^ a ^ 
 
 s Si'l 
 
 J 
 
 ■ ^
 
 m
 
 
 => 
 
 ^t ■• -' 
 
 
 i»^^mHIp%
 
 THE HIGH MILLS 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 By the same Author. 
 
 MARGARET AND ELIZABETH. 
 
 A STORY OF THE SEA. 
 
 1 vol. Crown Svo. 6.9. 
 
 " Simply yet powerfully tskl. . . . This opening picture is so 
 exquisitely drawn as to be a fit introduction to a story of such 
 simple pathos and power. ... A very beautiful story closes as it 
 began, in a tender and touching- picture of homely happiness."— 
 jPall Mall Gazette. 
 
 "Authors who can write as freshly and truthfully of homely 
 scenes and village life as Miss Saunders are scarce enough: and 
 especially we cannot recall any one who has treated the sayings 
 and doings of fisher folk so successfully."— JS'icommer. 
 
 " Nothing could be more gracefully and pathetically described 
 than the love which grows up between the two heroines of the 
 story, nor anything more skilful than the consistency with which 
 the characteristic differences of ejich in manner and temper are 
 preserved throughout."— S])ectatar. 
 
 Henry S. King & Co., London.
 
 THE 
 
 HIGH MILLS 
 
 BY 
 
 KATHEEINE SAUNDEES 
 
 Author of '* Gideon's Eock," "Joan Merryweather," etc. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Henry S. King & Co., London. 
 
 1875.
 
 All rights reserved.)
 
 9^3 
 
 TO 
 
 SIE AETHUK HELPS, K.C.B., 
 
 THIS STORY IS DEDICATED 
 
 WITH THE TRUE RESPECT AXD REGARD OF 
 THE WRITER. 
 
 January \, 1874. 
 
 ,r
 
 NOTE. 
 
 A Sketch entitled " The High Mills " by the same anther 
 appeai'ed some time since in "Good Words;" and althongh 
 that sketch is partly incorporated with the present work, yet 
 the stories are in no sense the same, as the latter contains nearly 
 two-thirds more matter than the former.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Lamberhukst 1 
 
 II. At the Team 6 
 
 III. The High Mills 16 
 
 lY. Michael's Peoposal 33 
 
 V. The Names ox the Bin 38 
 
 VI. The Miller Confides in Michael ... 43 
 
 VII. Evening 58 
 
 VIII. George's Home 62 
 
 IX. Morning .68 
 
 X. Ma'r S'one 81 
 
 XI. Michael's Diplomacy 90 
 
 XII. At Stone Crouch 103 
 
 XIII. BucKHOLT Farm . . . . . . 117 
 
 XIV. Nora's Intercession Fails .... 135
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 page 
 
 XV. 
 
 Mrs. Moon hears Welcome News . 
 
 . 151 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mutual Misgivings .... 
 
 . 157 
 
 XVII. 
 
 M'ar S'one and the Calves . 
 
 . 162 
 
 XVIlt. 
 
 The Mill in Order .... 
 
 . 166 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The Miller still Suspects Michael 
 
 . 169 
 
 XX. 
 
 News of George 
 
 . 175 
 
 XXI. 
 
 LA.MBERHURST AT ChURCH . . . 
 
 . 195 
 
 XXII. 
 
 April Evenings 
 
 . 204 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Michael's Nightly Trial 
 
 . 227 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 May Mornings 
 
 . 234 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A Portentous Visitor . . . ' . 
 
 . 247 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 George's Model 
 
 . 252
 
 THE HIGH MILLS 
 
 C H A P T E E I. 
 
 LAMBEKHUEST. 
 
 ^^Thy people shall be my people." 
 
 Ruth. 
 
 Theee is a tiu-n in the road from Bulver's 
 Bay to Lamberhurst from which, the High 
 Mills are first to be seen, looking like two 
 pinned insects writhing on the hill. 
 
 It was at this tm*n of the road that 
 Michael Swift first saw them at noon on 
 the third day of March, 18 — . 
 
 He stood still, his bundle on his stick, 
 his face raised towards them, with the 
 
 YOL. I. B
 
 2 ' THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 look of a man seeing at last in substance 
 and reality what liad been bis cbief vision, 
 awake or asleep, for years past. 
 
 It was sucb a look as Jacob migbt bave 
 cast upon the fields of Laban; Christian 
 on tbe shining palaces of the Beantiful 
 City ; or Colnmbns towards the shores of 
 the New World. 
 
 When he withdrew his eyes from the 
 mills, Michael tnrned to look at the road 
 by which he had come ; and, dropping his 
 bundle, took his stick and drew a thin 
 line across the road, saying to himself 
 with a smile as full of sorrow as tears can 
 sometimes be of joy — '^ Here my Hfe is 
 cut in two." 
 
 On one side of the line lay Michaers 
 thirty-two years of peaceful, honest life, 
 all darkened now by the great sorrow which 
 had driven him forth. 
 
 On the other remained only the High 
 Mills and the hope which was too wild 
 and daring to be told to any living creature,
 
 LAMBEKHURST. 6 
 
 but for the sake of whicli he had left all 
 he cared for in the world. 
 
 Michael had changed his travelling 
 clothes at the last village that he passed, 
 and was going into Lamberhurst in his 
 white miller's dress. He was of middle 
 height and broad- shouldered, and possessed 
 all the vigour and careless grace of well- 
 used muscles and perfect health. His 
 face, too, was broad, and always pale ; 
 and this and his dark beard and eyes gave 
 him a sHghtly Eastern look, which, how- 
 ever, was forgotten at the first sound of 
 his hearty Enghsh voice. 
 
 Everything he saw was as fresh to him 
 as if he had indeed entered upon a new 
 world, a new life. He had never before 
 been more than twelve miles from London ; 
 and this old village in Southdownshire, 
 where life was still much the same as it 
 had been a century ago, was full of wonder 
 for him. 
 
 He laughed at the fat-legged children
 
 4 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 running into tlie cottages at his approach. 
 He marvelled at the little Norman church ; 
 at its rich black old door, guarded with 
 rustic white gates, which would have been 
 thought too humble for the lowest cottage 
 in his village. 
 
 He went on a few steps into the church- 
 yard, which was treeless and breezy, and 
 where there was about one gravestone to 
 twenty little mounds without. 
 
 '^ Are folks here content to be buried, 
 name and all ? " Michael wondered ; and 
 he thought that if he grew old, and died 
 before his hope was realized, it would be 
 better that he too should have his name 
 go down into the grave with him. 
 
 As he was thinking of this his eyes fell 
 on a stone bearing many repetitions of the 
 name ''Ambray;" and Michael no sooner 
 saw it than his face became disturbed ; a 
 deep reverence came over it, and he took 
 his cap slowly and with trembling hands 
 from his head.
 
 LAMBEEHUEST. 5 
 
 The fii'st tracing of the name was fast 
 following the bones of its owner to decay, 
 but Michael could just read underneath it 
 ^^ of Lamberhurst Hall." There was next 
 a John Ambray, of Lamberhurst Hall, then 
 some names which Michael passed quickly 
 over till he came to that of a captain who 
 had distinguished himseK at Waterloo, and 
 from this to the soldier's eldest son, 
 Ambray, of Buckholt Farm. 
 
 As he read this name, Michael bowed his 
 head lower, and turned quickly away, tread- 
 ing gently in the gi'ass, on which his eyes 
 were fixed with a gravity as profound as if 
 each gi*een blade marked some dust dear to 
 him.
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 AT THE TEAM. 
 
 " Simple folk, of simple ways, 
 Living by earth's tillage ; 
 Spending all their quiet days 
 In the same old village." 
 
 The smell of wood fires came stronger 
 on tlie fresh March breeze, and soon 
 Michael reached the little inn by the sign 
 of the Team, where he entered and asked 
 for some ale. 
 
 The lad to whom he had spoken pointed 
 into the little bar-parlour, where Michael 
 had already seen four or five smock-frocks 
 round a table, and a tanglement of drab- 
 gaitered legs underneath it. 
 
 It was market-day, and the heads of 
 several of the neighbouring farms having
 
 AT THE TEAM. 7 
 
 gone to the town, tlie company in wkLch 
 Michael found himseK was, he soon iinder- 
 stood, composed mostly of old men who 
 had been left at home in charge ; and 
 who had taken this opportunity of a quiet 
 meeting and discussion of their several 
 grievances, in the presence of the sym- 
 pathizing landlord of the Team. 
 
 Michael had never seen anything like 
 these men in his life before. They all 
 stopped talking as he sat down at the win- 
 dow, and stared at him, exchanging looks 
 with each other, then stared at him again 
 with as Httle regard for what he thought 
 of it as if he had been a stray animal 
 wandering at large in the village. 
 
 Michael returned their gaze with more 
 than the surprise natural to a townsman 
 meeting f aim-labourers of a remote country 
 place for the first time. An innocent 
 prisoner, seeing impotent age or idiotcy 
 on his judge's face might have had such 
 a look of foreboding — ^almost terror — as
 
 8 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 came into Michaers eyes at the contem- 
 plation of these creatures of Ms new world. 
 
 Tm-ning away from them to the window, 
 he saw a boy running past, then heard 
 heavy shoes in the passage, and in an 
 instant a little smock stood in the door- 
 way, and a small voice, full of excitement, 
 was shouting — 
 
 '' Ma'r S'one ! The mill's agoin' ! " 
 
 At this every one looked at a little old 
 man at the corner of the table. 
 
 Michael looking also saw that Ma'r S'one 
 (which he afterwards heard was a South- 
 downshire abbreviation of Master Stone) 
 was quite different from the rest of the 
 company, who had impressed him so un- 
 favourably. 
 
 Ma'r S'one was very small and gentle- 
 looking, and seemed to be almost visibly 
 diminishing in size, under the influence 
 of age and toil. His tanned hand shook 
 on his knee like a dry leaf in autumn 
 longing to flutter down and be at rest. His
 
 AT THE TEAM. 9 
 
 little eyes were bright, and ever ready to 
 fill with childish surprise, or dismay, or 
 pleasm-e : indeed, Ma'r S'one was very like 
 a withered child looking gently on life as 
 on a hard school fi'oni which he waited 
 patiently to be sent home. 
 
 Afterwards, when Michael had much 
 opportunity of watching him, he noticed 
 that he never seemed quite at his ease, 
 but appeared constantly haunted by the fear 
 that he was not doing all that he could to 
 please people, and might get into trouble. 
 
 No one could ever persuade Ma'r S'one 
 that any portion of his time belonged to 
 himself. His presence now at the Team 
 was quite a piece of self-sacrifice, for Ma'r 
 S'one drank nothing but water, and hated 
 to leave his work, but he had been much 
 too frightened at giving offence to refase 
 to go with those who had demanded his 
 company. '^ All things to all men " was 
 Ma'r S'one — but most innocently, and for 
 nothing but peace.
 
 10 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 When the boy called out that the mill 
 was going, and every one looked at Ma'r 
 S'one, his little eyes filled with astonish- 
 ment, and gazed about helplessly. At last 
 he fixed them on the boy, and asked — 
 
 ^^Beye sure, Tum?" 
 
 *^ Ye'es," answered Tom, jerking his head 
 back to look through the outer door — ^^goin' 
 a good'n! Come and look 'eself, Ma'r 
 S'one." 
 
 So Ma'r S'one got up, and leaning on his 
 long-handled thud (for without some such 
 aid he could not walk), and jerking his 
 shoulder-blades as if he found it difficult 
 to reahze that they were not burdened 
 with a bundle of sticks or hay, he went to 
 the door and stood beside the boy, looking 
 out up at the mills. 
 
 Michael watched him as he looked up 
 with bright wondering eyes, which presently 
 grew fall of childish awe. 
 
 He came back shaking his head, and said 
 in a trembling voice as he sat down.
 
 AT THE TEAM. 11 
 
 *'Poor old Ambray! I tliart missus 'ud 
 vmk 'iin np to it — I thort she woard." 
 
 Michael, who sat holding his mug of ale 
 without heeding it, and looking on the floor 
 as he Hstened intently, heard several grunts 
 of sympathy ; and some one asked, 
 
 ** Ah ! she's been at it agen, then, eh, 
 Ma'r S'one?" 
 
 '' Ye'es," said Ma'r S'one ; ''1 fetched her 
 a sheert o' paper yest'y, and she writ to 
 un as she must and woard let the mill, 
 as he couldn't wuk it 'e'self nor pay a 
 gi'inder. And then she carled me in, and 
 I see her a hckin' it to make it steeik, and 
 a thumpin' it, and she scraaled the name 
 on it and says to me, ^ Take this' ere up 
 to t' High Mills, Ma'r S'one, and look 
 shearp.' I wur' most afeard to go, I wur." 
 
 ^' The old flint might tark her 'ead arf 
 afore she'd got 77ie to gone," asserted a 
 voice at the table. 
 
 Ma'r S'one looked at the speaker with 
 the humble admii'ation with which a weak
 
 12 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 little boy looks at a scliool-fellow of superior 
 size, and repeated meekly — 
 
 " I wur' most afeard to go ; and wlien I 
 heerd old Ambray's cough, I tbart I sbud a 
 tamed and gone down t' bill agen; but if 
 I bad, sbe'd comed 'e'seK. So I gived it 
 in, and tbey telled me t' bide a minute, and 
 I beerd bim fell off bis cbeer a cougbin' 
 and a cbokin', and tbe wife wur on ber 
 knees boldin' up bis 'ead and cryin', and 
 says to me, ' Go, Ma'r S'one, there's no 
 good to wait. Tell tbe missus John 
 Ambray is old and helpless, but be has a 
 son, and we have sent for him.' " 
 
 Michael had turned his back, and was 
 looking up at the mills with wild eyes and 
 white lips. 
 
 ^' It's be hoped you telled her that, Ma'r 
 S'one," said the landlord of the Team. 
 
 ^^Ye'es," answered Ma'r S'one; ^^ she 
 wur just arf in the caart — she and Ann 
 Ditch — with th' butter under 'em, and she 
 on'y larfed when I telled her, and says —
 
 AT THE TEAM. 13 
 
 'Aiiveiy fine, M'ar S'one, but la's la' and 
 right's right.'" 
 
 "But it bean't aU la' that's right, 
 naythur," said an old man sitting next to 
 Ma'r S'one. 
 
 Michael did not stay to hear the slow 
 and comphcated dispute which followed 
 this bold assertion, but paid for his ale, 
 and nodding gently to Ma'r S'one as the 
 representative of the company, wished him 
 good morning, and went out. 
 
 Though it was but one by the Dutch clock 
 as Michael left the Team, Lamberhurst had 
 sunk deep into its afternoon stupor. 
 
