 
 
 "Is that what he wants?" 
 
 "Pen or pencil — 'tis arl one. When speech goes, we 
 talk wi' the fingers." 
 
 What a fool I had been! The sign I had struggled in 
 vain for hours to read, this uncanny old beldame had 
 understood at a glance. 
 
 I hurried out of the room and returned with paper and 
 pencil. I thrust the latter between the wandering fin- 
 gers and they closed over it with a quick, weak snap. 
 But they could not retain it, and it slipped from them 
 again upon the coverlet. A moan broke from the lips 
 and the arm beat the clothes feebly. 
 
 "Heave en up," said the old woman. "He's axing ye 
 to."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 301 
 
 I put my arm under my father's shoulders and with a 
 strong effort got him into a sitting posture, propped 
 among the pillows. I placed the pencil in his hand again 
 and held the paper in such position that he could write 
 upon it. He succeeded in making a few hieroglyphic 
 scratches on the white surface and that was all. 
 
 "It's no manner o' use, Renalt," said Pegg>^ "Better 
 lat en alone and drink up your tea." 
 
 "Put it down there and leave us to ourselves." 
 
 The old creature did as she was bidden and shuffled 
 from the room grumbling. 
 
 I placed the paper where my father's hand could rest 
 upon it, and sat down to my silent meal. 
 
 Presently, watching, as I ate, the weak restless move- 
 ments of the hand upon the quilt, a thought occurred to 
 me, which then and there I resolved to put into practice. 
 It was evident that, unless through an unexpected re- 
 newal of strength, those dying fingers would never suc- 
 ceed in forming a legible word with the pencil they could 
 barely hold. But they could make a sign of themselves 
 and that little power I must seek to direct. 
 
 I hurried down to the kitchen and seized from the wall 
 an ancient bone tablet that Peggy used for domestic 
 memoranda. Scraping a little soot from the chimney I 
 mixed it with water into a thick paste and spread a thin 
 layer of the latter over the surface of the tablet. It dried 
 almost immediately, and writing on it with the tip of my 
 finger, I found that the soot came readily aw^ay, leaving 
 the mark I had made stenciled white and clear under the 
 upper coating. 
 
 Returning to my father, with this extemporized first 
 principle and the saucer of black paste, I held the tablet 
 before his dim, wandering eyes, and wrote on it with my 
 finger, demonstrating the method. At first he hardly 
 seemed to comprehend my meaning, but, after a repeti- 
 tion or two his glance concentrated and his forehead 
 seemed to ripple into little wrinkles of intelligence. At 
 that I smeared the surface of the bone afresh, waited a 
 minute for it to dry, and placed it under his hand upon
 
 302 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 the bed, leaving him to evolve the method from his poor 
 crippled inner consciousness. 
 
 But a few moments had elapsed when a small, low 
 sound from the bed brought me to my father's side. 
 
 He looked from me to the tablet, where it lay, and 
 there was a strained imploring line between his eyes. 
 Gently I took up the little black square and I saw that 
 something was formed on it. With infinite toil, for it 
 was only his left hand he could use, he had scratched on 
 it a single, straggling word, and in the fading light I read 
 it: 
 
 "Forgive." 
 
 "Father!" I cried; "is that what you have been striving 
 to say?" 
 
 He dragged up his unstricken arm slowly into an atti- 
 tude as if the hand sought its fellow to join it in a prayer 
 to me. 
 
 "Before God," I said, "you wTong me to think I could 
 say that word! What have I to forgive you for? My 
 sins have been my own, and they have met with their just 
 reward. Am I to forgive you for loving me? Dad — 
 dad! I have known so little love that I can't afford to 
 wrong yours by a thought. Look! I will blot this out, 
 that you may know my heart has nothing but tenderness 
 in it for you!" 
 
 I snatched up the tablet and smeared out the cruel 
 word and placed the blank surface under his hand again. 
 He was looking at me all the time with the same dim 
 anguished expression, and now his head sunk back on 
 the pillow and a tear rolled down his face. 
 
 Night came upon me sitting there, and presently, over- 
 come by emotion and weariness, I fell over upon the foot 
 of the bed and sunk into a profound sleep. For hours I 
 lay unconscious and it was broad day in the room when I 
 awoke with a sudden start. 
 
 Realizing in a moment how I had betrayed my vigil, 
 I leaped to my feet with a curse at my selfishness and 
 looked down upon my father. He was lying back, sunk 
 in a wan exhausted sleep, and under its influence his
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 303 
 
 features seemed to have somewhat resumed their nor- 
 mal expression. 
 
 But it appeared he had again been scrawHng on the 
 tablets, with the first of the dawn, probably; and these 
 were the broken words thereon that stared whitely up at 
 me: 
 
 "I murd Mored." 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 AN ATTEMPT AND A FAILURE. 
 
 For a minute or more I must have stood gazing- down 
 on the damning words, unmoving, breathless almost. 
 Then I glanced at the quiet face on the pillow and back 
 again to the tablet I held in my hand. 
 
 I am glad to know — proud, in the little pride I may 
 call mine — that at that supreme moment I stood stanch; 
 that I cried to myself: "It is a lie, bom of his disease! 
 He never did it!" That I dashed the tablet back upon 
 the bed and that my one overwhelming thought was: 
 "How may I defend this poor soul from himself?" 
 
 That he might die in peace with his conscience — that 
 was the end of my desire. Yet how was I, knowing so 
 little, to convince him? Disproof I had none, but only 
 assurance of sympathy and a moral certainty that a na- 
 ture so constituted could never lend itself to so horrible 
 a deed. 
 
 In the midst of my confusion of thought a sudden idea 
 woke in me and quickened into a resolve. I went swiftly 
 out of the room, down the stairs, and walked in upon old 
 Peggy mumbling her bread and milk in the kitchen. I 
 was going out for a\Vhile, I told her, and bade her listen 
 for any sound upstairs that might betoken uneasiness on 
 the part of the patient. 
 
 For the time being there was no rain to greet me as I 
 stepped outside, l)ul ilie wind still blew boisterously from 
 the east, and the sky was all drawn and wrapt in a doleful 
 swaddle of cloud. Sternly and without hesitation I made
 
 304 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 my way to the house of Dr. Crackenthorpe. An anae- 
 mic, cross-looking- servant girl was polishing what re- 
 mained of the handle of the front door with a tattered 
 doeskin glove. 
 
 "Is the doctor inside?" I said to her. 
 
 She left the glove sticking on the handle like a frouzy 
 knocker, and stood upright looking down upon me. 
 
 "What do you want with him?" she said. 
 
 "I wish to see him on private business." 
 
 "He's at his breakfast. He won't thank you for 
 troubling him now." 
 
 "I don't want him to thank me. I wish to see him, 
 that's all." 
 
 "Well, then, you can't— and that's all." 
 
 I pushed past her and walked into the hall and she 
 followed me clamoring. 
 
 The ugly voice I knew well called from a back room I 
 had not yet been into: "What's that?" 
 
 I turned the handle and walked in. He was seated be- 
 fore a stained and dinted urn of copper, and a great slice 
 of toast from which he had just bitten a jagged semi- 
 circle was in his hand. 
 
 "I told him you was at breakfast," said the cross girl, 
 "but nothing 'ud suit his lordship but to drive his elbow 
 into my chest and walk in." 
 
 She emphasized her little He with a pressure of her 
 hand upon the presumably wounded part. 
 
 "Assault and battery," said the doctor, showing his 
 teeth. "Get out of my house, fellow." 
 
 "After I've had a word with you." 
 
 "Eh? Edith, go and fetch a constable." 
 
 "Certainly," I said. "The very thing I should like. 
 I'll wait here till he comes." 
 
 He called to the girl as she was i:unning out: "Wait 
 a bit! Leave. the fellow with me and shut the door." 
 
 She obeyed sulkily and we were alone together. 
 
 He went on with his breakfast with an affectation of 
 unconcern and took no notice of me whatever. 
 
 "I believe you wished me to let you know, Dr. Cracken- 
 thorpe, if I should be in further need of your services?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 305 
 
 He swallowed huge gulps of tea with an unpleasant 
 noise, protruding his lips like a gargoyle, but answer 
 made he none. 
 
 "I am in need of your services." 
 
 He dissected the leg of a fowl with professional relish, 
 but did not speak. In a gust of childish anger that was 
 farcical I nipped the joint between finger and thumb and 
 threw it into the fire. 
 
 For an instant he sat dumfounded staring at his empty 
 plate ; then he scrambled to his feet and ran to the mantel- 
 shelf all in a scurry of fury and began diving among the 
 litter there and tossing it right and left. 
 
 "The pistol — the pistol!" he muttered, in a cracked 
 voice. "Where is it? What have I done with it?" 
 
 "Never mind. You expect a fee for your services, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 He slackened in his feverish search and I saw he was 
 listening to me. 
 
 "You don't want to kill the goose with the golden eggs, 
 I presume?" said I, coolly. 
 
 He twisted round and faced me. 
 
 "You have a rude boorish insistence of your own," he 
 cried at me hoarsely. "But I suppose I must value it for 
 what it's worth. It's the custom to ask a fee for profes- 
 sional services." 
 
 "You volunteered yours, you know." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Quite so," he said. "The matter lies with you." 
 
 "With you, I think. In visiting my father the other 
 night you had no secret hope, I suppose, that we should 
 pay you in the sort of coin you have already had too 
 much of?" 
 
 "You insult me, sir." 
 
 "Unwittingly, I assure you. Will you answer me one 
 question? Is there the remotest chance of my father re- 
 covering from this attack?'' 
 
 "Not the remotest — not of his definitely rallying even, 
 I should say." 
 
 "Is that only an opinion?" 
 
 20
 
 30e THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Bah! Miracles don't occur in surgery. He is prac- 
 tically a dead man, I tell you." 
 
 "Why do you adopt this attitude to me, then, if you 
 have an eye to a particular sort of fee?" 
 
 "Perhaps I wanted proof that the old man was past 
 levying toll on." A wicked smile wrinkled his mouth. 
 "Perhaps I satisfied myself he was, and from you I ex- 
 pected no consideration or justice." 
 
 "You can leave that out of the question. A mere busi- 
 ness contract is another matter, and that is what I come 
 to propose." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" 
 
 He said it with a sneer, but moved nevertheless nearer 
 the table, so that we could talk without raising our voices. 
 
 "May I ask the nature of this stupendous contract?" 
 
 "I will tell you without asking. I make you this offer 
 — to hand over to you all that remains of the treasure on 
 one condition." 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 "That you tell me how my brother Modred came by 
 his death." 
 
 He gave a little start; then dropped his eyes, frowning, 
 and drummed with his fingers on the table. I saw he 
 understood; that he was groping in his mind for some 
 middle course, whereby he could satisfy all parties and 
 secure the prize for himself. 
 
 "If your father didn't do it,'' he was beginning, but I 
 took him up at the outset. 
 
 "You know he didn't! It is a foul lie of such a man. 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe" — my voice, despite my stubborn re- 
 solve, broke a little — "he is lying there on his deathbed, 
 despairing, haunted with the thought that it was he who 
 in a fit of drunken madness strangled the life in his own 
 son. It is all hideous — monstrous — unnatural. You 
 know more about it, I believe, than any man. You were 
 sitting with him that night." 
 