 Time dragged such a rusty and reluctant 
 scythe over these downs of which Michael's 
 new world consisted, that it is no wonder 
 the inhabitants found it necessary to take 
 him by the forelock to get on at all. So at 
 three or four in the morning the working 
 day began ; and who then could wait later
 
 14 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 than eleven for the noon, or seven or eight 
 for night ? 
 
 Time, however, kept a strict reckoning 
 with those who tried to heguile him in 
 this way, and got what was due to him by 
 stretching out the weary lives a score or 
 so of years beyond the usual length. Sit- 
 ting in the doorways, or crawling with 
 sticks and crutches along the little passages 
 or peering from the windows, Michael saw 
 several of these aged debtors whom the 
 tyrant would not suffer to depart till they 
 had paid what they owed him to the utter- 
 most farthing. 
 
 At the smithy, by the steep lane leading 
 up to the High Mills, the horse that was 
 being shod, the smith who was beating the 
 red-hot shoe, the two men looking on, and 
 the fire itseK, with the March sunshine on 
 it, all seemed to Michael to be more than 
 half asleep. 
 
 The ducks about the pond apparently 
 thought there was at this hour nothing in
 
 AT THE TEAM. 15 
 
 water requiting the attention of more than 
 one eye, or on land that made it worth 
 standing on with more than one leg. The 
 calves brought down to drink had fallen 
 into a trance with their mouths fall of 
 water, which dribbled back into the pond, 
 while the shadows of the overhanging 
 catkins fell hghtly on their sleek sides. 
 
 Michael Swift, as he strode through the 
 village in his miller's clothes, every muscle 
 and nerve of his body strung to action, 
 and his face worn by sorrow and full of 
 fervour, looked not unlike some white-robed 
 messenger of fate coming with hands full 
 of good and evil to waken this lethargic 
 little world.
 
 16 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 " A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round ; 
 If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves 
 be ground." 
 
 LOGAU. 
 
 Although the lane to the High Mills was 
 to become to Michael's feet ' as famihar a 
 way as they had ever trodden, he remem- 
 bered noticing nothing about it then but 
 that it was steep and chalky, and seemed 
 to end in a sharp line against the sky. 
 
 He had not gone far up before the wind 
 which had lulled a few moments rose high, 
 and suddenly he heard the grinding of the 
 millstone and the rushing of the sails. 
 
 He had been expecting this sound ever 
 since he set foot in the lane, listening for it,
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 17 
 
 yet it came upon him with a tumult that 
 bewildered and staggered him. 
 
 He listened to it as one piloting a ship 
 through perilous ways listens to the break- 
 ing of the waves upon a reef, his lips hard 
 set, his eyes contracted, to prevent either 
 breath or glance betraying the fear that is 
 in him. 
 
 Michael could not keep his feet steady ; 
 his steps wavered from side to side of the 
 narrow road. The higher he got, the more 
 overwhelming to him became the voice of 
 the Httle mill, which as yet he could not 
 see. 
 
 It was eloquent of things he dared not 
 think of at this time. It filled the stark 
 black hedges with visions of a face from 
 which his own turned shudderingly away. 
 It was in vain that his will strove against 
 his imagination, which clutched at every- 
 thing the mill's voice offered it : the vision 
 of a Uttle child laughing and clapping its 
 hands at the sails turning merrily in the 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 spring breeze ; a lad's face at a mill window 
 looking out upon the morning, flushed like 
 itself with the hectic beauty of false promise ; 
 — these, and many others such as these, 
 Michael's fancy seized upon as the sound of 
 the mill filled his ears. 
 
 At last something white came flashing 
 up over the hill-line, and against the vivid 
 March sky. 
 
 The tips of the mill-sails were in sight, 
 sweeping slowly round, for the wind had 
 sunk. 
 
 Now that Michael was so near to what 
 he had been journeying towards for three 
 days, the energy died out of his limbs, so 
 that he could scarcely drag them along; 
 the whole journey began to appear to him 
 a fooKsh and desperate thing. 
 
 He could see all the top of the mill now — 
 the Httle sails opposite the great ones, and 
 a tiny window. 
 
 A few steps more, and the whole scene he 
 had so often pictured was before him — ^not
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 19 
 
 as he had pictured it, but all strange — so 
 strange, that old thoughts, which had grown 
 half-lovingly, half-fearfully, round Michael's 
 picture, fled; and, before new ones had 
 time to grow and fit themselves, there was 
 nothing in his mind but dreariness, con- 
 fasion, and a desire that was really a sharp 
 pang after the home left — a bitter sense that 
 the smallest thing there, in the place hidden 
 from him by a three days' journey, was 
 nearer and clearer to his perception at this 
 moment than all which lay close before him. 
 He had thought of the two mills in a 
 pleasant country field — the white one trim 
 and orderly, and the old black mill beyond 
 it, useless and falling to decay; but Httle 
 had he imagined what kind of world they 
 stood in — what valley, crowned with a 
 shining Httle cu'clet of sea, lay stretched 
 before them — green, plenteous, and so 
 lovely as to be strange and foreign to 
 eyes which had seen no further than 
 Michael Swift's.
 
 20 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 As he looked on it his eyes grew heavy 
 and sick ; like a poor soldier's which, filled 
 with the loved face he has left behind him, 
 are compelled to look upon the smiles and 
 gestures of some dancing peasant girl. 
 
 But this was no time to pause and give 
 
 way to the bitterness of being a stranger in 
 
 the land. The wind came up from the sea, 
 
 and the voice of the mill aroused him. He 
 
 looked up at it. How gaunt it was and 
 
 weatherworn! How impossible he found 
 
 it to look at the Httle windows without 
 
 seeing the same face at each — ^the fresh 
 
 boyish face with eyes blue and careless — 
 
 that ivould meet his and kindle with tragic 
 
 prophecy as they gazed at him. 
 
 / Suddenly a real face appeared at the httle 
 
 square window of the grinding floor. Not 
 
 the face that had been haunting Michael 
 
 since the mill had been in hearing and in 
 
 sight. This face was aged, long, white, and 
 
 stern, and with no colour in it but the cold 
 
 steel-grey eyes which looked out beyond
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 21 
 
 where Michael Swift was standing right on 
 to where the road from Bulver's Bay curved 
 low among the downs. 
 
 Michael "understood well the meaning of 
 the look, and moved aside, because he could 
 not bear to stand, even unseen, between it 
 and its quest. 
 
 In moving he went towards the mill, 
 which was going now with a velocity that 
 reminded him how unfit perhaps to regu- 
 late its speed were the hands trying so 
 feverishly to save and keep it from passing 
 away from them. 
 
 At this thought Michael lifted his head 
 and pressed on towards the mill door, with 
 a tender pity in his face like one who 
 hastens to the assistance of a child in dis- 
 tress or danger. 
 
 He went straight and opened the door, 
 but when he stood inside among the sacks 
 of flour, with the name of Ambray on them, 
 and saw some feet coming down the httle 
 ladder from the dressing-floor, his confusion
 
 22 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 and dizziness came back, and tie scarcely 
 knew how lie should face the tall white 
 figure that was coming slowly down to him. 
 
 He was holding his hand to his side, and 
 coughing as he came ; though Michael saw 
 this rather than heard it because of the din 
 of the grindstone, which drowned every 
 other sound. 
 
 His grey eyes were fixed on Michael, 
 whom he had seen approaching, and had 
 come down to meet. He was very tall, and 
 still upright in spite of his illness, which 
 had left him white as the deal shaft he held 
 by as he stood still at the foot of the steps. 
 Michael could not tell if his hair was really 
 white, for it was covered with flour, as were 
 his eyebrows and lashes. 
 
 Michael could not speak ; he moistened 
 his lips and moved them, but no sound 
 came through the noise of the grindstone. 
 
 The long ghostly figure holding by the 
 shaft and coughing his painful and, as it 
 seemed, silent cough, began to wonder at
 
 THE HIGH mLLS. 23 
 
 him, and the grey eyes to gather some im- 
 patient fire. 
 
 ''The— the master?'' Michael said at 
 last, with a voice which he felt might ruin 
 him, but which the miller thought strong 
 and pleasant enough. 
 
 He nodded sharply, and Michael's hand 
 went to his cap. Then the old man shouted 
 above the din — 
 
 " And servant too." And at this Michael 
 took his cap right off and held it in his hand. 
 
 The miller stared at him, but not so 
 sternly ; for respect is sweet to those who 
 have had it, and lost, or think that they 
 have lost it. 
 
 The wind was gentler now, and Michael 
 had no trouble in hearing his own voice and 
 making it heard when he said — 
 
 '' I heard you were without a grinder, and 
 I have come to offer myself." 
 
 The old miller looked at him in a way 
 that made Michael's heart beat high with 
 hope.
 
 24 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 This was not because lie saw in that look 
 the least intention on the miller's part of 
 engaging a grinder, — he knew well nothing 
 was further from him than any such pur- 
 pose ; but Michael could see that his pro- 
 posal had disturbed the old man with what 
 he himself felt to be a vain desire for that 
 which he must refuse. 
 
 Michael knew that as he looked at him 
 he was considering his strength, and hope- 
 lessly longing that it might have been in his 
 power to use it for the saving of the mill ; 
 he knew that he was thinking of the services 
 he offered, and coveting them with all his 
 soul, and with all his poor weary body that 
 longed to give up struggling against its 
 chains of pain, and lie down to lessen their 
 weight. 
 
 Keading all this with those simple, clear- 
 seeing eyes of his, Michael did not despair 
 when the miller said — 
 
 ^' I am not in need of a grinder. Who 
 told you I was? I do not employ one.
 
 THE HIGH MHiLS. 25 
 
 I manage the stone and everything my- 
 seK." 
 
 " So I heard," answered Michael, avoid- 
 ing the haggard eye, and fixing his own on 
 the name on a flom- sack against the great 
 scales. '^ But I heard, too, that there was 
 like to be some change in your arrangements 
 just now." 
 
 Ambray coughed painfidly. The thought 
 of what the change might be — the giving 
 up of the mill — had made him tremble as 
 he stood. 
 
 ^' No," he answered shoi-tly. ^' No change 
 that will make me engage a grinder." 
 
 '^ This person that was talking to me 
 about it," said Michael, '^ was thinking you 
 were likely to be making a fresh start alto- 
 gether to put a stop to some change that was 
 talked of about the mill. I don't know the 
 rights of it exactly ; but this friend of mine 
 was saying that he was sm-e you would see 
 that it would be the best thing you could do 
 now to hire a grinder at once."
 
 26 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 The miller gave Michael a bewildered and 
 an astonished look, then bent his white brows 
 in thought — painM and puzzled. 
 
 " No," he said at last, looking up with 
 decision ; " I don't think of doing any such 
 thing." 
 
 Michael took his cap from under his arm, 
 but instead of putting it on, as Ambray ex- 
 pected to see him do, turned it about in his 
 hands thoughtfully. 
 
 " You'll excuse me," he began, looking 
 up suddenly at the tall old miller, *^ if I 
 take the liberty of mentioning that I know 
 you couldn't — I mean that it would make 
 no difference to me putting off the matter 
 of wages for a few weeks or so." 
 
 Old Ambray did not answer, but stood 
 looking at him through and through. 
 
 "Now," thought Michael, "he thinks I 
 have got into some scrape, and want to 
 earn a character at his expense." 
 
 He put his hand into his pocket, and 
 taking out a little old leather case, drew 
 from that a paper which he gave to Ambray.
 
 THE HIGH MLLS. 27 
 
 This was the written character Michael 
 Swift had received from the manager of 
 some mills he had worked at for five years. 
 
 '' What is this ? " asked Ambray, opening 
 it as he spoke. 
 
 *^ I should like yon to look at it," answered 
 Michael, ^' in case you change yonr mind." 
 
 The miller read it through and returned 
 the paper to Michael, repressing a sigh as he 
 did so. 
 
 '^ Yes," he said, looking at him with 
 more interest. '^ These are good Hnes — very 
 good lines. You ought to get a good thing 
 from these. These are famous mills too — 
 I have heard of them. My son — I have a 
 son in London — wrote to me about them." 
 
 Michael never afterwards understood what 
 impelled him to look up at that instant, and 
 meet the miller's eye, and give that little 
 answering nod as the old man said, ^^I 
 have a son in London.'' He has often felt 
 it since to be one of the greatest sins he 
 ever committed.
 
 28 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 While Micliael was hanging liis head and 
 suffering over this little involuntary act^ 
 Ambray was regarding him with a certain 
 wistfiilness in his wan eyes, and asking him- 
 self— 
 
 " What does he mean — this well-to-do- 
 looking fellow, with his good lines, coming 
 to my mill when he might go anywhere ? 
 I take it he is not quite sharp." 
 
 Then he thought — 
 
 " Perhaps he has come to Southdownshire 
 to see after some important place that will 
 take some weeks to settle about, and only 
 wants to fill up the time." And here 
 Michael saw that he again began thinking 
 how well it would be for him if he could 
 by any possibility agree to his proposal. 
 
 " Why have you come down here, so far 
 from where you worked before ?" inquired 
 Ambray suddenly. 
 
 If Michael was for a moment at a loss for 
 a reply, the miller did not perceive it, for his 
 cough came on through his having spoken
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 29 
 
 more quickly than Michael had yet heard 
 hira speak ; and by the time the fit was over 
 Ambray was conscious of having received a 
 simple and satisfying reason for Michael's 
 presence at Lamberhm'st. It was something 
 about his having half arranged to engage 
 himself at a steam-mill near Bulver's Bay, 
 but that finding there would be more night- 
 work than he cared to undertake, he had 
 given up the idea altogether. 
 
 The fit of coughing had so exhausted and 
 depressed Ambray, that, sinking on the sack 
 of bran Michael had pushed near to him, 
 he fell into a fit of gloomy thought, and 
 appeared to forget Michael's presence, and 
 to remember nothing but his weakness and 
 the many troubles that lay so heavily upon 
 him. 
 
 The sunshine streamed in under the door 
 and through the Uttle window all clogged 
 with flom- as with an indoor snow, and to 
 make the mimicry of winter more complete, 
 a robin came and clung to the window-
 
 30 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 frame, pressing its scarlet breast against it in 
 its efforts to peck at a flake of bran sticking 
 to the inside of tbe window. 
 
 The old black mill-dog got up from the 
 corner, where he had been eyeing Michael 
 ever since he entered, and came and licked 
 his hand with a glance of stoHd and decided 
 friendliness. 
 
 As Michael patted him, the feehng that 
 he should stay took hold of him very 
 strongly. 
 