 "But he left me awhile." 
 
 "You know it wasn't in his nature to do such a thing!" 
 
 "Pardon me. I have always looked upon your father 
 as a dangerous, reckless fellow."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 307 
 
 "I won't believe it. You know more than you will 
 say — more than you dare to tell. Oh, if that churchyard 
 fellow had only lived I would have had the truth by now." 
 
 "I hope so, though you do me the honor to hold me 
 implicated with him in some absurd and criminal secret, 
 and on the strength of a little deHrious raving — not an 
 uncommon experience in the profession, trust me." 
 
 "I don't appeal to your charity or your mercy. There's 
 a rich reward awaiting you if you tell what you know 
 and ease the old dying man's mind. Further than that — 
 if you withhold the truth and let him pass in his misery, I 
 swear that I'll never rest till I've dragged you down and 
 destroyed you." 
 
 He bent his body in a mocking and ungainly bow. 
 
 "I really can't afiford to temporize with my conscience 
 for any one living or dead. As it is, I have allowed my- 
 self to slip into the position of an accompHce, which is an 
 extreme concession on my part of friendly patronage 
 toward a family that has certainly never studied to claim 
 my good offices." 
 
 I looked at him gloomily. I could not believe even 
 now that he would dismiss me without some by-efifort 
 toward the prize that he saw almost within his grasp; and 
 I was right. 
 
 "Still," he went on, "I don't claim infallibility for my 
 deduction. I shall be pleased, if you wish it, to return 
 with you and if possible to question the patient." 
 
 I was too anguished and distraught to reject even this 
 little thread of hope. Perhaps it was in me that at the 
 last moment the sight of that stricken figure at home 
 might move the cold cynicism of the man before me to 
 some weak warmth of charity. 
 
 He bade me wait in the hall while he finished his break- 
 fast and I had nothing for it but to go and sit down under 
 the row of smoky prints. 
 
 He kept me a deliberate while, and then came forth 
 leisurely and donned his brown coat, that was hanging 
 like a decayed pirate beside me. We walked out to- 
 gether. 
 
 The mill greeted us with no jarring thunder as we en-
 
 308 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 tered its door, for the discord of its phantom grinding I 
 had myself silenced. 
 
 I listened as we climbed the wooden stairs for any 
 sound from the room above, but only the echo of our 
 footfalls reverberated in the lonely house. 
 
 No sign of old Peggy had I seen, but, when I pushed 
 open the door of my father's room there she was stand- 
 ing by his bed and leaning over. 
 
 At the noise of our entrance she twisted her head, gave 
 a sort of sudden pee-wit cry and tumbled upon the floor 
 in a collapsed heap, the tablet from the bed in her hand. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 A LAST CONFESSION. 
 
 I thought that the old woman, startled by our entrance, 
 had merely stepped back, tripped and so come to the 
 ground; but the doctor uttered an exclamation, ran to 
 the prostrate figure and called me to bring a spongeful 
 of water from the wash-hand-stand. 
 
 When I had complied I saw that the ancient limbs 
 were rigid; the teeth set, the lips foaming slightly. Peggy 
 was in an epileptic fit and that at her age was no light 
 matter. 
 
 I feared that her struggles might presently wake my 
 father, who was to all appearance sleeping peacefully, 
 and asked the doctor if it would not be possible to move 
 her to another room. He shook his head, but gave no 
 answer. Suddenly I was conscious that his eyes were 
 fixed upon the tablet still held in her crooked fingers, and 
 that in my distraction I had not erased the damning 
 words that were traced thereon. The wet sponge was 
 in my hand. With a quick movement I stooped and 
 swept it across the surface. As I did so the doctor slewed 
 his head round and smirked up at me with a truly diaboli- 
 cal expression. Then he snatched the sponge and 
 plumped it with a slap on the withered forehead. The
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 309 
 
 soot from the tablet ran in wet streaks over the sinister 
 old face and made a grotesque horror of it. The 
 wretched creature moaned and jerked under the shock, 
 as though the water were biting acid. 
 
 Not a word was spoken between us for full twenty 
 minutes — not till the fit at length subsided and left the 
 racked body to the rest of exhaustion. The eyes became 
 human, with what humanity was left them; the pallid face 
 fell into its usual lines — the old woman lay flat with 
 closed lids in the extreme of debility. 
 
 Then said Dr. Crackenthorpe : "Take 3^ou her feet 
 and I her head and we'll move her out of this." 
 
 We carried Peggy into my room and laid her on the 
 bed that had been Jason's. Her hours must be num- 
 bered, I thought as I looked at the gray features, already 
 growing spectral in the rising fog of death. 
 
 Turning from that old fallen stump, Dr. Crackenthorpe 
 suddenly faced me, a smile on his crackled lips. 
 
 "So," he said, "on the top of that confession, you 
 sought to convince me against your own judgment?" 
 
 "I haven't a thought to deny it. I value it at nothing. 
 He has fed on a baseless chimera, at your instigation — 
 yes, you needn't lie — till his mind is sick with disease. 
 What does it matter? I know him and I stake my soul 
 on his innocence. I asked you to ease his mind — not 
 mine, I tell you in a word" — I strode up to him and 
 spoke slowly and fiercely — "my father had no hand in 
 Modred's death and I believe you know it." 
 
 He backed from me a little, breathing hard, when a 
 sound from the bed stopped him. I started and turned. 
 The old woman's hand was up to her neck. Her sick 
 eyes were moving from the one to the other of us in a 
 lost, questioning way; a murmur was in her lean, pulsing 
 throat. 
 
 "Lie quiet, Peggy," I said; "you may be able to speak 
 in a minute if you lie quiet." 
 
 The words seemed only to increase the panic in her. 
 With a gurgling burst a fragment of speech came from 
 her mouth: 
 
 "Be I passing?"
 
 310 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 The doctor heard it. "Yes," he said, brutally. 
 
 She appeared to collapse and shrink inward; but in a 
 moment she was up, leaning on her elbow, and her face 
 was terrible to look at. 
 
 "Twas I killed the boy!" she cried, with a sort of 
 breathless wail; "tell him — tell Ralph,'' and so fell back, 
 and I thought the life was gone from her. 
 
 Was I base and cruel in my triumph? I rose erect, 
 indifferent to the tortured soul stretched beneath me. 
 
 "Who was right?" I cried. "Believe me now, you dog; 
 and growl and curse your fill over the wreck of your 
 futile villainy!'' 
 
 His mouth was set in an incredulous grinning line. I 
 brushed sternly past him, making for my father's room. 
 I could not pause or wait a moment. The poor soul's 
 long anguish should be ended there and then. 
 
 As I stooped over his bed I saw that some change 
 had come upon him in sleep. The twist of his mouth 
 was relaxed. His face had assumed something of its nor- 
 mal expression. 
 
 I seized up the tablet from where it had tumbled on the 
 floor. I smeared it with a fresh coating from the saucer. 
 His first waking eyes, I swore, should look upon the writ- 
 ten evidence of his acquittal. While I was waiting for 
 the stuff to dry, he stirred, murmured and opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Renalt !" he said, in a very low, weak voice. 
 
 Speech had returned to him. I knelt by his side and 
 passed my tremulous arms underneath him. 
 
 "Father," I said, "you can speak — you are awake 
 again. I have something to tell you; something to say. 
 Don't move or utter a sound. You have been asleep all 
 this time — only asleep. While you were unconscious 
 old Peggy has been taken ill — very ill. In the fear of 
 death she has made a confession. Father, I saw what 
 you wrote on this — look, on this tablet! It was all un- 
 true ; I have wiped it out. It was Peggy killed Modred — 
 she has confessed it." 
 
 He lifted his unstricken hand — the other was yet 
 paralyzed — in an attitude of prayer. Presently his hand
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 311 
 
 dropped and he turned his face to me, his eyes brimming 
 with tears. 
 
 "Renalt," he murmured, in the poor shadow of a voice, 
 "I thank my God — but the greater sin — I can never con- 
 done — though you forgive me — my son." 
 
 "Forgive? What have I to forgive, dad? My heart 
 is as Hght as a feather." 
 
 He only gazed at me earnestly — pathetically. I went 
 and sat by his side and smoothed his pillow and took his 
 hand in mine. 
 
 "Now the incubus is gone, dad, and you'll get well. 
 You must — I can't do without you. The black shadow 
 is passed from the mill, and the coming days are all full of 
 sunshine." 
 
 "What has she — confessed? How did — she — do it?" 
 
 "I didn't wait to hear. I wanted you to know, and 
 left her the moment she had spoken." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 I hesitated and stammered. 
 
 "There," he said, with a faint smile, "I know — I know 
 he's in the house. I don't fear — I don't fear — I tell you, 
 I'm — past that. He won't want — to come in here?" 
 
 He spoke all this time in a bodiless, low tone, and the 
 effort seemed to exhaust him. For some time I sat by 
 him, till he fell into a light slumber. No sound was in 
 the house, and I did not even know if Dr. Crackenthorpe 
 had left the adjoining room. But when my father was 
 settled down and breathing quietly, I rose and stepped 
 noiselessly thither to see. 
 
 He was standing against the window, and turned 
 stealthily round as I entered, watching me. 
 
 As I walked toward him I glanced aside at the bed. 
 Something about the pose of the figure thereon brought 
 me to a sudden stop. My heart rose and fell with a 
 sharp, quick emotion, and in the instant of it I knew that 
 the old woman was dead. Her head had been propped 
 against the bolster, so that her chin rested upon her 
 withered breast. That would never beat again to the im- 
 pulse of fear or evil or any kinder emotion, for Peggy had 
 answered to her name.
 
 312 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 For the moment I stood stupefied. I think I had 
 hardly realized that the end was so near. Sorrow I could 
 not feel, but now regret leaped in me that I had not 
 waited to hear all that she might tell. Only for an in- 
 stant. On the next it flashed through me that it was bet- 
 ter to put my trust in that first wild confession than to in- 
 vite it by further questioning to self-condonation — per- 
 haps actual denial. 
 
 "You went too soon," Dr. Crackenthorpe said, in a cold 
 voice of irony. "I must tell you that was hardly decent." 
 
 "I never thought she had spoken her last." 
 
 "Nor had she — by a good deal." 
 
 "She said more?'' 
 
 "Much more — and to a different purpose." 
 
 I stared at him, breathing hard. 
 
 "Are you going to lie again?" I muttered. 
 
 "That pleasantry is too often on your lips, sir," he said, 
 coolly. "None doubt truth so much as those who have 
 dishonored her. The dead woman there leaves you this 
 as a legacy." 
 
 He thrust the thing he was holding into my hand. I 
 recognized it in a sort of dull wonder. It was that an- 
 cient mutilated portrait of Modred that I had once dis- 
 covered in Peggy's possession. 
 
 From the stained and riddled silhouette to the evil face 
 of the man before me I glanced and could only wait in 
 dumb expectancy. 
 
 "She told me where to find it," he said, "and I brought 
 it to her." 
 