 At this moment a little bell high up in the 
 mill began to ring with a weak tinkling sonnd 
 that was scarcely heard above the other 
 noise. It was the bell that was struck by 
 the machinery when there was no more corn 
 in the shoot over the grindstone. 
 
 Michael, having been used to the same 
 arrangement in the mills where he worked, 
 was haK-way up the steps before he remem- 
 bered where he was. 
 
 He paused and looked back hesitat- 
 ingly.
 
 THE HIGH MILLS. 31 
 
 " Wliere are yon going ?" asked Ambray, 
 gruffly. 
 
 ** There's the child crying, as we call it in 
 oui' mills," answered Michael with a smile ; 
 "shan't I go and feed it?'' 
 
 " Let it cry," Ambray said, beginning to 
 congh ; " leave it alone." 
 
 Michael ^Daiised on the ladder with brows 
 lifted in surprise. 
 
 " Isn't that a pity ? " he remonstrated ; 
 " the wind's getting steady now. I shall 
 find some com on the shooting-floor, 
 shan't I? I'm a good nurse, master; I 
 can't bear to hear the child cry and not 
 go and feed it. I shaU find my way." 
 
 " Let it cry, I tell you," shouted Ambray, 
 *' and come down with you." As Michael 
 obeyed, the old man, touched perhaps by the 
 gentleness of his steps and look, added 
 bitterly — 
 
 " Let it cry. Let it be hungiy. Let it 
 starve. I have no more to feed it with. 
 No, there's no corn on the shooting-floor,
 
 32 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 there is no corn in the mill. Be off, my 
 man. I like yon, but you've come to the 
 wrong shop. Go your way with your good 
 lines, and better luck attend you."
 
 ( 33 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 Michael's proposal. 
 
 " This Trill is in mine heart, and aye shall be, 
 No length of time nor death shall this deface, 
 Nor change my courage to another place." 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 In his heart the old miller did not take it 
 ill that Michael, instead of obeying him, 
 remained standing by the ladder; looking 
 as if all the shame of the confession lay 
 with him for having been the means of 
 bringing it out. 
 
 ^^I won't deceive you, master," he said 
 at last; '^I guessed something of this 
 before." 
 
 ^^ Then why the — then, what do you mean 
 by wanting to be my grinder ?" 
 
 YOL. I. D
 
 34 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ^^ Why not ? " said Michael. '' For one 
 thing, I don't take all I pick up here and 
 there for gospel truth, 'specially in the 
 country, where folk must have something 
 to keep them from stagnating. And then, 
 too, the thought came to me, that perhaps 
 if this lady that owns the mill and sells you 
 the corn, if she heard you'd a good, strong, 
 steady-going sort of grinder, she might be 
 willing to leave things as they are a little 
 longer, to give us a trial." 
 
 The miller mused over this profoundly, 
 and studied Michael from head to foot. 
 
 ^* I thought that was her reason for wish- 
 ing to put the mill in other hands, your 
 keeping no man, and — and not having good 
 health yourself? " Michael ventured to add, 
 after a silence of some moments. 
 
 ^^Keason — her reason!" said Ambray, 
 with a wrathful light gathering in his eyes. 
 ^' It's no use going into that. The truth is, 
 the woman wants to get the thing out of 
 my hands altogether, if she can — if she can.
 
 Michael's peoposal, 35 
 
 But wliile I keep the mill in use, I have a 
 sort of right to it : but that's nothing to do 
 with you. As for what you say, I don't 
 know but what there's something in it — in 
 fact, I do see something in it." 
 
 He sat thinking, pressing the fingers of 
 either hand to his temples, which Michael 
 could see were still throbbing with the 
 agitation of his last coughing, fit. 
 
 ^^Well," he said, rising up to his full 
 height, and taking hold of the shaft, ^^ there 
 can be no harm done by trying what you 
 have proposed — it's not a bad proposal — not 
 at all. I can't see the woman to-day ; she's 
 never home till late on market-days, and if 
 she were," he added to himself reflectively, 
 *' it's a chance if she'd be sober. No ; we'll 
 go in the morning, — that's if you really 
 think you care to waste your time over the 
 experiment." 
 
 "• Why, what can I do better ? " answered 
 Michael, trying to speak only cheerfully, 
 and to conceal his deep thankfulness.
 
 36 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ^^I can give you a good bed," said 
 Ambray, with the faded light of a bygone 
 hospitahty in his eyes. "And, though 
 there's no corn in the mill, there's bread in 
 the house. Come — come home and see my 
 wife." 
 
 Michael's eyes fell with a reluctant look. 
 Then, as if a thought had suddenly come to 
 his assistance, he glanced round the Kttle 
 room and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It seems to me, master, the mistress 
 would do right to send me back with a box 
 on the ear if I leave such a place as this," 
 he protested. " Look how that window is 
 choked up — the brush must go to work here 
 at once, or we shan't be able to see one 
 pollard from another soon, or bran from 
 sharps." 
 
 "Nonsense," grumbled Ambray, who did 
 not like being opposed, and whose cough 
 was aggravated by Michael's brush filling 
 the air with white dust. " I'm going home 
 to tea. You'd better come too."
 
 Michael's proposal. 37 
 
 Michael made a grimace. 
 
 **Tea, master ? " lie remonstrated, '^ before 
 three o'clock ! Come now, you must have 
 a little patience with me. I shall get used 
 to your country hours all in good time, and 
 turn the day upside down as well as any of 
 you. I've no doubt in a week or two you'll 
 find me quite ready to spring up like a lark 
 — no, I mean like a nightingale when the 
 sun sets, and go to bed when the lark gets 
 up. But who can be reformed all at once ? " 
 "Have your own way, then," answered 
 the miller, a smile playing for an instant on 
 his thin white lips as Michael held open the 
 door for him.
 
 38 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE NAMES ON THE BIN. 
 
 " Yet less of sorrow lives in me 
 For days of happy commune dead ; 
 Less yearning for the friendship fled, 
 Than some strong bond which is to be." 
 
 TEIfNYSON. ' 
 
 Like some chnrchyard ghost, Micliael 
 thought, that had gone wandering abroad 
 at midnight and been overtaken by the 
 sunshine before it had found its way back 
 to the grave, the figure of the miller, tall 
 and white, passed slowly across the corner 
 of the sunny field. 
 
 He stood with the door in his hands for 
 some moments looking after him with a 
 gaze that had in it the tenderness of a 
 child, the awe of a slave.
 
 THE NAMES ON THE BIN. 39 
 
 Then lie shut the door gently, as gently 
 and reluctantly as if some bright form, 
 soft, odoui'-breathing, and lovely, had just 
 floated out, and he feared that the edges of 
 a silken train might still be lingering on 
 the thi'eshold. 
 
 With his thumb upon the latch, he turned 
 and looked around him, and up the little 
 steps, and slowly realized that he was alone 
 in the mill. 
 
 He reahzed that he was alone ; and yet his 
 eyes began immediately to look and turn 
 slowly or quickly as eyes that are riveted on 
 the movements of some person or thing 
 whose presence causes restlessness and fear. 
 
 The invisible object of Michael's gaze was 
 felt by him to be anything but ghostly. 
 The face and form that he felt living and 
 moving about the mill were full of vigour 
 and youth, and indeed it was the richness 
 and fulness of hfe in his spectre that made 
 it the more tenible to him. Many times he 
 had the sense of hearing a clear strong
 
 40 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 whistle, or a snatcli of song in a ricli, young 
 voice that seemed now in the room where 
 he was ; now above in the upper floors ; and 
 now upon the steps. 
 
 When at last Michael's gay and busy 
 ghost seemed to have passed up these steps, 
 and to be moving about the dressing floor 
 over his head, he could not keep himself 
 from following. 
 
 Ascending the steps slowly, he reached 
 this place, and gazed through the dusty 
 glass door into the tiny closet that served 
 as an office. 
 
 There was a little white coat which 
 Michael knew could never have belonged to 
 old Ambray hanging up here ; and nailed 
 against the wall he saw a tiny common 
 looking-glass which he was sure was never 
 hung there by the grim old miller. 
 
 Turning from the office, he was passing 
 along by the great flour-bin in the middle of 
 the room, when he saw on it, in a patch of 
 sunshine, a confused mass of sketches and
 
 THE NAMES ON THE BIN. 41 
 
 scribbling. The sketches were mostly of 
 windmills, and all seemed to have been done 
 by the same hand, which had evidently been 
 possessed by a restless ambition to improve 
 upon its first childish sketch of a windmill. 
 In the top sketch it seemed to have ful- 
 filled its desires, for a fantastic frame was 
 pencilled round it, and just inside the frame 
 was written, in a hand bold and flowing, 
 ** George Ambray." 
 
 The scribbhng among the windmills con- 
 sisted only of repetitions of the same name 
 and a few dates and obscure records ; but a 
 httle on one side two names were carved on 
 the wood with a penknife, and a date, the 
 1st of March, two years back, was cut beside 
 them. Michael's eye was caught by this 
 date instantly, and he drew in his breath as 
 he saw it, and then stood gazing on it and 
 on the names, ^^ George" and ^'Nora," till 
 the Hght and hfe seemed first to die out of 
 his eyes, then to flash back strong and moist, 
 as he looked with an almost passionate
 
 42 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 sympathy at the spot where the cutting of 
 the names, and the parting, which he knew 
 by the date that followed it, had taken place. 
 So absorbed was he in this scene of two 
 years ago that he behaved exactly as he 
 might have done had it been taking place 
 before his eyes. He watched the remem- 
 bered, or the imagined, ^^ George " and 
 ^*Nora" across the room, and even went 
 to look down the steps after them, and 
 hnrried to the window to see them go 
 across the field. While standing there he 
 heard the door opened below, and the old 
 miller's voice calling him.
 
 ( 43 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE mLLEK CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 
 
 " Oh, sir, to wiKul men, 
 The injuries that they themselves procure 
 Must be their schoolmasters." 
 
 Shakspeaee. 
 
 Michael started, then hiirned to tlie ladder, 
 but before descending it lie stood still, and 
 passed his hand across his face, and drew 
 two or three deep breaths. 
 
 He came down at last whistling care- 
 lessly, so that Ambray should think he 
 had not heard himself called. 
 
 *^ You're soon back, then, master," he 
 cried with pretended surprise. 
 
 ^'Yes," answered Ambray, sitting down 
 on the sack of bran again and sighing
 
 44 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 heavily. '^ I've been speaking to my wife 
 about this, and she thinks a deal of it. 
 I only hope she won't think too much of 
 it," he added in a lower voice. ''But 
 she thinks we ought to see the woman 
 to-night about it, if that's anyway pos- 
 sible." 
 
 '' Is that wise," asked Michael, with a 
 comical look of fright and awe, ''if, as I 
 think you did say, the lady sometimes gets 
 a little — a Httle over- excited on market 
 days?" 
 
 "Hold your tongue with your 'lady,' " 
 cried Ambray ; " a pretty ' lady ' 1 " 
 
 "Is she now? " said Michael, with affected 
 simphcity. 
 
 "You'U see for yourself," answered the 
 miUer, haK savagely, half amused. 
 
 As Michael stood waiting further orders, 
 Ambray startled him by saying suddenly — 
 
 " Didn't you know, then, that my brother, 
 Mark Ambray, married a hop-picker ? ' ' 
 
 " Me ! I know nothing," stammered
 
 THE MILLEE CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 45 
 
 Michael confuseclly. ^'I am quite a 
 stranger here." 
 
 ^' Yes," growled the old miller, fixing 
 on him eyes chilled and hardened hy a life- 
 long disappointment, ^' he did, sm^e enough, 
 and was killed at five -and- twenty, out a 
 hunting. He was a gentleman, was Mark 
 Amhray. Ah, you wouldn't take me for 
 his brother if you'd seen him. Yes, he 
 was taken when he httle expected it, and 
 then everything was hers ; and she kept 
 everything, the High Mills and all, though 
 she had a paper that only wanted his name, 
 making them over to me. Years ago she'd 
 have liked to turn me out, but she daren't, 
 for the whole country-side would have 
 been upon her. Besides, the mill did well ; 
 she couldn't have had it better filled, 
 she knew that. But she's trying it on 
 now. Yes, and the Lord knows where 
 she'H stop." 
 
 '' She's a rich woman too, I hear," said 
 Michael.
 
 46 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 */ Kich ! Why, my brother when he 
 married her had Buckholt Farm down there 
 where she lives now, and scrapes her gains 
 together, and plays the miser, and clacks 
 her tongue from morn till night. He had 
 the farm and mills — the old black one went 
 too then — and haK the church tithes, and 
 some hop-gardens over at Tidhurst besides ; 
 then she married Moon, a retired chandler 
 from Bulver's Bay — ^pretty comfortable off 
 — ^in fact, there's no teUing exactly what he 
 did have." 
 
 ^^ But I thought she was a widow ? " said 
 Michael. 
 
 ^^ So she is ; Moon isn't in your way if 
 you think of making yourself agreeable to 
 her to-morrow, or to-night. He was taken 
 off by dropsy twelve years ago." 
 
 ^^Ah!" answered Michael, laughing and 
 shaking his head. ^^ There might be more 
 of money-moon than honey-moon in that." 
 
 The smallest of jokes went a long way 
 in Lamberhurst, and if there ever was a
 
 THE MILLEB CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 47 
 
 man who found a joke at the expense of 
 the enemy of his Hfe unpalatable, old 
 Ambray was not that man. It warmed his 
 heart towards Michael to see him laugh 
 now, even more than the good lines he had 
 thought so much of. He laughed till his 
 old disease, as if enraged at seeing another 
 power usm'p its place in the poor old 
 frame, drove off his mii'th with a hard fit 
 of coughing. 
 
 But when this was over he looked at 
 Michael with a large and hearty liking. 
 
 "Come," he said, "I feel ,like a man 
 who has been giving his guest nothing but 
 bad wine when he's still some of the right 
 stuff in his cellar. Things are not so bad 
 as they seem at High Mills, Michael Swift. 
 I shouldn't have borne what I have if I 
 hadn't had good reasons for patience. I 
 have nothing to look to for myself, but I 
 don't care for that — ^what's life to me now ? 
 The grain is ground, and the meal sorted, 
 the floui^ taken away, and the bran left.
 
 48 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 No, I am notliing to myseK now, nothing 
 but an ache and a burden. God knows 
 what the world would be to me if I hadn't 
 my boy to think of, and if I couldn't look 
 forward to a better lot for him than mine's 
 been. But it's something to hope and Hve 
 for to see all that belonged to my father 
 come back to my son doubled, ay, more 
 than doubled. That's what I live for, 
 Michael Swift; that's the wind my sails 
 are set to." 
 
 He looked up at Michael to see if he 
 was as much impressed as he intended 
 him to be. He was satisfied, and it struck 
 him vaguely at the same time that he was 
 about ten years older than he had first 
 thought him. 
 
 Michael was leaning on the bran-bin, 
 resting his elbow upon it, and holding 
 his beard and lower lip crushed in his 
 hand, while his eyes were fixed on Ambray. 
 He felt that they were very haggard, but he 
 dared not move them from the miller's face.
 
 THE MILLER CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 49 
 
 *' How old did you say you were ? " asked 
 Ambray with, a kindly interest. 
 
 Michael had not mentioned his age at 
 all as yet, and in his confusion now it 
 occuiTed to him he had better tell a false- 
 hood about it. But it lay like a piece of 
 lead on his tongue, and he could not get 
 it out. He ended this little struggle by 
 saying, 
 
 "I am only thirty- two, master, but five 
 years of millering " 
 
 '^ Takes ten of life," Ambray finished 
 for him. " I often think that Miller of 
 the Dee they sing about — a water miller, 
 of coui'se — must have been blessed with 
 uncommon good lungs to have worked and 
 sung from morn till night, as they say he 
 did. I know I've found the work enough 
 for mine without the singing." 
 
 He was silent a moment or two, then 
 began in a troubled voice — 
 
 ^* I don't know whether Tm glad or sorry 
 that my son gave it up. It seemed a sin 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 to keep him at it when there was every 
 prospect of his taking the upper hand at 
 Buckholt Farm in a year or two ; but 
 since things have gone so contrary lately, 
 I have doubted a good deal whether I did 
 right in not keeping him to the mill. 
 Well, I was telHng you how the land 
 lies between my sister-in-law and us. It's 
 this way. I had a brother besides Mark, 
 her husband, and he died and left his 
 little girl with us quite unprovided for. 
 Mark took her, and, for a wonder, his wife 
 made as much of her as if she'd been 
 their own ; and when Mark was killed, 
 and his wife married again, little Nora 
 was sent to a good school at Bulver's 
 Bay. When Moon died, the Httle thing was 
 had home again, and her aunt soon let it 
 be known that she was to have every- 
 thing. Well, George, that's my boy — well, 
 he and Nora were always together — it 
 didn't matter to them whose ground they 
 were on. There was never a day without
 
 THE MILLER CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 51 
 
 her being over at the Mill, and he had 
 the run of the farm, with his aunt's leave 
 or without it. They were as headstrong 
 a pair of children as ever lived, and when 
 they were grown up and chose to say they 
 were engaged, Moon couldn't help herself ; 
 she knew Nora, and so, having to choose 
 between taking the pair or losing 'em, she 
 agreed to it. I often think she only did so 
 because she thought that was the most 
 likely way to make the gui change her 
 mind ; for she's a deep one, Jane Moon is. 
 As for my George, she'd care little 
 about breaking his heart, but Nora she is 
 tender over ; in fact, she's the only creature 
 she ever had a Kking for in her hfe." 
 
 Michael now roused himself and began 
 to put some sacks up together against 
 the wall, but seeing that Ambray looked 
 at him with a frown of impatience and 
 annoyance on his pale face, he came back 
 to the bin, and again leaned on it in an 
 attitude of respectfal attention. As a 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 llNtVEfiSITY OF ILUNOte
 
 52 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 piinisliinent for what lie considered 
 Micliaers lack of proper interest in his 
 affairs, Ambray remained silent. 
 
 ^'Does Miss' Ambray live at the farm?" 
 Michael at la^t ventured to ask very 
 humbly. 
 
 ^' She does and she doesn't," the miller 
 answered. ^^ It's her real home, I suppose, 
 but she's sought after so much that she's 
 away a great deal visiting here and there. 
 She's been staying this six weeks — ah, 
 more than that, pretty near all the winter 
 — over at the Bay, at old General Mill- 
 wood's, at Stone Crouch. He was an 
 ensign of nineteen when he fought at 
 Waterloo with her grandfather, who was 
 over sixty then. The young people at 
 Stone Crouch are mighty fond of Miss 
 Nora. Money — money, what can't it do ? 
 Why, my wife was a head taller than her, 
 and the prettiest girl in Lamberhurst, and 
 nobody ever made me jealous. But, Nora 
 — ah, what a fool that boy of mine is !
 
 THE MILLEK CONFIDES IN mCHAEL. 53 
 
 Not but what she worships the very gi^ouncl 
 he's trodden on. Why, she never missed 
 a day all this winter riding over to ask if 
 we'd heard from him — till the last few 
 weeks she's got tii'ed, and no wonder ! no 
 wonder ! " 
 
 Michael, with his brow on his hand and 
 his elbow resting on the bin, held his 
 breath at this silence, for he knew what 
 would come after it — the burst of pain 
 and anger that had been so long restrained. 
 
 It came, and Michael's form so shuddered 
 under it that the old padlock hanging 
 loosely to the bin shook and rattled. 
 
 ''Ah, Michael Swift," the miller cried, 
 lifting up his head with a kind of proud 
 abandonment to shame and grief, ''my 
 son is using us very badly, very wickedly ! 
 Ah, what I have done for that boy ! 
 what I have gone through for his sake 
 the God I have thought less of than 
 him, only knows ! He fancied himself 
 an artist, and nothing would do but he
 
 54 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 must go to London and study ; and we 
 two old fools, Ms mother and me, of 
 course we must set his opinion against 
 all the world's, and get him his way by 
 pinching and begging, and by hook and 
 by crook. Two years he's been away 
 now, and only troubled himself to come 
 home once. Four letters I've written to 
 tell him how Jane Moon is treating us, 
 and not a line have I had except an 
 answer to the first to say he couldn't 
 come, and some hint about breaking off 
 his engagement with Nora, but that was 
 temper — a sort of threat to me, and the 
 girl shall never hear of it. He didn't 
 want to hurry himself home, that's all, 
 and show his temper in that way. It 
 was a sort of a warning to us not to 
 thwart him, I believe. Jane Moon was 
 in high glee, the cat ! and thinks Nora 
 well rid of him, and tries to starve us 
 out of the mill, out of the parish, out 
 of the girl's sight ; and I write to George
 
 THE MILLER CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 55 
 
 and tell him all this, and he — he stays 
 on, making game of us, no doubt, with 
 his fine artist friends. But he'll punish 
 himself soon. He can't last out long 
 without money, that's my comfort. He'll 
 have to suffer in the long run, and punish 
 himself. He'll be humble enough when 
 he's in want again, though he ivas too 
 proud to have his old father and mother 
 up to London to see him, as they offered 
 when times weren't so bad. Ah, that 
 was the fii^st blow, that was. * He was 
 among friends,' he said. Friends, the 
 young scamp ! What friends had he such 
 as us ? * He had no means of making us 
 comfortable.' Comfortable, the young h}^o- 
 crite ! Ah, hasn't he done that ?" 
 
 A long fit of coughing followed Ambray's 
 bitter and prolonged outbm'st. Michael 
 remained bent over the bin, motionless 
 and mute. 
 
 The miller said nothing, but he could 
 not help feeling sm'prise and disappoint- 
 ment at his silence.
 
 56 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 He thought he had secured a good- 
 natured, sympathetic listener, who would 
 be almost certain to defend his son, and 
 so give him the sweetest comfort that, in 
 George's absence, the world could afford 
 him. 
 
 He got up from his seat on the bran- 
 sack in an ill-humour as soon as his cough 
 was quieted, and told Michael to shut 
 up the mill and go round to Buckholt 
 Farm to inquire what time Mrs. Moon 
 was expected home. 
 
 Michael rose and came and opened the 
 door for him. Ambray pulled his coat 
 collar high up round his neck and passed 
 him sulkily, without looking in his face. 
 For this, when he was gone, Michael 
 sighed with a great thankfulness and 
 relief. 
 
 When he had shut himself in again, 
 he leant his back against the door, and 
 stood looking down with the expression 
 of one who felt himself to be contending
 
 THE MILLEE CONFIDES IN MICHAEL. 57 
 
 iu his mind against some um-easonalole 
 misery. 
 
 He stood so for several moments; then 
 went to where the hght streamed in at 
 the little window, and looked np at it. 
 Here a look of comfort and faint triumph 
 came into his eye, and he said softly — 
 
 " Oh, George, boy, if you could speak 
 for me, you would! "
 
 58 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 " Comes, from the road-side inn canght up, 
 A brawl of crowded laughter, 
 Thro' falling brooks, and cawing rooks, 
 And a fiddle scrambling after." 
 
 Leicester Wahren. 
 
 Michael went about his work of shnttiiig 
 up very quietly, and witli a calmer manner 
 than he had yet had since he entered the 
 mill. 
 
 He appeared to treat almost with rever- 
 ence every little duty that came to his 
 hand. 
 
 The old dog followed him from floor to 
 floor ; the setting sun streamed warmly 
 through and through the mill.
 
 EVENING. 59 
 
 Michael, thougli lie dared not yet look 
 back and wonder what they were all doing 
 at home, began to feel less strange and chill 
 at heart. 
 
 He did not care yet to look far out over 
 the downs when he went to shut the doors 
 leading on to the little terrace, for fear his 
 thoughts should be driven by force of con- 
 trast to the dear old green at home. 
 
 He only took one vague, sweeping glance 
 over all — the sketches of Hght and shadow ; 
 the Httle line of sea ; the mills on the far- 
 away heights laying their sails like weary 
 wings at rest against the sky; the White 
 Lane up from the smithy where a party of 
 riders were waiting, their voices ascending 
 in a pleasant murmur with the ring of the 
 blacksmith's hammer, the sound of rough 
 laughter and music from the " Team," 
 and the tinkling of a sheep-bell in the 
 mill-field. 
 
 Michael had locked both doors, and was 
 going down the ladder to the next floor
 
 60 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 with his gentle, noiseless step, when all at 
 once he stood still, and put up his hand to 
 shade his eyes from the sun that streamed 
 towards him. His other hand was still 
 holding by the upper floor, and his eyes full 
 of self-doubt and amazement were looking 
 towards the great bin. 
 
 He knew that the mill must for him be 
 incessantly haunted by forms and voices 
 of the past, and for a moment or two he 
 could scarcely feel sure whether he was 
 looking at a phantom of his brain or a 
 reality. 
 
 The object of his doubt was a girl in a 
 riding habit, standing by the bin with her 
 back towards Michael, and looking at 
 George Ambray's sketches and the two 
 names carved there. 
 
 Michael had barely time to say to himseK, 
 ^^I am not dreaming — it is a lady," before 
 she bent her head and touched the names 
 with her Hps, then ghded to the steps, and, 
 without Michael having seen her face.
 
 EVENING. 61 
 
 vanislied down them as if her feet had been 
 used to them from childhood. 
 
 And they had been used to them from 
 childhood, Michael was sure, for he knew 
 that this was Nora.
 
 62 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 geoege's home. 
 
 " To have received no tidings of an only child — 
 To have despair'd, have hoped, believed, 
 And be for evermore beguiled." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Michael had not to find his way to Buck- 
 holt Farm that evening. He had only just 
 come into the road out of the White Lane 
 when he saw a party of tipsy labourers on 
 their way home from the Team, and Ma'r 
 S'one was amongst them, himseH perfectly 
 sober and gentle, and looking the meekest 
 and sweetest-tempered of victims. 
 
 On being drawn away and questioned by 
 Michael, Ma'r S'one said he was sure his 
 mistress would not be home till late, as he
 
 GEORGES HOME. 63 
 
 knew she was going to take tea with an 
 aunt of her second husband's, who kept a 
 di'aper's shop at the Bay. 
 
 So Michael wished Ma'r S'one good- 
 night, and went back up the lane. 
 
 It was with a dreary feehng that he re- 
 membered he did not even know where the 
 miller's house was, and should be obhged to 
 ask his way to it. 
 
 He had seen Ambray when he left the 
 mill go down a slope at the corner of the 
 field, and he went on in that direction till 
 he came to some cottages, which he 
 would have fancied only the poorest farm- 
 labom-ers Hved in, till at the garden gate 
 of one he saw the miller standing, evidently 
 looking out for him. 
 
 He seemed disappointed at the result of 
 Michael's inquhies; but, after one im- 
 patient exclamation, he led the way quietly 
 into the cottage, saying to Michael as he 
 appeai'ed at the door — 
 
 ^' Here's my wife — crying, you see — fit to
 
 64 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 break lier heart because Miss Nora Ambray 
 has just paid ns a flying visit." 
 
 Michael stood with his cap in his hand, 
 trying his utmost not to look at a large 
 portrait over the mantelpiece, which he 
 could not help seeing wherever he turned, 
 though as yet he had not hfted his eyes 
 towards it. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray's was a clear-cut, beautiful 
 old face, noble with shadows of other 
 griefs than her own. When Michael at 
 last found courage to look at it, he saw 
 so much more there than the likeness to 
 another face which he had feared to see, 
 that he felt full of pleasure when it smiled 
 at him, and a voice, as like that face as 
 could be, bade him come near to the fire. 
 
 The whole of that first evening at 
 Ambray's house was Hke a dream to 
 Michael. He can only recall the two 
 voices talking at intervals — and that the 
 talk was all George Ambray, Nora, and 
 the chances of gaining the desired end 
 from Mrs. Moon in the morning.
 
 George's home. 65 
 
 He understood well that evening what 
 the old people were to each other. The 
 miller's wife was to him no wife now 
 excejDt in name, but only the mother of 
 his boy, in whom his very soul was bound 
 up. He could remember and respect her 
 sorrow on her son's account, but in every- 
 thing else he shghted and ignored her. 
 
 With her the case was exactly opposite 
 — ^there was much more of the wife than 
 the mother in her — she sorrowed over 
 George, but chiefly on account of the grief 
 he was causing his father, whose every look 
 and movement Michael saw she watched 
 with a young, suffering, loving heart in 
 her old eyes. 
 
 He seemed to understand them both so 
 well, that he could scarcely believe he 
 had not known and watched them many 
 years, instead of a few hours. 
 
 When it was late on in the evening 
 Michael was startled by Ambray saying 
 suddenly — 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 *^ Esther, get the Bible and read me 
 that about the prodigal son." 
 
 A shade passed over Mrs. Ambray's 
 clear face, perhaps it was disappointment, 
 almost jealousy ; for she had been for 
 some time attending to his comforts and 
 had thought that he was regarding her with 
 some gratitude and tenderness. 
 
 She obeyed him, but began to cry before 
 she was half way through the story, and 
 Ambray took the book from her and himself 
 read it aloud. 
 
 As he read, his harsh, weak voice grew 
 stronger — it became almost sweet — his fine 
 eye lit, and filled. 
 