 "I never heard you move." 
 
 "I stepped softly for fear of disturbing your father. 
 Do you see that outraged relic? The old creature's self- 
 accusation turned upon it — upon that and nothing else." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "That you must look elsewhere, I am afraid, for the 
 criminal. Our pleasant Rottengoose shared the gross 
 superstitions of her kind. All these years she has secretly 
 hugged the really reprehensible thought that the boy's 
 death was due to her." 
 
 "I don't understand."
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 313 
 
 "A base superstition, my friend — a very base supersti- 
 tion. She had in her possession, I understand, a flint 
 shaft of the paleoHthic period. There are plenty such to 
 be picked up in the neighborhood. The ignorant call 
 them elf arrowheads and cherish a behef that to mutilate 
 with one of them a body's portrait or image is to compass 
 that person's destruction. This harridan cherished no 
 love for your brother, and fancied she saw her oppor- 
 tunity of seizing revenge without risk on a certain night 
 of misfortune. The boy died and henceforth she knew 
 herself as his murderess. Good morning to you. May 
 I remind you that my fee is yet unpaid? I will certify to 
 the present cause of death, with pleasure." 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 A SHADOW FROM THE PAST. 
 
 Like one in a dream I heard the doctor's footstep re- 
 cede down the stairs and heard the yard door close dully 
 on him as he left the house. In my suffering soul I felt 
 one cruel shaft rankling, and for the rest only a vague 
 sense of loss hung like a cloud over all my faculties. 
 
 I had no doubt of the truth of the evil creature's words. 
 Not otherwise could his knowledge and possession of the 
 tattered portrait be accounted for. Now, too, Peggy's 
 unaccountable terror at my discovery of her chaunting 
 and gloating over her work on a certain afternoon, re- 
 curred to me and was confirmation irrefragable. The 
 wretched old woman had had all the will and intention; 
 but she was innocent of the deed. 
 
 I must look elsewhere, as he had said — begin all over 
 again. True — but now less than ever in my father's di- 
 rection. Had I needed in my heart convincing proof of 
 the old man's guiltlessness, his manner in accepting his 
 acquittal would have afiforded it. By this he had shown 
 that with him, as with the hounds that had sought to pull 
 him down, his guilt was purely conjectural — presumed
 
 314 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 merely on the circumstantial evidence of the braces found 
 in his pocket. But I judged him in my heart and pro- 
 nounced him acquitted. 
 
 Now it was idle to moan over my impetuous rush to 
 conclusions. I must only guard against permitting the 
 disillusion to vex the few last days that remained to him. 
 If I wronged the old dead housev/ife thereby, it was in 
 degree only, for morally she was as guilty as if her charm 
 had borne all the evil force she attributed to it. 
 
 Well, I must see about getting some harpy in to min- 
 ister to her final dumb necessities and then — 
 
 A low cry, coming from the other room, broke upon 
 my ears. With beating heart I rushed from the death 
 chamber only — merciful heaven — to enter another! 
 
 At the first glance I saw that the white spirit had en- 
 tered during my absence and had written the sign of 
 eternity on my father's forehead. He was sitting up in 
 bed and the expression on his face was that of a dreadful, 
 eager waiting. 
 
 "Renalt!" 
 
 He called to me in a clear, loud voice — the recovered 
 note of an old stronger personality. 
 
 I hurried to him; fell on my knees; put my arm about 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "Renalt, I am dying — but not yet. The spirit won't 
 let me pass till I have spoken." 
 
 He turned his head with a resolute effort and gazed 
 upon me. 
 
 "What thing have I been — what thing have I been? 
 Send me my enemies that I may face and defy them! 
 Which of them worse than myself? Oh, craven — 
 craven !" 
 
 "Father! I only am with you — no enemy, father!" 
 
 He struck his fist down upon the counterpane. 
 
 "By your love for me you shall know the truth ! Judge 
 me then — judge me then as you will. Hear me speak 
 and make no answer till I have finished. Judge me then, 
 and let me pass to my doom weighted with your judg- 
 ment." 
 
 "Father!"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 315 
 
 "Renalt, I killed your mother!" 
 
 I fell back appalled. An instant — then I leaned for- 
 ward and again held him in my arms. 
 
 "Ah!" his voice broke, swerved and recovered itself. 
 "Not with this hand — my God, no — but surely and piti- 
 lessly none the less. Not a month after Modred was 
 bom I found my name and trust dishonored and by her. 
 Listen! Speak nothing. You must know all! She had 
 been in service in London before I married her — where, 
 to this day I have never learned. I shall know soon — I 
 shall know. She was friendless — a weak, irresponsible, 
 beautiful young woman. I threw aside all for her sake, 
 and my love grew tenfold in the act of combating the mis- 
 fortune it brought me. I could love, Renalt — I could 
 love. There was a passion in my fervor." 
 
 He clasped his hands wildly and looked piercingly be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "How the old torment flames up in me at the last! I 
 think I gave my soul to the wanton and I thought I had 
 hers in exchange. What inspired fools love makes of 
 us! My castle in Cloudland stood firm till that month 
 after Modred's birth. Then all in a day — a minute — it 
 dissolved and vanished. I came upon her secretly gloat- 
 ing over a portrait — the miniature of a man. I saw — 
 suspected — wrenched half the truth from her. Half the 
 truth only, Renalt. When I wedded with her she had a 
 child living. She whose love I had looked upon as a 
 precious possession was all base and hollow, behind her 
 beautiful personality. More — she had borne me three 
 children; yet what affection she was capable of clung 
 about the memory of her first passion. True, this spark 
 had wearied of her, had dismissed her from his service — 
 his service, you understand? And from the face of her 
 child. Yet the long years of my passionate devotion 
 weighed as nothing in the balance. I was the means 
 ready to make of her an honest woman — that was all. An 
 honest woman — my God!" 
 
 His teeth snapped together with a click; his dying eyes 
 shone out, but their inspiration was demoniacal. 
 
 "In one thing only," he went on in a low hard voice,
 
 316 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "the poor frail wretch was stable. That portrait — the 
 miniature — she died refusing to reveal to me its identity. 
 No threats, no cruelty availed. She kept her secret to 
 the last." 
 
 As he now continued his left hand clutched and tight- 
 ened upon the bedclothes and a dark shadow seemed to 
 grow out of his face. 
 
 "I shut her close in the room below. There, with only 
 the voice of the wheel for company, I swore she should 
 remain till she confessed. Each day I brought her food 
 and water, and each day I said, 'Give me his name,' but 
 she was always silent. She had been weak and ailing 
 from caring for her baby Modred, and she faded before 
 my eyes. Yet I was merciless. A little more, I thought, 
 and so worthless, fragile a thing must needs yield and 
 answer me. It was will against will, and hers con- 
 quered." 
 
 He paused a moment, and I could see drops of sweat 
 freckling his forehead. 
 
 "Slowly, hour by hour, the stealth and darkness of her 
 prison wrought madness in her. Still I persisted and she 
 refused. Once she asked to see her children — the little 
 baby I was rearing as best I might, with infinite toil and 
 difficulty — and I laughed and shut her in again. The 
 next morning, going to her, I was dumfounded to hear 
 no booming voice greeting me from the basement. The 
 wheel had stopped. I threw back the door and she was 
 gone. But the cupboard was sprung open and the 
 damned water spurted and leaped from the motionless 
 blades. A stump of timber was lying near. She had 
 burst the lock with it, and — I rushed and dropped the 
 sluice; hurried back and looked down. I saw her dress 
 tangled in the floats below, and the water heaping into a 
 little mound as it ran over something. Then I raced to 
 the room over above, wrenched up a board, and, fasten- 
 ing a rope to a beam, lowered the slack of it into the pit. 
 It served me well in after days, as you know. 
 
 "I can hardly remember how I got her out. I know 
 all my efforts were futile, till I thonght of notching a pad- 
 dle and fixing the rope in the hole. When at last I laid
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 317 
 
 her down on the floor of the room I grew siclc with hor- 
 ror. There was that in her staring eyes that made my 
 soul die within me. 
 
 "I threw the place open to the authorities. I courted 
 every inquiry. She had been in a delirious state, I said, 
 since the coming of the child, and had thrown herself 
 down in a fit of madness. Only the evidence of the burst 
 lock I suppressed. 
 
 "We had been reserved folk, making few friends or 
 none. Our manner of life was known only to ourselves ; 
 not a soul suspected the truth and many pitied me in my 
 bereavement. I kept my own counsel. They brought 
 in a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity, and she 
 lies under an old nameless mound in the cemetery yon- 
 der. 
 
 "Then I shut my heart and my door and made out life 
 in the blackness. 
 
 "At first I was whelmed in the horror of the catas- 
 trophe, yet my pity was not touched and I soon came to 
 believe in the justice of her fate. T never put hand on 
 her,' I thought. ' 'Twas God wrought the punishment.' 
 But soon a terrible hatred woke in my heart for the first 
 author of my misery. One day I descended by the wheel 
 again and nailed the miniature to its axle. 'Wait you 
 there!' I cried, 'till the question is answered. So shall 
 he follow in her footsteps.' Ah, I have heard talk of the 
 fateful fascination of the wheel ! Why has it never drawn 
 him to come and claim his portrait?'' 
 
 The fevered torrent of speech broke suddenly in him, 
 and silence reigned in the room. The dying heart leaped 
 against my chest as I held him, and my own seemed to 
 flutter with the contact. What could I think or say? I 
 was dazed with the passion of my emotions. 
 
 Presently he turned himself quickly and looked at me. 
 
 "Your judgment!" he cried, hoarsely. "Did I well or 
 wickedly?" 
 
 Through my mind there swiftly passed memory of the 
 barren neglect of our younger lives; of all the evil and 
 misery that had been the indirect result of so cowardly a 
 nursing of an injury.
 
 318 THE MILL OF SILENCE, 
 
 I bowed my head, and said in a low voice : "I forgive 
 you. That is all you must ask of me." 
 
 Perhaps, in the light of his later gentleness, he under- 
 stood me, for suddenly the tears were running down his 
 cheeks and he cried falteringly: "Out of the abyss of 
 death a ghost rises and faces me! All this have I done 
 for the son I love!" 
 
 With the words he fell back from my arm and lay gasp- 
 ing on his pillow. And, though my father was near 
 spent, and I knew it, I could find in my heart no word of 
 justification of his conduct, no comfort but the assurance 
 of my forgiveness. 
 
 Oh, it is an evil thing to arrogate to ourselves God's 
 prerogative of judgment; to assume that in any personal 
 wrong we can so disassociate justice and resentment as 
 ever to be capable of pronouncing an impartial sentence. 
 To return a blow in kind is a natural and wholesome im- 
 pulse; but deliberate cruelty, following however great a 
 provocation, can never be anything but most base and 
 unmanly. 
 
 And the sin had been sinned before she even knew my 
 father! Yet, maybe, to a nature like his, that was the re- 
 verse of a palliation. To feel that he had never had her 
 true love or duty, while lavishing his all of both on her; 
 to feel that in a manner the veins of his own children ran 
 with contamination — I could conceive these operating 
 more fiercely in his mind than the discovery that some 
 later caprice of fancy had lured her from her faith. 
 