 He finished — ^then looked back over the 
 page and laid the book down. 
 
 When he turned again to the fire there 
 were stains in the white dust on his cheeks, 
 and he smiled on Michael as he said — 
 
 ^^It is different with my prodigal. It 
 is I who must go and eat the husks to- 
 morrow, and abase myseKfor his sake."
 
 George's home. 67 
 
 Michael said not a word, but bent down 
 very low to pick up a brand that had fallen 
 from the fire. 
 
 They put him in George's room which 
 was, fortunately, on the ground floor, for 
 he found it impossible to remain there two 
 minutes, though it was all white and pink, 
 and as sweet as an orchard in bloom. 
 
 The old latticed window was easy to 
 escape from, and Michael was soon out 
 alone in his new world of downs, all 
 bathed now in the whiteness and strange- 
 ness of moonlight. 
 
 He wandered till he was weary beyond 
 the sense of weariness — ^Hying through 
 all the day again and again in his rest- 
 less thoughts. 
 
 At last he stood close under the mill, 
 saying with mute lips — 
 
 ''The Lord visit thee with good winds, 
 little mill, and I'll gi'ind it out. It was 
 no crime — but I'll grind it out."
 
 68 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 " And fyry Phebus ryseth up so bright, 
 That al the orient laugheth of the light." 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Michael slept in tlie mill that night, and 
 in the morning stood at one of the little 
 windows and saw the sun rise. 
 
 It was a sight to which he was well 
 accustomed, and for which he had spared a 
 few moments nearly every day throughout 
 his husy life. 
 
 Whether it ever enriched his mind with 
 one poetic thought is not known, for 
 Michael never had the good fortune to he 
 acquainted with any one to whom he could 
 have ventured to impart such a thought,
 
 MORNING. 69 
 
 had it been his ; and for expressing it on 
 paper, he had never either time, opportunity, 
 or inchnation. 
 
 But it is certain that Michael felt nature, 
 rather than thought about it; that he en- 
 joyed, rather than studied it. 
 
 He had, too, a feehng, that for a man to 
 take no notice of the grand changes on the 
 face of the uniyerse in which he is as but 
 a grain of dust, was to render himself still 
 more utterly dust-like, helpless, and insigni- 
 ficant. So he laid a sort of honest human 
 claim on everything in nature that was great, 
 mysterious, or wonderful. '^ Where would 
 be his share in these things after death," 
 Michael vaguely asked himself, '' if he did 
 not feel, acknowledge, and claim it now, 
 when his eye was clear and his mind sound ? " 
 
 There were certain times when Michael's 
 work, to which he ordinarily gave such 
 patience and devotion, would suddenly 
 become to him insignificant as the labours 
 of the ant.
 
 70 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 His old father had often been amazed and 
 irritated beyond measure that so rational 
 and manly a son as Michael was in most 
 respects, should still be absurd enough to run 
 out on the green and lift his black beard 
 above a crowd of dimpled, infantine chins ; 
 to stare at a rainbow ; or hold the mill-sails 
 idle on a breezy May evening, to catch the 
 first notes of a nightingale. 
 
 When the light of his first morning at 
 Southdownshire dawned about the High 
 Mills, Michael rose from his bed of sacks 
 and went upstairs to a window, a mere 
 square hole, which his face nearly filled. 
 
 He had better have gone about his work, 
 for this was positively the first time he had 
 beheld the sunrise on any scene but one. 
 
 On the two nights of his journey he had 
 been weary, and had risen late. So now he 
 found that the daybreak on these strange 
 fields was not a thing likely to refresh and 
 strengthen him for his morning's work, 
 which he greatly dreaded. It was like an
 
 MOENIXG. 71 
 
 old time with new words i a foreign lan- 
 guage, the mnsic was sweet, but the sense, 
 strange, unsatisfying to the thoughts the 
 mnsic created. 
 
 The rose and opal Hghts, the faint cock- 
 crowing, the fi*esh bird voices, — these, 
 indeed, made one part of the morning : but 
 where was the other and dearer part, — the 
 familiar sounds of his old home as it 
 began to waken and stir; the familiar 
 sights dawning so pleasantly on his eyes ? 
 
 The downs shone like emeralds, and the 
 flocks upon them were very plentiful ; but 
 the half-bald green at home, and the two 
 veteran horses retired thereon for the rest 
 of their natural (or unnatural) lives (as it 
 might please the village boys), these were 
 the pastm-es and the flocks of Michael's 
 heart. 
 
 The httle circlet of sea at the end of 
 the valley glittered as no jewel but that 
 one mighty gem of magnitude and depth 
 in its setting of earth and sky can glitter ;
 
 72 . THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 and the sails of the channel fleet flecked 
 it as the flocks did the meadows. 
 
 A gallant sight for so true an Enghsh- 
 man as Michael: yet as he looked at it, 
 the puny waves of the old pond at home 
 swelled in his memory till they washed 
 all else away, and brought the paper boats 
 of his Uttle brother to make the channel 
 fleet fly before them. 
 
 The sadness of his state of exile was 
 on him, and Michael was obliged to hang 
 his head and own that, grain of human 
 dust as he called himself, the story of that 
 grain was more to him than the story of 
 all creation — the span of its actual exist- 
 ence larger to him than eternity. 
 
 Self-pity, however, was a thing of 
 which Michael possessed a very small 
 share indeed ; and he no sooner felt it gain- 
 ing dominion over him than he turned 
 upon himself with a great contempt, and 
 mocked and laughed at himself right 
 heartily.
 
 MORNING. 73 
 
 Mrs. Ambray, when she came to call 
 him to breakfast, thought he was frowning 
 and gi'owling at his work instead of at 
 himself, and said, 
 
 "Well, poor John has let the mill get 
 in a state ; it's no wonder the man's put 
 out about it." 
 
 He did not at first see her, and she 
 had to call him twice. 
 
 " Michael Swift ! Mi— chael ! " 
 
 She had come up the ladder till she 
 was able to see into the room where 
 Michael was brushing out the grooves 
 of the great wheel. 
 
 In an instant his face, all brightness 
 and gentleness, was leaning out of the 
 wheel towards her. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray had of late years acquired 
 a cold and stony manner towards every 
 one but her husband, George, and Nora. 
 She had little complaint herseK to make 
 against the world, but as these three 
 had much, she had grown into a habit of
 
 74 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 hardening her sweet old face and voice 
 against it. 
 
 But this morning she could not help 
 smiling at Michael, and speaking kindly 
 as she said — 
 
 " Come — ^if you've been at work long 
 like this, I should say you're wanting your 
 breakfast." 
 
 Michael was too vividly reminded of 
 another dear old face and voice that used 
 to come up the mill at home, and call him, 
 to be able to answer this. 
 
 He crept gently down after her, and as 
 they went out into the warm and dewy 
 field, asked her how the master was this 
 morning. 
 
 They were walking side by side, and 
 Michael watched the grief come into her 
 face with a strong compassion as she 
 answered — 
 
 ^' Bad — ^very bad ; but can we wonder ? 
 It was enough to kill him yesterday." 
 
 When they were come into the cottage,
 
 MORNING. 75 
 
 Michael saw the breakfast was but for 
 two. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed ; ^' is the 
 master unable to get up, then?" 
 
 Mrs. Ambray bowed her head with a 
 stately resignation. 
 
 ^' He has tried many times," she said, 
 "but the cough takes his breath as he 
 takes his clothes, and I've persuaded him 
 to give u]3 the strife for an hour or so, and 
 He stm." 
 
 Mrs. Ambray had as grave a companion 
 at her sad breakfast as she could msh. 
 
 Michael was trying to look steadily at 
 the prospect of the old miller giving up 
 the strife for ever instead of for an hour, 
 and was finding his own Hfe utterly des- 
 titute of aim or hope at such a prospect. 
 
 Gaessing nothing of these thoughts, 
 Mrs. Ambray began to be sm-prised and 
 touched by the sadness of his face, and to 
 wonder about it. 
 
 '^ You've had a bit of trouble in your life,
 
 76 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 my man," she said in tlie tone of one 
 making at the same time a statement and 
 an inquiry. 
 
 '' Trouble— hall ! " 
 
 It was half a laugh, half a cry, that 
 broke from Michael, and that shook him 
 as he raised his eyes to hers — part relieved, 
 and part frightened by showing her one 
 glimpse of a misery so wild as to cause 
 her to start up and lay her hand trem- 
 blingly on his shoulder. 
 
 '^ Bless the poor fellow, what is it?" 
 she cried; ^'youVe had some great loss 
 just now. Ah, is that it ? Your mother, 
 perhaps ? " . 
 
 Michael shook his head, with a tender 
 gratitude that seemed to say, ^^ No, thank 
 God, not her." 
 
 ^^ Your father, then?" 
 
 *' No," he answered gently and with the 
 same look. 
 
 ^'Not your wife — sure — you are not 
 married ? "
 
 MOR^^IXG. 77 
 
 '^Some one p'raps tliat you — that would 
 have been your wife." 
 
 Michael felt the rush of giief and 
 despair which had come over him at her 
 first words of kindness subside suddenly, 
 and give place to alarm at what these 
 questions and these answers, simple as 
 they were, might lead to. 
 
 His first impulse was to shake his head 
 as he had done before at each question, 
 but he resisted it, and only bent his head, 
 and taking the kind hand from his shoulder, 
 he said with a heightened colour and an 
 awkward laugh — 
 
 *' Ah, trust you women for getting at 
 a secret ! " 
 
 ''I am right, then ; poor fellow! Ah, 
 what a world it is ! " 
 
 ^'It is," cried Michael, with savageness, 
 dashing one clenched hand against the 
 palm of the other. ^' Oh yes, it is a world 
 — of liars."
 
 78 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 At this moment a faint voice called — 
 
 ^'Esther! " and slie was gone instantly. 
 
 ^'And I am tlie greatest of tliem all," 
 Michael muttered as she closed the door. 
 
 He was in a rage with himself; he 
 could not sit still ; he got up and tramped 
 ahout the room, moving as if he had to 
 push his way through muddy waves or 
 rank grass; 
 
 In this manner he came upon the reflec- 
 tion of himself in the mantlepiece mirror, 
 and turned upon it with a sort of snarl, 
 like a dog who does not know its own 
 image. 
 
 If the snarl had been interpreted it 
 would have been by some such words as — 
 
 '^ So you are the man who has cheated 
 the grey head, which may be struck with 
 the deafness of death before you can 
 unsay your words." 
 
 In a moment or two he looked at him- 
 self more mercifully, then coloured, and soon 
 smiled, raising his eyebrows, and saying.
 
 moe:n'ing. 79 
 
 ^^ Wliat do you tkLiik of yourseK, old boy, 
 as a love- sick swain ? " 
 
 He went back quietly to bis cbair at 
 tbe breakfast- table, and bis rage was 
 quite spent. Despair itseK bad come to 
 comfort bim by telling bim tbat be bad 
 perbaps told but tbe simple trutb in saying 
 be bad lost ber wbo would bave been 
 bis wife. 
 
 Micbael knew not at all wbom tbis 
 migbt be, yet be believed be would bave 
 married some one sooner or later but 
 for tbe event wbicb caused bim to leave 
 bis bome. And now wbat woman on 
 eartb would bave bim wben bis bands 
 and brain and be art were sworn slaves to 
 tbat pmpose wbicb migbt take bis life to 
 accomplisb ? 
 
 Mrs. Ambray, wben sbe beard bim, as 
 sbe went out of tbe room, declare tbat 
 tbis was a world of liars, concluded tbat 
 tbe poor fellow bad not lost bis betrotbed 
 by deatb, but bad been jilted very cruelly.
 
 80 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 She told tlie story, with the addition of 
 many romantic sm^mises of her own, to 
 Amhray when she had soothed his cough, 
 and it led to the old couple faUing, hand- 
 in-hand, into ecstasies of admiration, and 
 tender, proud delight over Nora's faithful- 
 ness to George.
 
 ( 81 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 ma'e s'one. 
 
 " Among tMs poure folk there dwelt a man 
 Which that was holden pourest of them all ; 
 But highe God sometime senden can 
 His grace unto a little ox's stall." 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Michael looked a little shamefaced when 
 Mrs. Ambray came back ; but her eyes saw 
 only bis sadness, and from it took to them- 
 selves a fresh shade of pathetic wonder at 
 the world and its ways. 
 
 Michael saw this, and was touched, and 
 remained shamefaced stiU. 
 
 They had nearly finished breakfast when 
 the garden gate creaked with a more pro- 
 longed noise than usual, as creaking gates 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 will do when hesitating hands are opening 
 them. 
 
 A step came up the garden, and a knock 
 at the door, which Michael, with the habits 
 of a family drudge strong upon him, jumped 
 up to open. 
 
 The early visitor was Ma'r S'one. 
 
 He was looking tired; for early as it 
 was, much of the '' burthen and heat of 
 the day" had already been his. He was 
 looking scared, too, and beseeching, like a 
 child who had been forced to go up to a 
 teacher with a lesson that was not half 
 learnt. 
 
 He had made himself particularly tidy 
 for his visit, and had in his clean smock — 
 so freshly put on as to show the marks of 
 its folds — ^the same kind of innocent self- 
 consciousness as a child in a clean pinafore. 
 
 *' Oh, good morning, Mr. Ma'r S'one," 
 said Michael; '^ and how might you find 
 yourseK to-day ? " 
 
 " Nicely, nicely, thank you, sir," answered
 
 ma'r s'one. 83 
 
 Ma'r S'one ; but at tlie same time lie stared 
 up at Michael with a humble, self-depre- 
 cating gaze, as if he were quite conscious 
 that, however ^'nicely" he might be, his 
 state was vastly different from that of his 
 kind -inquirer. 
 
 Backward a scholar in the world's school 
 as Ma'r S'one was, he had yet learnt one 
 lesson of his own setting very perfectly, 
 and that one was, that being so small a 
 creatm-e, with such small capacities, he 
 must rest satisfied with very small things 
 indeed; small wages, small health, small 
 sympathy, small notice of any kind from 
 God or man. 
 
 When others incomparably better off than 
 himseK chafed at their lot, Ma'r S'one 
 could offer a ready S3mipathy, and he often 
 thought that he must be really the only 
 man in the world who got his deserts. So 
 he always ate his food and lay down in his 
 bed deeply grateful, but timorous of coming 
 trouble.
 
 84 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 He was very timorous that morning, as 
 lie stood at the miller's door, leaning on 
 his pitchfork, and Michael had not looked 
 at him a moment before he began to suspect 
 him of bringing bad news. 
 