 It was all past and over and I would not condemn or 
 even judge him. Though I had been one victim of his 
 quarrel with life, what was my grievance in face of the aw- 
 ful prospect so immediately before him? In a few hours 
 — moments, maybe — the call would come and his soul 
 would have to submit itself for analysis in the theater of 
 the skies.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 319 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 About 4 of the afternoon my father, who had lain for 
 some hours in a state bordering on stupor, and whose 
 breathing had latterly become harsh and difficult, rose 
 suddenly in his bed and called to me in a strong voice. 
 I was by his side in a moment and lifted him up as he 
 signified I should do, A mortal whiteness was in his face 
 and I saw the end was approaching. 
 
 "I have no fear," he said, in a sort of sick ecstasy. "I 
 can be true to myself at the last, thank God! The soul 
 triumphs over the body." 
 
 He swayed in my arms, clutched at me and dragged 
 himself erect again. 
 
 "My brain — my brain! Something seems to swerve in 
 it! Quick! Before it's too late!" 
 
 He held on to me. At the last moment the latent de- 
 termination of his character trod weakness under and 
 proved the soul masterful. With all his functions wither- 
 ing in the blighting breath of the destroyer, his spirit 
 stood out fearless and courageous, a conqueror by its 
 mere individuality. 
 
 It had darkened early, and candles were lighted in the 
 room and the blind pulled down. Outside the wind tore 
 at the crazy lattice, or, finding entrance, moaned to and 
 fro in the gusty passages. It threatened to be a night of 
 storm and sweeping rain. And all its wild and dismal 
 surroundings were in keeping with the ghastly figure 
 lying against me. Yet, if there was one in that lonely 
 chamber who shrunk and feared, it was I, not that other 
 so verging on his judgment, with so many and such 
 heavy responsibilities to answer for. God forgive him! 
 
 "I triumph, Renalt," he said, feeding the effort of speech 
 with quick, drawn gasps. "This later craven has never
 
 220 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 been I — I was strong to carry out a purpose, even if it led 
 me to the gallows. Some white-livered devil usurped. 
 Out with the worm at last! I triumph and abide by that 
 I did in the righteousness of wrath. But you — you! 
 Let me say it — quick — I was fast on the coward grip. 
 Oh, a bitter, bitter curse on the treacherous beast who 
 unmanned me! Only to you, Renalt, I pray and ask for 
 pardon. I thought — all the time — I had killed the boy — 
 the braces — I never knew. He — he, that reptile, sug- 
 gested — perhaps Modred had — found and kept the 
 cameo. I went up blindly — came down blindly — I was 
 drunk — bestial — I could remember nothing." 
 
 He moaned and would have clasped his hands to me 
 but for weakness. At the last the paralysis of his limbs 
 had departed and he could move. Disease loosened its 
 clutch, it seemed, in the presence of the death it had in- 
 voked. 
 
 "Renalt — I remembered nothing — but I feared — and, 
 fearing, I saw the odium rest on you and did not speak. 
 It was I gave you to that living death — I who submitted 
 to that fiend's dictating, because he struck at me through 
 the sordid passion that had mastered my better nature. 
 Renalt " 
 
 "Father — hear me! Am I speaking distinctly? Listen. 
 I forgive you all." 
 
 It seemed as if a flush passed across his face. He 
 pressed my hand feebly and dropped his head. 
 
 "Now,'' he muttered; "come the crash of doom! To 
 all else I am ready to answer. Call the " 
 
 Like a glass breaking, his voice snapped and immediate 
 silence befell. He had not stirred in my arms; but now 
 I felt the whole surface of his body moving, as it were, of 
 itself with a light ruffling shudder. 
 
 Suddenly he seemed to shrink into himself, rather than 
 away from me, so that he cowered unsupported on the 
 bed. I fell back and looked at his face. His head moved 
 softly from side to side, the eyes following something, 
 unseen of me, hither and thither about the room. In a 
 moment they contracted and fixed themselves horribly 
 on one point, as if the things had come to the bed foot
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. S2l 
 
 and were softly mounting it. In the same instant on my 
 dull and appalled senses broke the low booming voice of 
 the wheel circling in its black pit far below, and I knew 
 that in the phantom sound no material force spoke, but 
 that the heart of the dying man was transmitting its ter- 
 rors to me. 
 
 Then I saw my father sink slowly back, drawing, as he 
 did so, the sheet up and over his face, as if to shut out the 
 sight, and all the time the convulsive fluttering of my own 
 breath alone stirred the tense silence that reigned about 
 us. 
 
 I must have remained in this position many minutes, 
 fixed and motionless in a trance of fear, when the stealthy 
 noise below seemed to cease suddenly as it had begun. 
 At that I leaped to my feet with a strangled cry and tore 
 the bedclothes away from the face. The eyes stared up 
 at me as if I were the secret presence; the jaw was drop- 
 ped; the whole body collapsed and sunk into the sheets. 
 He had died without a sound — there — in a moment; had 
 died of that that was beyond human speech; of some- 
 thing to which no dreadful human cry could give ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Wading near knee deep in the flooded meadows, sense 
 and reason returned to me by slow degrees. Then a wan 
 streak of sunrise gaped like a dead man's wound on the 
 stormy horizon, and a new day was breaking to wind and 
 deluge that seemed endless. 
 
 Ah, surely I had been tried beyond mortal endurance. 
 So I thought, not knowing what was yet to come; what 
 tension the soul's fetters can be put to without breaking. 
 
 The sodden day broadened and found me still wander- 
 ing. Once during the morning I crept back to the house 
 of terror, and, standing without its door, summoned the 
 old woman, who had come of herself to attend to dead 
 Peggy's laying out, and told her of my father's death and 
 directed her to a second task. 
 
 Later in the day, I told myself, I would return; by and 
 by when the dead should be decently composed for rest 
 and their expression should have resumed something of 
 
 21
 
 322 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 its normal cast. Then I hurried forth again and sought 
 forgetfulness in the keen rush of air and wide reaUty of 
 the open country. 
 
 Walking, resting on some gate or stile ; seeking a way- 
 side tavern for food and drink — always I kept steadily 
 away from me the slightest reflection on any of the last 
 words spoken by my father. I could not bear that my 
 thoughts should so much as approach them. I had 
 greatly suffered, been greatly wronged, yet let my mind 
 dwell insistently on the thought that these evils were of 
 the past, never more to vex me out of reason should I 
 look steadily forward, shutting my ears, like the prince in 
 the fairy tale, to the spectral voices that would fain pro- 
 voke me to an answer. 
 
 It was growing near that dusky period of the short day 
 when if one lifts one's eyes from the ground the sky seems 
 closing in upon the earth ! Worn out and footsore, I had 
 rounded toward the city from its eastern side and was 
 traversing the now lonely stretch of by-path that leads 
 from the station, when I saw a woman and little child 
 going on in front of me haltingly. As I came up they 
 drew aside to let me pass, and I cried out, "Zyp!" and 
 stopped in astonishment and a little fear. 
 
 She faced round upon me, breathing quickly, and put 
 one hand to her bosom in a startled manner that was 
 quite foreign to her. 
 
 "Renny," she whispered, with a fading smile on her 
 white face — pitiful heaven, how white and worn it had 
 become! And burst into tears the next moment. 
 
 Shocked beyond measure at her appearance, her woe- 
 ful reception of me, I stepped back all amazed. She 
 mistook my action and held out an imploring arm to me. 
 The little weird girl at her side half buried herself in her 
 mother's skirts and peered up at me with deep eyes set in 
 a tangle of hair. 
 
 "Renny!" cried Zyp; "oh, you won't throw me off? 
 You won't refuse to hear me?" 
 
 "Come away," I said, hoarsely; "to some quiet road, 
 where we can talk undisturbed. You are not too tired?"
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 323 
 
 "Too — oh, I'm wearied to death. Why not the mill? 
 Renny, why not the mill?" 
 
 "Zyp, not now — not at present. I'll tell you by and by. 
 See, I'll take the little girl on one arm and you can cling to 
 the other." 
 
 She pushed the child forward with a forlorn sigh. It 
 whimpered a little as I lifted it, but I held it snug against 
 my shoulder, and its soft breath on my cheeks seemed to 
 melt the hard core of agony in my brain. 
 
 Soon I had them in a quiet spot and seated upon a 
 fallen log. There, holding the child against me, I looked 
 in the eves of the mother and could have wept. 
 
 "Zyp,' Zyp! What is it?" 
 
 A boisterous clap of wind tumbled her dark hair as I 
 spoke. What was it? Her lustrous head w^as strewed 
 with ashy threads, as if the clipping fate had trimmed 
 some broken skein of life over it; her eyes were like 
 fathomless pools shrunk with drought; an impenetrable 
 sorrow was figured in her wasted face. This was the 
 shadow of Zyp — not the sweet substance — and moving 
 among ghosts and shadows my own life seemed stum- 
 bling toward the grave. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 A PROMISE. 
 
 Clasping thin, nervous fingers, Zyp looked up in my 
 face fearfully. 
 
 "Have you seen Jason?" 
 
 "No. Has he come, too?" 
 
 "He's gone on before to the mill to seek you." 
 
 "God help him! I've been out all day. Is it the old 
 trouble, Zyp?" 
 
 "Oh, Renny, I despair at last! I fought it while I was 
 strong; but now — now." 
 
 Her head sunk and she pressed a hand to her bosom 
 again.
 
 324 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "What ails you, dear? Zyp, are you ill?" 
 
 "I don't know. Something seems to suck at my veins. 
 I have nothing definite. The wretchedness of life is sap- 
 ping my strength, I suppose." 
 
 "Is it still so wretched? I am always here to give you 
 what help I can." 
 
 "Oh, I know! And we must always be cursing your 
 quiet with our entreaties." 
 
 "Zyp, you needn't talk like that. My heart is open to 
 my little sister. And is this my bonny niece?" 
 
 She was a slender mite of four or thereabouts, with a 
 delicate thin face, oval like a blushing rose petal, and a 
 quaint, solemn manner of movement and broken speech. 
 
 "Give me a kiss, mouse. Oh, what a prim little 
 peck!" 
 
 A faint smile came to the mother's lips. "You'll learn 
 to love your uncle, Renna." 
 
 "Did you name her after me?" 
 
 "Don't flatter yourself. I call her Renna for short. 
 Her real name's Zyp." 
 
 I laughed over the queer deduction ; then sighed. 
 
 "Will you love me?" I said to the little girl, but she was 
 too shy to answer. 
 
 I stroked her shining head and -poke over it to Zyp. 
 
 "Tell me all about it, dear," said I. 
 
 "It's nothing, but the old miserable story — pursuit and 
 flight; and with each new movement some little means of 
 living abandoned." 
 
 Looking at this pale, injured woman, a fierce deep 
 resentment flared up in my heart against the inexorable 
 tyranny of the fiend who would not learn mercy, I had 
 too long stood aside; too long remained neutral in an 
 unnatural warfare, the most innocent victim of which 
 was she whose image my soul professed to hold inviolate. 
 Old ties bound me no longer. Her champion would I be 
 in life and death, meeting stealth with secrecy, pursuit 
 Vi^ith ambush. 
 
 I put the child from me and rose hurriedly to my feet. 
 
 "Zyp!'' I cried, "this must end! Forgive me that, 
 holding you in my heart as I have always done, I have not
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 325 
 
 been mere active in your succor. Here all doubt ends. 
 I devote myself body and soul to your help and wel- 
 fare!" 
 
 Crying softly, she drew her little one to her and wound 
 her arms about her. Now the last of her weird nature 
 seemed broken and gone, and she was woman only, help- 
 less and alone. 
 
 "Renny, Renny," she sobbed, "why didn't you sooner? 
 Oh, Renny! Why didn't you sooner?" 
 
 Her anguish — her implied reproach — pierced to my 
 soul. 
 
 "Has that been in- your mind, Zyp? I never thought 
 — it was always a habit with me to yield the lead to 
 Jason, and you were so strong and independent." 
 
 "Not now for long — a haunted, hunted thing! But 
 I had no right — and then, your father." 
 
 "If I thought I had sacrificed your interests to a mis- 
 taken sense of duty to him — ah, Zyp, it would be a very 
 bitter thing." 
 
 "No, no! You've always been strong and good and 
 generous. Don't mind what I say. I'm only desperate 
 with trouble. Hush, little rabbit! Mother cries with joy 
 to have found a friend." 
 
 "Need you have sought long? Every word you say 
 seems a reproach." 
 
 "No, no, no; you'll misread me and fall away from us 
 at the last." 
 
 "I swear not! Tell me what has happened." 
 
 "We thought we had escaped him — perhaps that he 
 was dead. There was a long respite; then one night 
 — four, five days ago — he was there. Some place where 
 they gamble with cards — and he accused my husband of 
 cheating. There was a terrible scene. Jason came home 
 all smeared with blood, but it was the old terror that 
 made us despair. Why are such things allowed on earth? 
 It seemed all leaf and flowers and sky to me once. How 
 long ago ! He stood outside our lodgings the next morn- 
 ing. His dreadful face was like a devil's. Then we 
 knew we must go. When the bill was paid we had only 
 a few shillings left. In our sickness we turned to you.
 
 326 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 and we set off tramping, tramping down to Winton by 
 easy stages. Jason carried the child; my arms were too 
 weak." 
 
 "And he— that other?" 
 
 "He's sure to follow us, but he won't know we've 
 walked." 
 
 I remembered the figure on the bridge four nights ago, 
 and was silent. 
 
 "Renalt, what can we do?" 
 
 "Jason has gone to me for money, I suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, if you could only let us have a little; we might 
 escape abroad again and bury ourselves in some far- 
 away spot, where he could never find us." 
 
 "Zyp, listen to me. My father died last night." 
 
 "Died? The old man! Oh, Renny, Kenny!" 
 
 "He had been long ailing. I have been wandering all 
 day to try to restore my shattered nerves. That is why 
 I have not met Jason." 
 
 "Dead! The old, poor man! And you are alone?" 
 
 "Yes, Zyp." 
 
 She broke down and wept long and sadly. 
 
 "He was good to me," she moaned, "and I requited 
 his kindness ill. And now I come to worry you in your 
 unhappiness." 
 
 "You came to lighten it with a glimpse of the old sweet 
 nature — you and your pretty baby here." 
 
 "Do you think her pretty, Renny? He would have 
 been fond of her, and he's gone. What a world of death 
 and misery!" 
 
 "Now the mill is no place for you at present. Old 
 Peggy is dead, too, and gone to her judgment. In a 
 few days the house will be quit of mourning. Then you 
 must all three come and live with me there, and we'll 
 make out life in company." 
 
 She sat clasping her little girl and staring at me, her 
 lips parted, as she listened breathlessly. 
 
 "That would be good," she whispered. "Do you hear, 
 baby? Mumby and Renna will lie down at last and go 
 to sleep." 
 
 The child pressed her cheek to her mother's and put
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 327 
 
 her short arms about her neck with a sympathetic sigh. 
 Her lot, I think, had been no base contrast with that of 
 children better circumstanced. She was dressed even 
 now as if from the fairy queen's wardrobe, though Zyp's 
 poor clothes were stained and patched in a dozen places. 
 
 Then my love — oh, may I not call her so now? — looked 
 up at me sorrowfully over the brink of her short ecstasy. 
 
 "Dear Renny," she said, "how can it ever be as you 
 say? Rest can never come to us while he lives." 
 
 "I have sworn, Zyp. I am confident and strong to 
 grapple with this tragic Furioso. If he persists after one 
 more warning we'll set the law on him for a wandering 
 lunatic." 
 
 "Tliat I believe he is — oh!" she closed her eyes as if in 
 an ineffable dream of peace and security. 
 
 "The question is, what are you to do in the mean- 
 time?" 
 
 "That's soon settled. We came over Micheldever, 
 only a few miles away. We'll go back there and hire a 
 single room in the village — I saw one to let that would 
 suit us — and wait till you send for us." 
 
 "Very well. And what do you say to taking little Zyp 
 back by yourself and leaving Jason here under my wing?" 
 
 "If you think it best." 
 
 "I must make certain arrangements with him. Yes, 
 I think that will be best." I spoke cheerfully and buoy- 
 antly, anxious to quicken and sustain her new-born hope. 
 Uneasy forebodings, nevertheless, drove me to make the 
 proposition. I could not free my mind of the thought 
 that Duke yet hung secretly about the place, induced to 
 wait and watch on that sure instinct that had never yet in 
 the long run failed to interpret to him the movements of 
 his victims. 
 
 Therefore I felt it safer to keep my brother for the 
 present under friendly lock and key rather than risk a 
 further exposing of him to the malignant observation of 
 his enemy. 
 
 "Zyp, take this money. I wish it were more, but it 
 will keep you going for the present.'' 
 
 "No, Renny, I have a little left."
 
 328 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 "Don't worry me, changeling." 
 
 "Ah, the name and the flowers." She rose to her 
 feet. "Have you forgotten my asking you never to pick 
 one?" 
 
 "Not once in my life since, Zyp. My conscience is free 
 of that reproach." 
 
 She looked at me with a sweet strange expression in 
 her wet eyes. 
 
 "Goo.d-by, dear brother," she said, suddenly, holding 
 out her hand to me. 
 
 "Shall I not see you of¥?" 
 
 "No. We shan't have long to wait, I dare say, and 
 Jason will be wishing for you. Kiss — Renny, kiss dad 
 for me — this kiss" — and she stepped hurriedly forward 
 and put her soft trembling lips to my forehead. 
 
 My blood leaped. For a moment I was near catching 
 her madly in my arms. 
 
 "Good-by!" I cried, swerving back. "Good-by, little 
 Zyp!" 
 
 They moved from me a few paces. Out in the road 
 the wind caught the woman's skirts and flung her dark 
 hair abroad. Suddenly she turned and came back to 
 me. 
 
 "Renny," she said, in low, heartrending tones, "it looks 
 so happy and golden, but the fierce air talked in my lungs 
 as I went. Oh, promise — promise — promise!" 
 
 "Anything, Zyp, in the wide world." 
 
 "To care for my little one — my darling, if I'm called 
 away." 
 
 "Before God I swear to devote my life to her." 
 
 She looked at me a long moment, with a piercing 
 gaze, gave a hoarse, low sob, and catching at her child's 
 hand hurried away with her down the road. I watched 
 their going till their shapes grew dim in the stormy dusk; 
 then twisted about and strode my own way homeward. 
 
 Heaven help me! It was my last vision of her who, 
 through all the hounding of fate, had made my life "a 
 perfumed altar-flame." 
 
 Before I reached the mill the rain swept down once 
 more, wrapping the gabled city in high spectral gloom.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 329 
 
 Not dust to dust, it seemed, was our lot to be in common 
 with the sons of men, but rather the fearfuller ruin of 
 those whose names are "writ in water," 
 
 So fiercely drove the onset of flying deluge that scarce- 
 ly might I force headway against its icy battalions. Dark 
 was falling when at last I reached the mill, and all conflict- 
 ing emotions I might have felt on approaching it were 
 numbed by reason of the mere physical effort of pressing 
 forward. Therefore it was that hastening down the yard, 
 my eyes were blind to neighboring impressions, other- 
 wise some unaccustomed shape crouching in the shelter 
 of its blackness would have induced me to a pause. 
 
 As it was, I fell, rather than beat, against the door, and 
 then drew myself back to gather breath. Almost imme- 
 diately a step sounded coming down the passage beyond, 
 the door was pulled inward, and I saw the figure of Jason 
 standing in the opening. 
 
 "Ah!" I gasped, and was about to step in, when he gave 
 a sickly screech and his hands went up, as if in terror to 
 ward ofif a blow. 
 
 I felt a breath at my ear and turned quickly round — 
 and there was the white face of Duke almost looking over 
 my shoulder! 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 THE "SPECTER HOUND." 
 
 That night when the flood waters rose to a head was a 
 terrible one for Winton — one ghastly in the extreme for 
 all lost souls whose black destinies guided their footsteps 
 to the mill. 
 
 Perhaps a terror of being trapped — to what hideous 
 fate, who knows? — somewhere in the tortuous darkness 
 of the building, sent my brother leaping by a mad im- 
 pulse into the waste uproar of the night. Anyhow, be- 
 fore my confused senses could fully grasp the dread 
 nature of the situation, he had rushed past me, plunged 
 into and up the yard, and was racing for his life.
 
 330 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 As he sprang by, the cripple made a frantic clutch at 
 him, nipped the flying skirt of his coat, staggered and 
 rolled over, actually with a fragment of torn cloth in his 
 hand. He was up on his feet directly, however, and ofif 
 in pursuit, though I in my turn vainly grasped at him as 
 he fled by. 
 
 Then reason returned to me and I followed. 
 
 It all happened in a moment, and there were we three 
 hotly engaged in such a tragic game of follow-my-leader 
 as surely had never before been played in the old city. 
 And there was no fear of comment or interference. We 
 had the streets, the wind and rain, the night to ourselves, 
 and, before our eyes, if these failed us, the wastes of 
 eternity. 
 
 Racing in the tracks of the cripple, as he followed in 
 Jason's, I managed to keep measured pace with him, and 
 that was all. How he made such time over the ground 
 with his crooked limbs was matter for marvel, yet, I think, 
 in that mad brief burst I never lessened the distance be- 
 tween us by a yard. It was a comparative test of the 
 fearful, the revengeful and the apprehensive impulses, 
 and sorely I dreaded in the whirling scurry of the chase 
 that the second would win. 
 
 Across the yard — to the left over the short stone 
 bridge, under whose arch the choked mill-tail tumbled 
 and snarled — a little further and up Chis'll street, with 
 a sharp swerve to the right, the hunted man rushed with 
 Duke at his heels. Then a hundred yards on, in one 
 lightning-like moment, Jason, giving out in a breathless 
 impulse of despair, as it seemed, threw himself against 
 the shadowy buttress of a wall, crouching with his back 
 to the angle of it; Duke, checking his flying footsteps 
 some paces short of his victim, came to a sudden stop; 
 and I, carried forward by my own impetus, almost fell 
 against the cripple, and, staggering, seized him by the 
 arms from behind, and so held him fiercely, my lungs 
 pumping like piston rods. Suddenly I marveled to find 
 my captive offering no resistance. 
 