 ^^Be the master 'bout yet?" he asked, 
 when he had rephed to Michael's inquiry 
 after his health. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Ambray, who by this 
 time had come to the door, and at whom 
 Ma'r S'one looked very much frightened 
 indeed, and pulled his silver forelock ; " he 
 is not up, yet — what is it you want, Ma'r 
 S'one ? " 
 
 Ma'r S'one looked up at her and the 
 patch on the breast of his smock heaved 
 tremulously — his small eyes dilated and his 
 small mouth puckered hke the mouth of a 
 child going to cry. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray, like Michael, grew sus- 
 picious, and her face hardened at Ma'r 
 S'one's behaviour. 
 
 *'What do you want?" she said again, 
 sharply.
 
 ma'r s'one. 85 
 
 Ma'r S'one shook his head helplessly, 
 as if to express his inabLlity to speak while 
 she made him so frightened ; so she 
 waited, fixing her eyes on him with a 
 stony patience. 
 
 At last his withered throat began to 
 move, and the small thin voice came. 
 
 ^^ Missis is done it. She's let 'em, she 
 has. T' High Mills is let away." 
 
 Mrs. Ambray looked at him steadily for 
 a moment or two, then timied and went 
 away, and Michael and Ma'r S'one, follow- 
 ing her with their eyes, saw her go straight 
 to the door of the room where her husband 
 was lying. 
 
 In an instant Michael was beside her, 
 his arm between her and the door, and 
 closing romid her with a son-like support. 
 
 ^' What are you going to do ? " he said. 
 
 She looked at him, and the look was 
 sufficient answer. He saw that the despair 
 of Job's wife was upon her — that she had 
 been hurrying away to lay her head down
 
 86 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 by iier husband's side, and say — ^' All is 
 gone, Jolin ; let us die ! " 
 
 Micbaers grasp grew firmer round ber. 
 
 "Come," said lie, "if you were my 
 motber I sbould be ashamed of you. Sit 
 down, and let us talk to Mr. Ma'r S'one 
 a bit. Things may not be so bad as they 
 seem." 
 
 He placed her in a chair, and stood 
 behind her, with one hand laid firmly but 
 almost reverentially on her shoulder. 
 
 He wished to make her feel that help 
 was near, yet dared not tell her so, or let 
 her guess how deeply Ma'r S'one's news 
 concerned him as well as herself. 
 
 As they both looked at Ma'r S'one with 
 eyes that plainly demanded a fuller version 
 of his story, he stepped timidly over the 
 threshold, and began at once his explana- 
 tions, scarcely stopping for breath. 
 
 " She never comed 'ome laarst night, 
 she dedn't, she nor Ann Ditch — but sent 
 a letter by the red caart to the pos' arffice
 
 ma'e s'one. 87 
 
 for Ma'r Simon, and lie readed it out to me 
 when I Tvnr fed'n the caarves, and there it 
 wui' all about it as she'd let the mills and all 
 this field to Mr. Phillops as had his mill 
 burnt down at Tidhm'st. And she dedn't 
 wish fur to shock John Ambray, and thart 
 we'd break it to im fore she corned 'ome." 
 
 '' When is she coming home ? " asked 
 Michael. 
 
 " This marnin', sir, 'bout 'leven, so it 
 says in the letter, as Ma'r Simon readed 
 it to me." 
 
 Ma'r S'one spoke solemnly as if he were 
 giving evidence about a case of mm'der 
 before a judge and jmy, and indeed the 
 affaii' was little less awful to him, for he 
 thought that taking the High Mills fi^om 
 Ambray was Hke the parting of body and 
 soul. 
 
 He was much excited, the bit of colour 
 that was usually firm and ruddy on his 
 cheeks had faded and left them very pale, 
 and his eyes looked shocked and aghast.
 
 88 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 He stood gazing with Michael at tlie 
 face of Mrs. Ambray, which despair was 
 making white and rigid. 
 
 " The Lord furgive Mars Garge ! " he 
 cried suddenly and with unwonted vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray looked at him, and light 
 came in her eyes, and her lips moved. 
 
 ^' That he never, never will, Ma'r S'one," 
 said she. 
 
 Michael's hand grew suddenly heavy as 
 lead upon her shoulder, and he shook her 
 a little as he cried in heavy laboured tones 
 close to her ear — 
 
 ^' Do you say that ? His mother ! Shame ! 
 Shame!" 
 
 She was much too deep in her sorrow 
 to hear what passed over her, what com- 
 fort, what reproach, all could but pass 
 over, not touch, her. 
 
 Ma'r S'one seeing that they looked at 
 him for no more tidings, and feeling also 
 that he had no more to give, sighed gently,
 
 ma'r s'oneJ 89 
 
 and went his way, closing the door softly 
 after him. 
 
 In Ma'r S'one's small part on life's 
 stage most of the exits were quite in- 
 effective and noiseless. However difficult 
 and laborious, or painful, or pathetic the 
 scene he had been playing, no excitement 
 followed him : no sound of applause dis- 
 turbed his silence as the end of his 
 little old smock fluttered away.
 
 90 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 Michael's diplomacy. 
 
 " Ah ! had I never seen 
 Or known your kindness, what might I have been? " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Michael was not nsed to giving advice. 
 His old father and mother, while expecting 
 irom him the work of a man, demanded, at 
 the same time, the awe and humility of a 
 child, and would have regarded with deep 
 displeasure any attempt of his- at guiding 
 their fast-faihng minds. 
 
 Unknown to them, however, Michael did 
 direct them very often; but this was only 
 managed by innocent stratagems, at which 
 he was somewhat of an adept.
 
 Michael's diplomacy. 91 
 
 If his father happened to be in a little 
 perplexity, and Michael saw a way out of 
 it, he would give his view of the case by 
 pretending to quote some village ^* wiseacre " 
 in whom he knew his father had much 
 faith; or even sometimes profess to re- 
 member what he was suggesting as having 
 been proposed by his father himseK to 
 some neighbour in like difficulty. The 
 old man, if he saw the idea was good, 
 would exclaim, "Did I say that, really? 
 Well, I had almost forgotten it ; but, upon 
 my word, I think I was veiy right. What 
 say you, mother ? " Then Michaers mother 
 would answer proudly, "What do I say? 
 Why, that there's none but you could have 
 thought of it, Joseph." 
 
 And Michael would go back to his work, 
 smiHng to himself and whistling softly. 
 
 It was, then, no wonder, that though 
 he had for some minutes felt assured of 
 what would be the best coiu^se for the 
 Ambrays to pm^sue, Michael found himself
 
 92 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 in much perplexity about how to make 
 known his thoughts to the grey-haired 
 woman, whose mute suffering was inspiring 
 him with fihal respect and awe. 
 
 She sat, with her hands folded in her 
 lap, her eyes gazing straight out before 
 her, her hps closed tightly. 
 
 Michael had left her chair, and was 
 standing at the window, feeling her dumb 
 grief go through him as acutely as if she 
 were lifting up her voice in the most loud 
 and passionate lamentation. 
 
 It was while her eyes were turning 
 vacantly from their fixed gaze that they 
 fell on him and took in the consciousness 
 of his sympathy. 
 
 ^^Tell me," she said suddenly, ^^what 
 shall I do? How shall I break this to 
 my poor man? " 
 
 ^'I think, when you come to consider 
 it, you will think that the best thing would 
 be not to tell him yet at all." 
 
 ^^But he is going to beg her mercy.
 
 MICHAELS DIPLOMACY. 93 
 
 He thinks of getting up in an hour or two 
 and going to beg of her to give him another 
 trial, on account of you." 
 
 *^ I think you'll see, when you think over 
 it, that that would just be the best thing 
 he could do still," answered Michael. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray shook her bead. 
 
 *'He'd never forgive me if he knew I 
 had let him have the shame of asking for 
 what's gone." 
 
 '^ But is it quite gone ? " 
 
 ''You don't know Jane Moon, my good 
 man, or you'd never doubt it." 
 
 She sat silent a minute, her soft brows 
 knit in thought that only tm-ned to pain 
 as it came, and in a little while her tears 
 began to flow down the face she averted 
 from Michael as proudly as she could. 
 
 " Do we agree that it is to be so, then ? " 
 asked Michael, gently; "that the master 
 is to go and say his say about the mill, and 
 me, and changed prospects ? " 
 
 " Yes, God forbid I should be above
 
 94 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 taking advice at sncli a time when trouble 
 makes me helpless as a babe," said Mrs. 
 Ambray. 
 
 Sbe rose, and began to move slowly 
 and tremblingly about the room over ber 
 housebold duties. 
 
 *^I dare say you think I might show 
 myself more grateful," she said, stopping 
 by Michael; ^'but you don't know, and 
 may you never know, the soreness that 
 comes with gratitude to strangers to such 
 as are like me, neglected and deserted in 
 their need by them who are nearest and 
 dearest to 'em. I often think God only 
 knows what the poor man that the Samari- 
 tan was good to felt in his heart because 
 he ivas a Samaritan, and not the one his 
 soul and his flesh cried out to." 
 
 She trembled so that she was obliged to 
 set down the loaf she had taken up to put 
 away, and, burying her face in her hands, 
 she turned from Michael, and gave way to a 
 fresh burst of grief.
 
 MICHAELS DIPLOMACY. 95 
 
 *' Oil ! that heartless boy — ^why was lie 
 born ? Then there's Nora, she comes here 
 and kisses me, and calls me ^mother,' yet 
 there she stays fooling her time away at 
 Stone Crouch while we're being tm^ned out 
 neck and crop." 
 
 ^' Then do you think Miss Ambray knows 
 about her aunt letting the mills ? " asked 
 Michael. 
 
 ^^ I can't tell," Mrs. Ambray answered, 
 with sudden sternness and perplexity. '^I 
 can't teU." 
 
 For the next minute she was silent and 
 lost in thought. Her face was looking both 
 proud and wistful. 
 
 Michael knew she was thinking of her 
 niece — was longing for the gui's sympathy 
 and intercession, but loathing the idea of 
 the lady's patronage and charity. 
 
 ^'I may as well tell you," she said to 
 Michael at last. ^'I have been thinking 
 of Nora Ambray ever since Ma'r S'one 
 was here. Yes, you are right, she would
 
 96 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 come and fight onr battle for us if she 
 knew, I'm sm-e enough of that ; but what 
 I'm not sure of is, that we've any right 
 to accept of her help." 
 
 *^How so?" asked Michael with gentle 
 remonstrance. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray walked to the door of her 
 husband's room, and without bending her 
 head seemed to Ksten there for a Httle 
 while. Satisfied apparently that he stiU 
 slept, she came back slowly to where 
 Michael stood and laid her hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 '' I didn't think to speak of this which 
 I must speak of, to one I never saw till 
 yesterday; but trouble makes strangers 
 soon acquainted sometimes, and it seems 
 as if the Lord had sent you that we 
 might not be quite alone in our misfortune 
 to-day. WeU, Michael Swift, the truth is, 
 I dare not look to Miss Ambray to help ns, 
 because I feel guilty before her. She calls 
 me mother, and my heart misgives me.
 
 MICHAELS DIPLOMACY. 97 
 
 SO I dare not look at her when she kneels 
 beside me and lays her proud head in my 
 lap, and will have me talk of George. I 
 know she often wonders why I let it cost 
 her so much humbling of herself, and so 
 many blushes before I do so ; but oh, if she 
 knew how the least word that I say of him 
 to her seems to blister my tongue and heat 
 my face — ^if she knew how I long to go 
 down on my poor old knees before her 
 and say to her, ' Sweet soul, forgive us ! 
 my boy cares no more for you than for 
 the father and mother he has set at 
 nought.' Oh, how the girl would rise and 
 look at me ! " 
 
 Michael's averted eyes became more and 
 more dreary and heavy-looking as Mrs. 
 Ambray made him feel the strength and 
 trustfulness and humility of Nora's love 
 for her son, though it was evident that 
 the suspicion of George Ambray' s faith- 
 lessness did not sm^prise him in the least. 
 
 " I can — I think I can understand your 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 feelings in this matter," lie said, when lie 
 had made Mrs. Ambray sit down, and 
 both had been silent a little while; ^^bnt 
 excuse me, if I say that I still think you 
 wrong to doubt about letting the young 
 lady know of her aunt's day's work 
 yesterday." 
 
 Mrs. Ambray looked up at him searchingly. 
 
 Michael smiled. 
 
 *^ You think I'm speaking one word for 
 the master and two for the man, I see," 
 he said. ^^ No, begging your pardon, you 
 are wrong there. I could take my Hnes 
 and get work anywhere. I speak only for 
 your good." 
 
 ^^I don't doubt you," answered Mrs. 
 Ambray, wiping her eyes proudly. '^ You 
 are not the only one who has been taken 
 with the master at first sight. But as to 
 sending to Nora " 
 
 " It must be done for the master's sake," 
 asserted Michael, with gentle decision, '' it 
 must be done."
 
 Michael's diplomacy. 99 
 
 Mrs. Ambray shook lier head. 
 
 ^^ It's impossible," she declared. ^'Who 
 can tell ber ? " 
 
 ^' Wby, I can, if nobody else can," 
 answered Michael promptly. 
 
 " Bless the man ! don't yoii know Stone 
 Crouch is six miles from here," she said, 
 ^' and Jane Moon will be home at eleven, 
 and it's near ten now, and the master'll 
 be up directly he wakes, and wanting you 
 to go to the farm with him. "^^Tiat's the 
 good of talking in that way? " 
 
 "The master has a horse for the httle 
 waggon in the shed there?" asked 
 Michael. 
 
 "Yes, he has," rephed Mrs. Ambray 
 gloomily. "Poor old Fleetfoot, who takes 
 an hom^ to get down the hill to the 
 smithy." 
 
 "Isn't there some neighbour who would 
 lend a beast for the master's sake in such 
 a strait as this ? ' ' 
 
 "No," answered Mrs. Ambray shortly;
 
 100 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 *^ those that would can't, and those that 
 could won't." 
 
 ^' Surely now," said Michael, looking 
 blank; ^^ well, the country's very much 
 Hke London in some respects. What are 
 we to do ? " 
 
 ^^ There's only one thing I can think 
 of, and that's ridiculous," said Mrs. Ambray 
 at last. 
 
 Michael brightened. 
 
 ^' You heard Ma'r S'one speak of Simon ? 
 Well, he is Mrs. Moon's nephew, and is 
 supposed to have the management of 
 things when the mistress is away, though 
 Ma'r S'one really has to do everything 
 and mind Simon into the bargain, who is 
 as frightened of Jane Moon as Ma'r S'one 
 himself is." 
 