 Seeking for the reason of this collapse, I raised my 
 eyes and wondered: "Can this account for it?"
 
 THE MILL. OF SILENCE. 331 
 
 We stood outside Dr. Crackenthorpe's house. Light 
 came through a lower window, immediately opposite us, 
 and set in the luminous square, like an ugly shadow on a 
 wall, was the profile and upper half of the body of the 
 doctor himself. He seemed to be bending over some task 
 and the outline of his face was clearly defined. 
 
 Suddenly the clothed flesh of the arms I grasped 
 seemed to flicker, as it were, with shuddering convulsion, 
 and from the lips of the man held against me the breath 
 came sibilant like the breath of one caught in a horror of 
 nightmare. 
 
 Before I could think how to act the figure of the doctor 
 rose erect, and I saw him fix his hat on his head. Evi- 
 dently he was preparing to leave the house. 
 
 I felt myself drawn irresistibly to one side. Helpless 
 as a child, I stumbled in the wake of the cripple, tripping 
 over his heels at every step. He hardly seemed to notice 
 the drag set upon him, but stole into a patch of deep 
 shadow, without the dim wedge of light cast through the 
 window, and I had to go, too, if I would keep my hold 
 on him. 
 
 Crouching there, with what secret terror on one side 
 and marvel on the other it is impossible to describe, we 
 saw the dark street and the driving rain traversed by a 
 shaft of light as the hall door was pulled open, and be- 
 come blackness again with its closing. Then, descending 
 the shallow flight of steps, his head bent to the storm, 
 and one hand raised to his hat, the doctor came into view 
 and the whole body of the cripple seemed to shoot rigid 
 with sudden tension. 
 
 This fourth actor on the scene, turning away from us, 
 walked, unconscious of Jason hidden in the shadow as 
 he passed him, up the street, his hand still to his head, his 
 long skirts driven in front of him by the wind, so that he 
 looked as if his destiny were pulling him reluctant 
 forward by all-embracing leading strings. 
 
 As he went up the slope and vanished in the darkness, 
 a groan as if of pent-up agony issued from Duke, and 
 immediately he drew me from the shadow and round to 
 •the foot of the steps.
 
 332 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 A chink of light that divided the blackness above us, 
 showed that the door had not been closed to. Probably 
 the doctor had gone forth on some brief errand only, 
 and would return in a moment. 
 
 Suddenly I became conscious that Duke was mounting 
 the steps — that some strange spirit, in which his first 
 mission of hate was absorbed, was moving him to enter 
 the house, 
 
 "Where are you going?" I cried, struggling with him. 
 He gave no answer; took not the least notice of me. 
 What response could I expect from a madman like this? 
 Staring before him — panting like one at the end of a race 
 — he slowly ascended, dragging me with him. Then on 
 the turn of a thought, I quitted my hold of him and he 
 staggered forward. The next instant he had recovered 
 himself, had pushed open the door and was in the hall. 
 
 I hurried to where Jason yet stood motionless, his face 
 white as a patch of plaster set against the darkness of the 
 wall. 
 
 "Keep ofif!" he cried, in a wavering voice. 
 
 "You fool! It's I! Didn't you see him go into that 
 house? Some insane fancy had drawn his off the scent. 
 Run back to the mill — do you hear? I won't leave him 
 — he shan't follow." 
 
 He came from his corner and clutched me with shaking 
 hands. 
 
 "Where's there money? It's all useless without that, 
 I tell you. Give it to me or I'll kill you. I've as much 
 right to it as you. My God! Why didn't you tell me 
 the old man was dead? It was devilish to let me go in 
 on him like that. Tell me where to find money and I'll 
 take it and be ofif!" 
 
 "Listen to me. If he comes out again while you talk 
 I won't answer for the result. We'll discuss money mat- 
 ters by and by. Go now — back to the mill, do you 
 understand? And wait till I come!" 
 
 He was about to retort, but some sound, real or 
 fancied, strangled the words in his throat. He leaped 
 from me — glanced fearfully at the light streaming from 
 the open door — crossed the street, his body bent double,
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 333 
 
 and, keeping this posture, hurried with a rapid shuffling 
 motion back in the direction of the mill. 
 
 Standing with one foot on the lowest step leading up 
 to the house, I watched till he was out of sight, then 
 turned and looked into the dimly lighted hall. What 
 should I do? How act with the surest safety and prompt- 
 itude in so immediate a crisis? I could not guess what 
 unspeakable attraction had so strangely drawn the hunter 
 from his trembling quarry at the supreme moment ; only 
 I saw that he had vanished and that the hall was empty 
 of him. 
 
 A quick, odd sound coming from the interior of the 
 house decided me. I sprung up the steps and softly 
 entered the hall. The door leading to the doctor's private 
 room, where the murderous busts grinned down, stood 
 open; and from here issued the noise, that was like the 
 bestial sputtering growl of some tigerish thing mouthing 
 and mangling its prey. 
 
 I stepped hastily over the threshold and stopped with a 
 jerk of terror. 
 
 Something was there, in the dully lighted room — down 
 on the rug before the fire. Something had rolled and 
 raved and tore at the material beneath it — an animal's 
 skin, judged by the whisps of ragged hair that stuck in 
 the creature's claws and between his teeth that had rent 
 them out — something — Duke, who foamed and raged 
 as he lay sprawled on his hands and knees and snarled 
 like a wild beast in his frenzy of insanity. 
 
 "He's mad — mad!" I whispered to myself in an awful 
 voice; and yet he heard me and paused in the height of 
 his fury, and looked round and up at me standing white- 
 lipped by the door. 
 
 Then suddenly, while I was striving, amid the wild heat 
 of my brain, to identify some hooded memory that raised 
 its head in darkness, the maniac sprung to his feet, 
 gripped me by the wrist and pointed down at the huddled 
 heap beneath him, 
 
 "Look!" he shrieked, the firelight dancing in his glitter- 
 ing eyes. "Look! we've met at last! The dog that 
 scared and tortured the wretched sick boy — the dog, the
 
 334 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 devil! Into the fire with him to blaze and writhe and 
 scream as a devil should!'' 
 
 He plunged again, snarling; and, before I could gather 
 sense to stop him, had seized and flung the whole mass 
 upon the burning coals. Flames shot out and around, 
 and the room in a moment was sick with the stench of 
 flaring pelt. I rushed to tear the heap away; but he 
 met and struggled with me like a fiend inspired, and 
 helpless I saw the flames lick higher. 
 
 Straining against me, he laughed and yelled: "He 
 wants water! He shrieks to Abraham — but not a drop 
 — not one! Look at his red tongue, shooting out in 
 agony! They fall before me — at last, at last! My time 
 has come!" 
 
 His voice rose to a scream — there was a responsive 
 shout from the door. I slewed my head round and saw 
 the white face of the servant girl peering through the 
 opening behind the figure of Dr. Crackenthorpe stand- 
 ing there in black, blank amazement. 
 
 "Help!" I cried; "he's mad!" 
 
 With a deep oath the doctor strode forward, and Duke 
 saw him. In an instant, with a cry of dififerent tone — a 
 shriek of terror — he spun me from him, sprung past the 
 other, drove the girl screaming into the passage, and was 
 gone. 
 
 "Stop! By all " 
 
 The doctor's exclamation was for me. I had stag- 
 gered back, but an immediate fear drove me, with no 
 time for explanation, to hurried pursuit. 
 
 "Out of the way!'' I cried, violently; "he mustn't 
 escape!" 
 
 He would have barred my passage. I came against 
 him with a shock that sent him reeling. As his hands 
 clutched vainly in the air I rushed from the room and 
 from the house. 
 
 With my first plunge into the street a weltering stream 
 of fire ran across the sky, and in a moment an explosive 
 crash shook the city like the bursting open of the gates of 
 torment. 
 
 Amid flood and storm and the numbing slam of thun- 
 der the tragedy of the night was drawing to its close.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 335 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
 Momentarily I saw — a black mote in that flickering 
 violet transparency — the figure of Duke as he ran before 
 me bobbing up and down like the shadow of the invisible 
 man. Drawn by a sure instinct, he was heading for the 
 mill, and every nerve must I strain to overtake him, now 
 goaded by fear and triumph to maniacal frenzy. 
 
 But half the distance was covered when the rain swept 
 down in one blinding sheet, that lashed the gutters into 
 froth a foot high and numbed the soul with its terrific 
 uproar. 
 
 On I staggered, knowing only for my comfort that 
 the pursued must needs labor against no less resistance 
 than the pursuer. Inch by inch I fought my way, taking 
 advantage of every buttress and coign of shelter that 
 presented itself; leaping aside with thump-heart from the 
 crash of falling tiles or dropping swing of branches, as 
 the wind flung them right and left in its passing; now 
 stumbling and regaining my feet, shoulder to the storm, 
 now driven back a pace by some gust — a giant among its 
 fellows — inch by inch I drove on till the mill yard was 
 reached ; and all the way I gained never a foot upon him 
 I strove to run down. 
 
 Then, rushing along the yard, where comparative shel- 
 ter was, I found a thrill of fear, in the midmost confu- 
 sion of my thoughts, for the safety of the building itself. 
 For the voice of the mill-tail smote the roar of the ele- 
 ments and seemed to silence it, and the foam of its fur}- 
 sprung and danced above the high-walled channel and 
 flung itself against the parapet of the bridge in gusts of 
 frosty whiteness. And in the little lulls came the whistle 
 of sliding tiles from the roof or snap of them breaking 
 from the walls; so that it seemed before long nothing
 
 33e THE MILL OP SILENCE, 
 
 but a skeleton of ancient timbers like the ribs and spars 
 of the phantom death-ship would stand for the blast to 
 scream through. 
 
 Then I came panting to the mill, my soul so whelmed 
 in the roar of all things that room scarcely was for 
 thought of those two stark sleepers lying quiet above and 
 deaf forevermore to the hateful tumults of life — came to 
 the mill, and on the instant abandoned hope. For so it 
 appeared that in rushing from the door none had thought 
 to shut it, and the tempest had caught and, near battering 
 it from its hinges, had dashed it, wrenched and splintered, 
 against the wall of the passage beyond, and in such way 
 that no immediate human power might close it. And 
 there lay the way into the building; open to all who listed, 
 and if Jason had run thither, as I bade him 
 
 These thoughts were in passing. I never stayed my 
 progress for them, but without pause leaped into the 
 inclosed darkness, and only then I stood still. 
 
 Instantly with my plunge into that pit of blackness 
 the hosts of the storm without seemed to break and 
 scatter before the wind, shaken with low spasms of thun- 
 der as they fled; but under my feet the racing waters 
 took up great chords of sound, so that the whole build- 
 ing trembled and vibrated with their awful music. 
 
 Overstrung to a pitch of madness, I felt my way to 
 the foot of the stairs, and, stumbling, mounted in the 
 darkness, and reached the first landing. 
 
 All was still as death. Perhaps it was death come in 
 a new shape, and stealthily lying somewhere to trip up 
 my feet in a ghastly game of clowns. I dared not go 
 further; dared hardly to breathe. 
 
 As I stood, a rat began gnawing at the skirting. The 
 jar of his teeth was like the turning of a rusty lock. The 
 old superstition about falling houses passed through my 
 mind. What if the close night about me were to be 
 suddenly rent with the explosive splintering of great 
 beams — with the raining thunder of roof and chimney- 
 stack pouring downward in one vast ruin, of which I 
 should be the mangled palpitating core? 
 
 My body burst into a cold sweat. Perhaps above all
 
 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 337 
 
 the fear in me was that death should find me with my 
 mission unaccompHshed; that I should have striven and 
 waited in vain. 
 
 Shrinking, I would not push further to the upper 
 rooms, but felt my way down the stairs once more. It 
 was, at least, hardly probable that Jason would have 
 rushed for asylum to the very death chambers above. 
 More likely was I to find him crouching unnerved, if 
 still alive, in some dark corner of one of the lower rooms. 
 
 As I descended into the passage I fancied I heard a 
 step coming toward me; and the next moment a dusky 
 shape stood up between me and the dim oblong of lesser 
 darkness that marked where the front door gaped open. 
 I ran forward — grasped at it blindly; and long arms were 
 crooked about me and held me as in a vise. 
 
 "Who's here?" cried Dr. Crackenthorpe, in a mad 
 voice. "Who is it? Say, Renalt Trender, and let me 
 choke the cursed life out of himJ" 
 
 His passion would hardly allow him to articulate. He 
 dragged me unresisting to the door, up the yard, and 
 thrust his ugly face down till it almost touched mine. 
 
 "It is!" he cried, with a scream of fury. "Look — look 
 there! See what you've done!" 
 
 I had marked it already — a dull glow rising over the 
 houses and chimney pots that lay between us and Chis'll 
 street — a glow writhed with twisted skeins of smoke, 
 that rolled heavily upward, coiling sluggishly in the 
 calm that had fallen. 
 
 "Look!'' he screeched; "the priceless treasures of a life 
 — the glories I bartered my soul for — doomed, in a mo- 
 ment, and by your act! Oh, dog, for revenge!'' 
 
 "You lie!" I cried, outshrieking his rage with a fury 
 that half-shook him from his hold on me. "I had no 
 part in it! You saw it and you know! Go! Attend 
 to your own. I've deadlier work in hand." 
 
 I tore myself free of him with a violence that brought 
 him on his knees, and hurried up the yard once more and 
 into the pitchy house. He came upon me again while I 
 was fumbling in my pockets for a match, but he put out 
 no hand to me a second time. 
 
 22
 
 338 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 "Listen, you," he said, and the words rose and burst 
 from his throat like bubbles. "You have been a thorn 
 in my foot ever since I trod this city. If yours wasn't the 
 act, you were the cause. I would have killed you both 
 on the spot — you and your accomplice — if the fire, blaz- 
 ing out on the curtains, had left me time. Now you shall 
 know what it is to have made me desperate — desperate, 
 do you understand, you fulsome cur? Better take a 
 . viper to bed with you than the thought of my revenge." 
 
 "Dr. Crackenthorpe," I said, very coolly, "you are a 
 ruffian and a blackguard. Which is the more desperate 
 of us two is an open question. Anyhow, I fancy myself 
 the stronger. There's the door. If you remain this side 
 of it after I have counted twelve you try conclusions with 
 the mill-tail yonder." 
 
 I had struck a match while I spoke and kindled an oil 
 lamp standing on a bracket. This wrestle with an evil 
 soul had braced my nerves like a tonic. 
 
 He slapped back against the passage wall, staring at 
 me and gasping. His face, I saw, was grimed with 
 smoke, and his coat scorched in places. 
 
 I began to count, looking into his eyes, with a grim 
 smile — had got as far as nine, without awakening move- 
 ment on his part, when a deathly yell rung through the 
 house and the words died on my lips. 
 
 I felt the blood leave my face, sinking like water in 
 snow. There was no mistaking the direction from which 
 the sound had come. It issued from the haunted room — 
 there from the black end of the passage — from the core 
 of hideous night, whose silence no storm could pene- 
 trate. 
 
 Once I looked at the face before me and saw my own 
 terror reflected in it; then I sprung for the dreadful 
 place, sick, at whatever cost, to solve the mystery of the 
 cry. 
 
 Groping for the heavy timbered door, I came suddenly 
 upon a wide luminous square and almost fell into it. 
 Then I saw, indeed, that the door itself was open and 
 that a dim glow lighted the interior of the room. Some- 
 thing else I saw in the same instant — Duke, standing at
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 339 
 
 the open mouth of the cupboard that inclosed the wheel 
 — Duke, with a fearful smile on his white face, and his 
 head bent as if he listened. And his black glowing eyes, 
 set in pools of shadow, alone moved, fixing their gaze 
 steadily on mine as I came into their vision. 
 
 "Stop!" he said, in a clear, low voice. He need not 
 have bidden me. My limbs seemed paralyzed — my heart 
 stiffening with deadly foreboding of some approaching 
 wickedness. 
 
 A lighted lantern stood near him on the floor and 
 threw a gigantic distorted shadow of him on the wall 
 against the window. 
 
 "Did you hear?" he said, in a whisper that thrilled to 
 me where I stood. "Is it haunted, this room of yours? 
 It seems so. Listen!" 
 
 He leaned over and looked down into the pit, so that 
 the upper half of his body was plunged in black shadow. 
 Simultaneously an appalling scream rose from the depths 
 and echoed away among the rafters above. 
 
 The marrow froze in my bones. I struggled vainly to 
 rush forward, but my feet would not obey my will. 
 
 "My God!" I muttered from a crackled throat — "my 
 God!" 
 
 He was looking at me again across the glowing space, 
 a grin twitching up his mouth like a dog's. 
 
 "If you move to come at me," he said, "I leap down 
 there and end it. He won't thank you, though.'' 
 
 "Duke," I forced myself to mutter, at length, in uncon- 
 trollable horror. "Is it Jason? Oh! be satisfied at last 
 and God will forgive you." 
 
 "Why, so I am!" he cried, with a whispering laugh. 
 "But I never sent him down there. He went of his own 
 accord — a secret, snug hiding-place. But he should have 
 waited longer; and who would have thought of looking 
 so deep! It was his leaning over, as he came up, to put 
 the lantern where it stands that drew me." 
 
 In the sickness of my terror I saw it all. Jason, flying 
 back to the mill, mad with fear, mad for the means of 
 escape — Jason, who had already solved the mystery of 
 the treasure, and had only hitherto lacked the courage
 
 340 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 necessary to a descent upon it — Jason, in his despair, had 
 seized a light, burst into the room of silence; had found 
 the wheel stopped and the key in the lock, as I had left 
 them ; had, summoning his last of manliness, gone down 
 into the pit and, returning, had met his fearful enemy 
 face to face. 
 
 I read it all and, utterly hopeless and demoralized as I 
 was — knowing that a movement on my part would pre- 
 cipitate the tragedy — yet found voice to break the spell, 
 and delivered my agony in a shriek. 
 
 "Jason!" I screamed; "Jason! Climb up! You are 
 as strong as he! Climb up and defy him! We are two 
 to one!" 
 
 Even as the volume of my cry seemed to strike a 
 responsive weak echo from the bowels of the pit, I was 
 conscious that Dr. Crackenthorpe was breathing behind 
 me over my shoulder. And while the sound of my voice 
 ran from beam to beam in devilish harmonics, the cripple 
 suddenly threw up his arms with a quavering screech and 
 leaped upon the threshold of the cupboard. 
 
 "The man!" he yelled; "the dog, and now the man! I 
 know him at last!" 
 
 Dr. Crackenthorpe broke past me with an answering 
 cry: 
 
 "He fired my house! Stop him! The hound! Stop 
 him!" 
 
 As he sprang forward Duke, with a sudden swoop, 
 seized the lantern from the floor and flung it at him ; and 
 at the same instant — as I saw by the flaming arc of light 
 it made — clutched the rope and swung himself into the 
 vault. The lantern crashed and was extinguished. The 
 doctor uttered a fierce oath. Spellbound I stood, and 
 for half a dozen seconds the weltering blackness eddied 
 with a ghastly silence. Then I heard the doctor fling 
 past me, running out of the room with a fearful exclam- 
 ation on his lips, and, as he went, scream after. scream 
 rise from the depths, so that my soul seemed to f«aint 
 with the agony of it. 
 
 Groping, staggering, my brain reeling, I stumbled 
 toward the sound.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 341 
 
 "God forgive me!" I whispered. "Death is better than 
 this." 
 
 Even with the thought a new uproar broke upon my 
 senses — the thunderous heaving onrush of a mighty tor- 
 rent of water underfoot. 
 
 In a flash I knew what had happened. The hideous 
 creature had Hfted the sluice and turned the swollen flood 
 upon the wheel. 
 
 Then the past sw^ept over me in a hurried panorama as 
 my poor brain paused for rest. 
 
 Who killed Modred — How did he die? 
 
 What is the mystery of Duke Straw? 
 
 What was the sin of my mother? 
 
 . Whose portrait was it that my father nailed to the axle 
 of the wheel? 
 
 These and many other of the problems haunting my life 
 came to me in swift succession, only to be passed in dull- 
 ness and left unanswered. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 WHO KILLED MODRED? 
 
 In the instant of realization, as I stood near, death- 
 stricken, where I had stopped, I felt the whole room 
 shake and tremble as the torrent leaped upon the wheel 
 with a flinging shock, heard a clanking screech rise from 
 the monster as it turned, slowly at first, but quickly gath- 
 ering speed under the awful pressure; heard one last 
 bubbling scream waver up from the depths and die within 
 the narrow vault; then all sense was whelmed and 
 numbed in the single booming crash of water. 
 
 Already, indeed, the choked water, hurled high by the 
 paddles, was gushing through the opening in cascades 
 upon the floor. How long would the ancient rafters and 
 beams and walls resist the terrible pressure?
 
 342 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 I had no thought or desire to escape. What had taken 
 me long to describe, all passed in a few seconds. But 
 Providence, that here included so many actors in the 
 tragedy in one common ruin, had not writ my sentence, 
 and my young suffering soul it spared to this dark world 
 of memories. 
 
 Insatiable yet, however, it claimed a last victim. 
 
 He came running back now, breathing hateful triumph 
 in the lust of his wickedness — came to gloat over the 
 work of his evil hands. 
 
 I heard him splash into the water that poured from the 
 wheel — dance in it — laugh and scream out: 
 
 "Tit for tat, and the devil pipes! Caught in his own 
 net! You, there, in the dark! Do you hear? Where 
 are you? Where? — my arms hunger for you!" 
 
 The paralysis of my senses left me. 
 