 ^' Then how can we expect him to help us ? " 
 
 '' Because he's still more frightened of 
 Nora Ambray; and to please her might 
 p'r'aps be scared into going to her himself 
 or lending us a horse. '^
 
 MICHAELS DIPLOMACY. 101 
 
 '' But wlio's to work np Mr. Simon's 
 feelings to the necessary state ? Were 
 you thinking of going to him ? Could 
 yon go ? " 
 
 ^^Me go ? -Z" go prowling about Jane 
 Moon's premises when she's away ! No, 
 Michael Swift, not quite that, even to 
 save the mill." 
 
 *^ Then shall I take Mr. Simon a message 
 from you," asked Michael, '^ and manage 
 him as best I can ? " 
 
 '^ No, no," answered Mrs. Ambray; "a 
 message fi'om me would do harm instead 
 of good. This Simon hates us because 
 of George. He would only be too glad 
 to see us diiven h'om the mill. It's only 
 the fear of Nora's anger that would make 
 him do what you want." 
 
 " Then I must go and find him, and 
 do my best, and take my chance," said 
 Michael, looking round for his cap. 
 ^' There's no time to lose. Good-bye for 
 the present. When you see me again I
 
 102 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 hope it will be on one of Mrs. Moon's best 
 borses." 
 
 It was scarcely balf-an-bour after Michael 
 left the miller's bouse that be was seen 
 riding on a lazy but strong little cob, 
 wbicb was mucb stared at by two ladies 
 squeezed closely together in an uncom- 
 fortably small and high chaise which 
 Michael met crawling along at a very 
 dignified pace indeed. 
 
 He thought that one of the ladies 
 stretched out her neck to look after him 
 as he passed ; of this, however, he could 
 not be sure, but he was in no doubt at 
 all as to a shrill and rather a nasal voice 
 exclaiming in tones that the fresh breeze 
 brought very clearly to his ear — 
 
 ^' Ann Ditch ! I could ha' swore that 
 there was my harse ! "
 
 ( 103 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 AT STONE CEOUCH. 
 
 '^ Long before 
 I looked upon her, when I heard her name 
 My heart was like a prophet to my heart, 
 And told me I should love. " 
 
 Tentstyson. 
 
 Not since the days wlieii Nora Ambray 
 used to smuggle him from the farm stables 
 for George's use, had the cob known such 
 a rider as he bore that morning. 
 
 At first he showed much surprise and 
 temper, and endeavoured by swerving 
 from side to side, making dead halts, and 
 kicking, to prove to Michael his utter 
 inabihty to go at such a pace as that to 
 which he urged him.
 
 104 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 In a little while, however, he appeared 
 to be growing interested and excited over 
 his own powers so drawn out and put to 
 the proof by Michael ; and before long 
 he entered fully into the spirit of Michael's 
 resolute and headlong haste, and overtook 
 and distanced everything on the road before 
 him with all the vigour and impetuosity 
 of his best days. These, certainly, were 
 not quite so far back as long idleness 
 and overfeeding had made them seem to 
 him. 
 
 u There, old fellow," said Michael, as 
 he gave him a hasty breakfast at the 
 village below the hiU that led up to Stone 
 Crouch. '^ You've not enjoyed a bit as 
 you do this for many a long day, I know. 
 You're like a good many of your betters, 
 you are : you've laid lazying and licking 
 the sugar off life tiU you've forgot the 
 taste of a good, deep, hearty bite." 
 
 Stone Crouch was reached before Michael 
 had satisfied himseK in the least as to
 
 AT STOXE CROUCH. 105 
 
 what lie should say to Miss Ambray when 
 he saw her, or what message he should 
 send in to her if she refused to see him. 
 
 The house was long, low, and of a 
 greenish white stone, lower in the middle 
 than at the two ends which formed two 
 square towers newer than the other part 
 and whiter. Before it spread meadow 
 after meadow, swept clean and clear by 
 the March winds right down to the sea. 
 Behind it a line of poplars swayed. 
 
 This much Michael could afterwards 
 remember of the outside of Stone Crouch, 
 and no more. He could never recall the 
 face of the servant to whom he spoke 
 the words he said, or the door by which 
 he entered ; for the moment he found 
 himself actually asking for the person 
 whom he had come to seek, his head 
 turned as dizzy as when he first heard 
 the noise of the grindstone and the sails 
 in the lane to the High Mills. 
 
 The next thing which he remembered,
 
 106 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 and whicli he never forgot, was tlie sound 
 of music and singing that kept breaking 
 off and being followed by peals of laughter 
 and by the chattering of many voices ; from 
 which Michael understood that a number 
 of young people were practising a song, 
 but growing tired of it, and lightening 
 the lesson by snatches of other songs, 
 by witticisms on each other's mistakes, 
 remonstrances for order and attention, 
 and reckless wanderings into soft dance 
 tunes. 
 
 From the voices that called to order, 
 and the voices that laughed, Michael's ear 
 instantly singled out one, and hearkened 
 for it, and to it — only. 
 
 He had never heard Nora's voice before, 
 but he was certain that this one was 
 hers. It did as the other's did — sang, 
 scolded, and laughed, and hoiv it said to 
 him, ^' I am the stray bird you have come 
 to seek," he knew not, but it did say as 
 much to him very plainly.
 
 AT STONE CROUCH. 107 
 
 It seemed to belong to her name, to Iter 
 story — to the liope deferred tliat '* maketh 
 the heart sick," and which was hers ; to her 
 strong faith in the absent ; to her love and 
 her watching; to the httle mill; to the 
 names cut there ; to the parting that hap- 
 pened there; to the lips that kissed the 
 names upon the bin but yesterday, when 
 the mill -sails on all the heights were rest- 
 ing, and the tenderness of night and 
 silence crept along the downs. 
 
 " Suppose Miss Ambray sings it alone 
 once more," Michael heard above the 
 merry confusion, and he thought, '^ Now 
 I shall hear if this really is the voice." 
 
 Entreaties followed, the song was sung, 
 and Michael found that he was right. 
 
 He could not at first catch many of 
 the words, but the sphit of the song, 
 the voice, and the accent, made him feel 
 unable to stand. 
 
 Never had the effects of what had be- 
 fallen him appeared more fearful than at 
 that moment.
 
 108 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 He held the heavy dining-room chair, 
 and prayed that God might mercifully 
 keep him unseen by any eye but His for 
 a little while. 
 
 And Nora went on singing — 
 
 " What will you do, love, 
 If, home returning 
 With hopes high burning, 
 The ship goes down ? " 
 
 Then, as in the last lines her voice rose 
 in triumphant faith and constancy, drops 
 of sweat stood on Michael's forehead, 
 his lips parted, and whitened, and he 
 stared before him Hke one gazing at a 
 mother hushing a dead child in her arms 
 without knowing it is dead, or at warm 
 blood flowing for a cause that is lost. 
 
 Michael afterwards heard from Nora 
 that it was old Miss Milwood, the general's 
 sister, who had taken him into the dining- 
 room, and who had been standing by 
 Nora tiU her song was finished to tell her 
 that a messenger from Lamberhurst was 
 waiting to see her.
 
 AT STONE CROUCH. 109 
 
 It was the same old lady who now came 
 to the door with Nora, and went away 
 again, shutting in the music and voices. 
 
 Michael took his hand from the chair, 
 and used his whole strength to keep it 
 steady as he held his cap crushed against 
 his side. 
 
 At first he felt sm^prised and chilled at 
 the brightness of Nora's dress, then surprise 
 at himself for being surprised, and fear at 
 the thought of what folly he might be guilty 
 of next. 
 
 She came towards him, and he looked 
 at her and took in her image at once 
 and for ever. 
 
 He knew her nearly as well at that 
 moment as he did in afteii:imes when he 
 saw her every day. He understood at once 
 that this Nora Ambray was a woman whose 
 heart was a tyrant to her beauty — which, 
 fresh as it was, was tried and fretted as 
 May leaves are when cold winds return. 
 Lovely as the blue eyes were, and possessed
 
 110 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 of little points of light ready to spread 
 and brighten into visible langbter at any 
 moment, Michael saw in them the worn, 
 strained look, telling unmistakably of wake- 
 fulness and tears, and overhasty, heart- 
 hurting conclusions concerning the world 
 they looked out upon with so strange a 
 mixture of longing and defiance. 
 
 She stood before Michael with all her 
 faults and virtues, all her soul in her 
 face, yet with a certain haughty turn of 
 the chin, and lowering of the tender 
 petulant eyelids, which seemed to denote 
 the most perfect confidence in her own 
 powers of self-concealment, and a calm 
 defiance of the world's scrutiny. 
 
 All this Michael saw in Nora when 
 he first looked in her face as she stood 
 waiting for him to speak, her eyes softening 
 with thoughts of home — her lace work frame 
 held laxly by one hand — a great brown 
 tress rising and falling on her heart — rest- 
 less and eager for his news.
 
 AT STONE CROUCH. Ill 
 
 Seeing him so silent and so pale, Nora 
 began to suspect all was not well, and 
 questioned Mm at first gently. 
 
 ^^ You have come from my Uncle Am- 
 bray's?" 
 
 So George's affianced wife had spoken 
 to him, and must be answered. 
 
 His voice seemed gone. He bowed his 
 head. 
 
 The brown tress began to stir more 
 quickly — the fingers to tighten on the 
 lace-fi-'ame. 
 
 " Something is the matter," said Nora. 
 "What is it? Have they had news — bad 
 news?" 
 
 He moved his shoulders, he moistened 
 his lips, and tried to look back to his 
 mission, to that morning's history, which 
 Nora's presence had driven far from him, 
 and in his endeavour to think of it only, 
 he answered clumsily — 
 
 " Yes, that is it. Yes, they have had 
 bad news."
 
 112 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ^^From London?" 
 
 He looked at tlie little lace-frame 
 tkrown down, at the hands clasped over 
 the tremulous curl and heart, and saw 
 what he had done, and let his horror 
 show itself in his eyes, looking into hers 
 as they questioned him. 
 
 At that moment he seemed scarcely able 
 to keep his reason. 
 
 '^ London!" he repeated. ''No. Who 
 said from London ? I did not — I am sure 
 I did not." 
 
 ''But you mean it," cried Nora. "Tell 
 at once what it is. Perhaps you have 
 been told not to tell me. But that is 
 nonsense. I must hear. You must tell 
 me at once." 
 
 She looked at him, and took fresh and 
 fresh alarms from his pallor and the 
 suffering in his eyes. 
 
 Unable to support herself, she sat down 
 by the table, on which she clasped her 
 hands tightly, and, averting her face from
 
 AT STOXE CROUCH. 113 
 
 Michael, bent her head like one trying to 
 turn a great agony to prayer. 
 
 Then she looked up, and asked, with 
 an unnatural calmness in her voice and 
 face — 
 
 " What is it ? I wish to hear the truth. 
 What have you come to say ? You have 
 bad news about George Ambray. Tell it 
 quickly." 
 
 She wished to hear the truth; Michael 
 understood that much; in one word he 
 might tell it, and for an instant a passion 
 for truth seized him, and almost made 
 him speak the word that would cover an 
 honest name with infamy, and a sunny 
 hopeful life with despair and misery. 
 
 '^No," he cried, with sudden strength; 
 " you mistake. I am a stranger. I — I 
 was sent about the mills to you — ^nothing 
 else." 
 
 *'Are you speaking truly?" 
 
 ^' My message was, that Mrs. Moon, of 
 Buckholt Farm, let the High Mills yester- 
 
 VOL. T. I
 
 114 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 day; that Mr. Ambray is going tliis morn- 
 ing to the farm about it, and your aunt 
 thought you would wish to interfere. 
 This was my message, and I had no 
 other. They have not heard from London 
 — that I know too ; and that — is all — I 
 had to tell Miss Ambray.'' 
 
 Nora rose indignant about the letting 
 of the mills, but with her indignation 
 Michael saw there had come a rush of 
 sweet comfort and fresh hope ; and he 
 hung his head and his face darkened. 
 
 " Tell them I am — no — only tell them 
 I shall be there as soon as possible. You 
 will make haste back ? " 
 
 '' I will." 
 
 *'You should stay and have something, 
 for you look tired ; but I think you had 
 better not, as this is very important." 
 
 She was putting her hand into her 
 pocket as she spoke and drawing out a 
 little purse. 
 
 Opening it, she involuntarily glanced up
 
 AT STONE CROUCH. 115 
 
 to see what her messenger might be 
 worth, and, meeting the great honest eyes 
 full of gentle dignity looking at her, she 
 felt half incHned to put it back, but pride 
 caused her to refuse to give way to this 
 impulse, and she held something out to 
 him with an imperious air, as if daring 
 him to refuse it. 
 
 "You are very good," said Michael, 
 with great gentleness ; " but my time 
 is the master's — in the mill or out of 
 it." 
 
 He had spoken too humbly for her to 
 be angry — she only looked confused, as 
 she snapped her pm'se to and put it in 
 her pocket ; but the next instant she 
 looked at him with bright commendation, 
 and said simply — 
 
 '^Then I thank you for coming; and 
 you will make haste back ? " 
 
 " I will," answered Michael. 
 
 Another minute, and he was once more 
 on the road, looking back at the great
 
 116 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 wind-swept meadows, clean and ready for 
 their summer wealth, from the house to 
 the sea, and at the poplars, swaying their 
 heads against the sky.
 
 ( 117 ) 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 
 
 '^' On •well--^orn hinges turns the gate no more, 
 Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet, 
 Nor, when the accustomed guest draws near the door, 
 Run the glad dogs and gambol round his feet. " 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Mrs, Ambeay's face, when she opened the 
 garden-gate to Michael, told him at once 
 that the miller was up, waiting to go to 
 the farm, and angry at his absence. 
 
 '^What have you done with the cob?" 
 she whispered. 
 
 '^ I didn't know what to do wdth him," 
 repHed Michael, ^' so I've given the black- 
 smith a shilling to take care of him till Td 
 asked you." 
 
 ^'You must leave him there, then, for
 
 118 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 the present. You mustn't keep tlie master 
 waiting another instant; and, mind, IVe 
 let him think I saw you asleep through 
 the mill window and couldn't make you 
 hear; he's not surprised, for we've seen 
 that you've not been in your bed at all." 
 
 As Michael entered, Ambray was stand- 
 ing up, with his tall Sunday hat in his 
 hand. He chose to wear that, instead of 
 his white cap, not from respect to the lady 
 he was about to visit, but because he wished 
 to assume as much dignity as possible on 
 his much-hated errand. 
 
 ^' Pray, is this one of your London 
 habits," he said to Michael, ^'sleeping in 
 the day, instead of the night ? " 
 
 ^'But I slept in the night too, master," 
 answered Michael, rubbing his eyes. " I've 
 had more walking than I've been used to 
 this last day or so — I suppose that's it." 
 