 "Man or fiend?" I shrieked above the thunder of the 
 water. "Down on your knees! It is the end for both of 
 us! Down, and weep and pray — for I beheve, before 
 God, you have just murdered your son!" 
 
 There was a brief fearful pause; he seemed to be listen- 
 ing — then, without preface or warning, there came a sud- 
 den surging crash, deafening and appalling and I thought 
 "Is it upon us?" 
 
 Still I stood unscathed, though a cracking volley of 
 sounds, rending and shattering, succeeded the crash, and 
 one wild, dreadful cry that pierced through all. Then 
 silence fell, broken only by the smooth, washing sweep 
 of a great body of water through the channel below. 
 
 Silence fell and lapped me in a merciful unconscious- 
 ness ; for, with the relaxing of the mental pressure I went 
 plump down upon the floor where I stood and lay in a 
 long faint. 
 
 ****** 
 
 When I came to myself a dim wash of daylight soaking 
 through the blurred window, had found my face as I lay 
 prone upon the boards, and was crawling up to my eyes 
 like a child to open them. An ineffable soft sense of 
 peace kept still my exhausted limbs in the first waking
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 343 
 
 moments, and only by degrees occurred to me the horror 
 and tragedy of the previous night. 
 
 Still I made no attempt to rise, hoping only in forlorn 
 self-pity that death would come to me gently as I lay and 
 take me by the hand, saying: "With the vexing problems 
 of life you need nevermore trouble yourself." 
 
 All around, save for the deep murmur of water, was 
 deathly quiet, and I prayed that it might remain so; 
 that nothing might ever recall me to weariful action 
 again. 
 
 Then a faint groan came to my ears and the misericor- 
 dious spell was broken. 
 
 Slowly and feebly I gathered myself together to rise. 
 But a second moan dissipated the selfish shadow and 
 stung me to some reluctant action. 
 
 Leaning upon my hand I looked about me and could 
 hardly believe the evidence of my senses when I saw the 
 walls and rafters of the fateful room stretching about me 
 unaltered and unscathed. The crash, that had seemed 
 to involve all in one splintering ruin, had left, seemingly, 
 no evidence of its nature whatsoever. Only, for a con- 
 siderable distance from the mouth of the cupboard, the 
 floor was stained with a sop of water; and, not a dozen 
 feet from me, huddled in the darkest of it, lay a heaped 
 and sodden mass that stirred and sent forth another moan 
 as I looked. 
 
 Painfully, then, I got upon my feet and stole, with no 
 sentiment but a weak curiosity, to the prostrate thing. 
 It was as if I had died and my dissatisfied ghost post- 
 poned its departure, seeking the last explanation of 
 things. Thus, while my soul was sensitive to the least 
 expression of the tragedy that absorbed it, in the human 
 world outside it seemed no longer to feel an interest. 
 
 And here, under my eyes, was tumbled the latest grim 
 victim of this house accursed — the engineer of much dia- 
 bolical machinery mangled by the demon he had himself 
 evoked. What a pitiful, collapsed ruin, that, for all its 
 resourcefulness, could only moan and suffer! 
 
 Only a thin thread of crimson ran from the corner of
 
 344 THE MILL OP SILENCE. 
 
 his mouth, and where it had made during- the night a little 
 pool on the floor under his head it looked like ink. 
 
 Near him lay a great jagged block of wood green with 
 slime. I crept to the cupboard opening and looked 
 down. 
 
 The wheel was gone! 
 
 Then I knew what had happened. The house had 
 triumphed over the stubborn monster that had so long 
 proved its curse. At the supreme moment the vast dam 
 had yielded and saved the building. It had gone, leaving 
 not a trace of wreckage but this — this, and the single 
 torn fragment that had struck down the wretch who set it 
 in motion — had gone, bearing away with it in one boiling 
 ruin the crushed and twisted bodies of the last two victims 
 of its insensate fury. 
 
 But one further sign was there of its mighty passing — 
 a ragged rent a foot square driven through the very wall 
 of the house within the vault. 
 
 And here a thin shaft of light came in and fell, like the 
 focus of an awful eye, full upon the miniature where it 
 lay nailed, face upward, upon the axle — fell, also, upon 
 that empty niche in the brickwork where once had stood 
 the treasure for which Jason had given his life. 
 
 I turned to the shattered man, leaned over him, 
 touched him. He gave a gasp of agony and opened his 
 eyes. The white stare of horror was in them and the 
 blood ran faster from his mouth. 
 
 "Water!" he cried, with a dry, clacking sound in his 
 throat. 
 
 I hurried from the room, although he called after me 
 feebly not to leave him, drew a jugful from the tap in the 
 kitchen and returned. I heard no sound in the house. 
 A glimmer of flood came in through the gaping door to 
 the yard. No immediate help was possible in the rising 
 of that direful morning after the storm. I was alone 
 with my many dead. 
 
 I put the jug to his lips and he sucked down a long, 
 gluttonous draught. Then he looked at me with eager 
 inquiry breaking through his mortal torment. 
 
 "My chest is all broken in,'' he said, straining out his
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 345 
 
 voice in bitter anguish. "When I move the end will 
 come. Quick! — you said something — at the last mo- 
 ment — what was it?" 
 
 "That I believed it was your son you sent to his death 
 down there." 
 
 "I have no son. Once — ^yes — but he died — was pois- 
 oned — or drowned." 
 
 "Oh! God forgive this man!" I cried, lifting my face 
 in terror, and in that sick moment inspiration, I think, 
 was given me. 
 
 "He never died. He was saved, to grow up a hopeless 
 cripple, and that was he you murdered last night." 
 
 He closed his eyes again, and I saw his ashen lips 
 moving. 
 
 "Oh, man," I cried, "are you praying? Take grace of 
 repentance and humble your wicked soul at the last. I 
 can't believe you innocent of a share in the wretchedness 
 of this wretched house. I am the only one left of it — 
 broken and lost to hope, but I forgive you — do you un- 
 derstand? — I forgive you." 
 
 "I never killed the boy," he muttered in a low, suffer- 
 ing tone, and with his eyes still closed. 
 
 "Will you tell me all you know about it? If you are 
 guiltless, be merciful as you hope for mercy." 
 
 "Modred found the cameo — picked it up — he told me 
 himself — in this very room — where — your father must 
 have dropped it." 
 
 I cried "yes" passionately, and implored him to go on. 
 
 "He — the old man — that night — accused me of steal- 
 ing it. It was the first — I'd heard of it. Presently — he 
 fell asleep — in his chair. I thought I would — seize the 
 opportunity to — look for it over the house — quietly. 
 Finding myself — outside — the boy's room — I went in to 
 see — how — he — was getting on. He was awake — and — 
 there was the very thing — in his hand. I asked him how 
 — he had come by it. He told me. I demanded it — of 
 him — said — your father had — promised it me. Nothing 
 — availed — availed." 
 
 He was gasping and panting to such a degree that I 
 thought even now he would die, leaving the words I
 
 346 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 maddened for unspoken. Brutally, in my torment, I 
 urged him on. 
 
 "He — wouldn't give it up. I rushed at him — he put it 
 in his mouth — and — as I seized him, tried to swallow it — 
 and choked. It had stuck at — the entrance to his gullet. 
 In a few moments — in his state he was too — weak to 
 expel it — he was dead. Perhaps — I might have saved 
 him — but the trinket — the beautiful trinket!'' 
 
 My heart seemed scarcely to beat as I listened. At 
 last I knew the truth — knew it wicked and inhuman; yet 
 — thank God — less atrocious than I had dreaded. 
 
 "But afterward," I whispered — "afterward?" 
 
 "There was a plan," he moaned, and his speech came 
 with difificulty, "inspired me. I dissuaded — your father 
 — from encouraging — any inquiry. A post-mortem, I 
 knew — would lay open the secret — and lose me — the 
 cameo. He was buried — on my certificate. I got — the 
 man — George White — under my thumb — fed him on 
 lire — lent him money — made him — my tool. One dark 
 — stormy — night — we opened the grave — ^the cofitin. The 
 devil — lent a hand. A new grave — had to be dug — a 
 foot away. It was only — necessary — to — make a hori — 
 horizontal opening — in the intervening soil. I had — my 
 tools — and sliced open the dead boy's throat — and found 
 what I wanted. Only the sexton knew. Nothing — 
 afterward — would persuade — the mad fool — that the boy 
 — hadn't been buried alive — and that — I — hadn't mur- 
 dered him. Only his fear — of me — kept his mouth — 
 shut. This is — the truth." 
 
 He lay quite still, exhausted with his long, cruel effort. 
 I touched him gently with my hand. 
 
 "As I hope for rest myself," I said, "I forgive you, now 
 that you have spoken, for all this long, hideous misery. 
 The treasure you staked against your soul is passed in 
 fire and water and lost forever. Nothing remains to you 
 here; and, for the future — oh, pray, man, pray, while 
 there is time!" 
 
 My voice broke in a sob. He strove to lift himself, 
 leaning upon his hand, and immediately his mouth was 
 choked with blood.
 
 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 347 
 
 "Where's he?" he cried, in a stifled voice — "Down 
 there?'' 
 
 "That way he went. The waters have him now — him, 
 and my brother Jason, who was on the wheel also when 
 you raised the hatch. God knows, their bodies may be 
 miles away by this time." 
 
 He looked up at me with an awful expression; then, 
 without another word, dragged himself inch by inch 
 along the floor to the pit mouth and, reaching it, looked 
 down — and immediately a great sputtering cry burst 
 from him: 
 
 "Who put that there? — that? the miniature? I gave 
 it to — who did it, I say? It's a trick! My soul burns — 
 it burns already ! Tear it ofif ! My own portrait — Minna !" 
 
 Thus and in such manner I heard my mother's name 
 spoken for the first time ; felt the awful foundering truth 
 burst upon my heart. Uttering it, the soul of this fear- 
 ful man tore free with a last dying scream of agony, and 
 he dropped upon his face over the threshold of the run- 
 ning vault. 
 
 One moment, fate-stricken, I heard in the silence the 
 heavy drip of something going pattering down into the 
 pit — the next, darkness overwhelmed and the world 
 ceased for me. 
 
 Did I ever see Zyp again? I know that some one came 
 to me, lying entranced in a long, sick dream, who bore 
 her resemblance, at least, and who spoke gentle words 
 to me and put cold, sweet drink to my lips. But, when 
 I woke at last, she was not there — only a kind, soft wom- 
 an, a ministering nurse, who moved without noise, and 
 foresaw all my fretful wants. 
 
 If she came, she went and left no trace; and I know 
 in my heart I am never to see her more. 
 
 And here, month by month, I sit alone in the old 
 haunted, crazy place — alone with my memories and my 
 ghosts and my ancient fruitless regrets. 
 
 Dolly and my father — the doctor, and those other two, 
 found far away, welded in a dead embrace, and crushed
 
 348 THE MILL OF SILENCE. 
 
 and dinted one into the other — the fair and the ugly, all, 
 all gone, and I am alone. 
 
 I am not thirty, yet my hair is white and it is time I 
 was gone. 
 
 And to hear death knock at my door this very night 
 would be ecstasy. 
 
 [THE END.]
 
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