 ^^And what was the matter with your 
 room that you couldn't sleep there, like a 
 Christian ? "
 
 BUCKHOLT FARM. 119 
 
 '' Why, to teU the truth, I hardly felt 
 like a Christian in it," Michael said, turn- 
 ing to Mrs. Amhray with a look of com- 
 pHmentary apology. ^'When the mistress 
 shut me in, and I looked at the pink walls 
 and the pink and white bed, all resetted 
 and bevelled, I felt like a dog in a bandbox 
 with somebody's best bonnet." 
 
 The miUer smiled grimly. 
 
 '^ You must let him have the attic," 
 he said to his wife, '^ if — ay, if — he stays. 
 Come," he added, turning to Michael, 
 ^^ are you ready noio V 
 
 Mrs. Ambray went with them as far as 
 the mills, and watched them down the 
 White Lane, feeHng a great liking for 
 Michael, as she saw how carefully he 
 guided the miller's weak steps without 
 seeming to guide them at all. 
 
 The day was fortunately very warm, 
 and Ambray felt that the air, after liis 
 long sleep, was reviving and giving him 
 courage.
 
 120 THE HIGH MILLS, 
 
 ^' It was jnst such a day as this when 
 my son went away," he said, turning and 
 looking up towards the mill-field. " I 
 remember the wind was west'ly because 
 he tm-ned the mill round for me — ^last 
 thing. He didn't hke me to have to do 
 even that much — tlien." 
 
 Michael said nothing, but he never 
 afterwards turned the mill to catch the 
 west wind without remembering that it 
 was so George Ambray's eyes had last 
 seen it. 
 
 The house of Buckholt Farm was about 
 a quarter of a mile from the High Mills, 
 and stood with its side to the road. It 
 had been an old manor house, with all 
 sorts of quaint irregularities of architecture 
 and green overgrowths, but Mrs. Moon 
 after the death of her first husband, had 
 behaved very hardly to it, seizing upon it 
 as on sgme happy neglected child, and 
 shearing off its ivy locks, white-washing 
 the fruit-stains from its face, tearing away
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 121 
 
 its flower-gaiiands, and rendering it miser- 
 ably tidy. 
 
 The wkLte blinds were drawn up to 
 precisely the same height at all the 
 windows, from basement to gaiTet. The 
 door, which in the time of the miller's 
 father had been used to stand open, show- 
 ing the gleam of the oak passage and 
 silver-moimted stag-homs, was closed, and 
 had an obstinate inhospitable look. 
 
 Some snowdi'ops shivered in the wintry 
 garden, looking lost and strange, hke pale 
 spirits who had mistaken the day of resm*- 
 rection, and come forth before the world 
 was ready. 
 
 There was nothing stirring in the yard 
 outside the garden but a bundle of hay 
 moving horizontally along, with two trem- 
 bling drab things under it which Michael 
 recognized as Ma'r S'one's legs. 
 
 In the field beyond piles of hop-sticks 
 were "weathering," ready to be "tanked" 
 or tarred ; and the hop-gardens, where
 
 122 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 the present mistress of Bnckholt Farm 
 liad once picked tlie hops barefooted, lay 
 sloping southwards past the Uttle Norman 
 church of another parish. 
 
 Against the house at the left of the door 
 a large bundle of birch was fastened by a 
 leather band nailed across it. It looked 
 so like a symbol of Mrs. Moon's domestic 
 discipline to Michael, that he was relieved 
 by seeing the miller rub his shoes against 
 it, and so make known to him its right use. 
 He afterwards found this primitive scraper 
 and door-mat at most of the inland farms 
 and mills of Southdownshire. 
 
 When Ambray lifted his hand to the 
 knocker, he turned his head and looked 
 up at the High Mills, as if the sight of 
 them should give him the courage that he 
 was evidently lacking ; for Michael saw his 
 lace had grown paler since they had left 
 the road, and heard, too, that his breathing 
 was becoming short and hard. 
 
 The front windows were partially open,
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 123 
 
 and tkrough them, as soon as the miller 
 had knocked, came the somid of the same 
 voice Michael had heard when passing the 
 ladies in the chaise on his way to Stone 
 Crouch. 
 
 '* Ann Ditch," cried the voice, '^ who- 
 exer's that knocking at the fore door ? It's 
 not Nara's knock, I know. Go round and 
 see." 
 
 In a minute steps came round from 
 the back, and looking in their direction, 
 Michael saw a stout young woman with 
 a hard mouth and a squint, who no sooner 
 caught sight of the miller than she ran 
 back again the same way she had come. 
 
 She evidently told her mistress who her 
 visitor was; for the same voice was heard 
 exclaiming — 
 
 '^ And why on 'arth didn't you teU John 
 Ambray to go round to the back door ? 
 You know I never has the fore door open 
 'cept when Nara's at home ! " 
 
 Ambray raised his hand and knocked a 
 little more loudly than before.
 
 124 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Michael would have urged upon him 
 the advisabihty of at least making a pacific 
 entrance; but something in the miller's 
 face forbad him to interfere. 
 
 Ann Ditch appeared again and gave her 
 message, — 
 
 '^ Will you come round to the back door, 
 please?" 
 
 The miller did not even turn his head 
 and look at her ; and his only reply to 
 her request was another almost frenzied 
 knock. 
 
 Ann Ditch, in running back, met Ma'r 
 S'one, reheved of his burden, and consulted 
 with him. 
 
 He advanced trembling. 
 
 " Do'ee come to the back just fur peace 
 an' quiet, Ma'rs John," he entreated. 
 
 Ambray turned and looked at him, and 
 Michael saw something deeper than anger 
 in his eyes as they rested on the old man's 
 face. 
 
 ''What! Ma'r S'one," said he in a
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 125 
 
 husky but not ungentle voice. ^'And do 
 you tMnk that's the right way for your 
 good old master's sons to come into this 
 house ? " 
 
 Ma'r S'one accepted the bitterness of 
 the reproof with all his little heart and 
 mind. 
 
 "No, Ma'rs John," he cried in great 
 distress. " No, no ; I don't, I don't ; but, 
 — 'marcy upon us and 'chne om- 'erts t' keep 
 this la' ! " 
 
 Which law Ma'r S'one alluded to was 
 not known ; but this was his invariable 
 adjui'ation when he saw human passions 
 getting beyond control, or sorrow unen- 
 durable : and there had been times when 
 his helpless cry had fallen on tempted 
 hearts with more meaning than Ma'r S'one 
 was aware of. 
 
 To his great rehef, his mistress proved 
 less obstinate than her visitor; for, after 
 Ann Ditch had gone back a second time, 
 she sent her to open the front dpor, and
 
 126 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Ambray, leaning heavily on Michael's arm, 
 went in. 
 
 ^' Missis is in the parlour," said Ann, 
 leading the way ; and into the parlour they 
 followed her. 
 
 This room was one kept entirely for use, 
 and showed no attempt whatever at orna- 
 ment, unless it might be in the manner 
 the sausages were festooned from a rope 
 close to the ceiling, almost crowning, like 
 victorious wreaths, the Sunday hats of 
 Simon and Ma'r S'one, which also hung 
 suspended by their brims from the same 
 rope. 
 
 Mrs. Moon sat at the table, casting up 
 her accounts, and pretending for a minute 
 to be too much engrossed to look up when 
 they came in. 
 
 Michael looked at her face in vain for 
 one remaining trace of the beauty which 
 had been the cause of John Ambray' s 
 poverty. It had vanished as entirely as 
 that year's hops which had garlanded and
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 127 
 
 cast the sweet glamour of dancing liglits 
 and shadows over it. 
 
 Fat, white, and pasty, with small, almost 
 colourless eyes, low brows, insignificant 
 nose and mouth, double chin, Hght red hair 
 jauntily rolled up into a knob at the back 
 of her head — no waving hop-garlands — no 
 mingling of shadows and lights — no glamour 
 could make that face seem lovely for one 
 moment now. The rose had fallen, the 
 perfume vanished, the thorn hved, strong 
 and sharp. 
 
 '' Twenty pence is one and eightpence," 
 said Mrs. Moon. " Good marnin', John 
 Ambray." 
 
 ^' G-ood morning, Jane,'' answered the 
 miller, sternly and curtly. 
 
 " And fom-'s two shiUin's. Ann Ditch, 
 I won't put up t' harse at that there 
 Lion again — it costis me twice as much 
 as it do at the Dorlphin. Well, John 
 Ambray, I wonder you shud 'sist so on 
 havin' the fore door opened, speshly with
 
 128 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 a passel o' men's feet with you, to tramp 
 all over the place." 
 
 *^ I don't often trouble my father's 
 house, Jane Moon," replied the miller, more 
 sadly than angrily ; ^' but when I do 
 have occasion to come into it I shall 
 never do so by any other door than the 
 one he came in at when he came home 
 wounded from Waterloo ; and that he 
 went out at in his coffin, with his head 
 on my brother's shoulder and his feet on 
 mine." 
 
 ^^ Two and three's five, and seven's twelve," 
 continued Mrs. Moon placidly. '^ I suppose 
 you've come about the mills, John 
 Ambray — of course you have. Well, it's 
 a very okerd thing, there's no doubt o' 
 that, very okerd ; but same time you caant 
 expect me to keep two great lumberin' 
 mills Hke that standin' there dead in the 
 wind, and cumberin' the farm for nothing. 
 I on'y wonder as your own sense didn't 
 show you that long ago, and lead you to
 
 BUCKHOLT FAEM. 129 
 
 tarn your hand to something else, speshly 
 as Garge is gone the road to ruin." 
 
 ^'Now, leave George's name alone, Jane,'* 
 cried the miller quickly and agitatedly, 
 *^ whatever you say to meJ' 
 
 ^^ I'm willin' enough to do that, John 
 Ambray, and I'm not going to pretend as 
 it's not a great marcy for Nara's sake as 
 he's kept away. It's natural as I shud be 
 thenkful to see her prospec's arl right 
 again, and I am thenkful. As to that 
 Garge, I always said as you wouldn't 
 lose much if you was never to see him 
 again." 
 
 Ambray, quivering with anger, was turn- 
 ing upon her, when Michael stopped him 
 by a monitory touch of his foot. 
 
 He paused, and his cough took away 
 the strength of his passion. 
 
 *'I told you before, Jane," he said at last 
 faintly, and with a great effort at calm- 
 ness, " I did not come to talk about my 
 son, but about the mills. It's quite right 
 
 VOL. I. £
 
 130 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 what you liave been saying ; of course I 
 know I could not expect you to let us 
 go on in tlie way we liave been doing, 
 and I came to tell you I have made up 
 my mind to take a man, and get things 
 all straight again ; and I am sure I 
 needn't say how Esther and me'll pinch 
 and hve on a mere nothing till we've 
 paid off the long score you have against 
 us." 
 
 '* Now, what are you talking about, 
 John Ambray?" cried Mrs. Moon, looking 
 up with her pen in the middle of a 
 column of figures ; "• one 'ud think you 
 was pretending you didn't know the mills 
 was let, which is nonsense, as I wrote off 
 about it last night, and Ma'r S'one went 
 up this marnin', and everything behind- 
 hand in consequence, a purpose to tell 
 you." 
 
 ^'What does she say?" said Ambray, 
 turning to Michael, and passing his hand 
 over his face with a sort of laugh; "• she's
 
 BUCKHOLT FARM. 131 
 
 let the mills ? Hah ! Td like to see her 
 do it." 
 
 Ma'r S'one had just been pntting wood 
 on the fire, and was creeping out again, 
 shaking his head; and Michael caught as 
 he passed by him, murmured in a solemn 
 patient sigh, the words, 
 
 '' T keep this la'." 
 
 '' Ann Ditch! " called Mrs. Moon. '' Do 
 come here and tell me whether you meant 
 this for a eight or a five. I never see 
 such a girl for figgerin' in all my Hfe !" 
 
 Before Ann could approach the table, 
 the miller's fist had descended upon it, 
 close by Mrs. Moon's ink-bottle and 
 account-book. 
 
 *'Look here, Jane," said he, leaning over 
 it and bending down to make his face 
 even with hers, " I've worked in the 
 High Mills, and they've been looked on 
 as mine since I was seventeen, and now 
 I'm seventy-one. Now look me in the 
 face, I say, if you dare, and teU me that
 
 132 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 you — you — you — wlio came from starving 
 in ditches to fatten on the plenty of this 
 house, have let 'em away from me — have 
 beggared me." 
 
 ''It's a five," said Mrs. Moon. Then 
 closing her book, she added, '' Eeally, John 
 Ambray, how vi'lent you are — there's the 
 ink all over the table." 
 
 Ambray slowly drew himseK up and 
 stood erect, while despair and anger strove 
 with equal strength for possession of him. 
 
 Suddenly, as he stood staring before 
 him, Michael saw his eyes soften, his head 
 uplifted wistfully. 
 
 "Never mind, Ma'r S'one," said the 
 voice Michaet had been listening for ever 
 since he entered the house, "he will have 
 a long rest, for I'm not going back to- 
 day." 
 
 "Why, Nara!" cried Mrs. Moon, "it's 
 never you ? " 
 
 Then Michael's eyes fell on her when 
 she came in from the passage — the three
 
 BUCKHOLT FARM. 133 
 
 farm dogs licking her habit, and making 
 frantic, but hesitating, leaps at her hand. 
 
 He saw again the sweet ghost of the 
 mill, and all the early days of George's 
 wooing cast a speU about him that made 
 the present as a mere dream. 
 
 His heart throbbed quickly with the 
 very thought of the joy that had been, and 
 would be no more, in the affection of these 
 two now so widely separated. 
 
 Looking upon what George had lost, the 
 sweetest woman as she seemed to him 
 that he ever had seen, his honest heart 
 forgot to hide its pain. 
 
 For the second time that day, Nora 
 was startled by the gaze she met. It was 
 full of amazed and aggrieved admiration, 
 and strange, unfathomable pity. 
 
 For the second time, too, it seemed to 
 her that she was close to evil tidings of 
 George. 
 
 With keen, rapid questioning in her 
 eyes, she looked hastily from Michael to
 
 134 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 the others ; and though their faces wore 
 no very glad expressions, none seem to 
 confirm the wild thought that Michael's 
 had suggested.
 
 ( 135 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XIY. 
 
 noka's intekcession fails. 
 
 '' I'm tender-hearted, but I dare be just. 
 I never go beyond the law, I trust." 
 
 Buchanan. 
 
 Ambeay's first impulse was to appeal to 
 Nora in all the heat of his passionate 
 trouble. 
 
 He took a step or two towards her, but 
 the next instant he evidently remembered 
 that it behoved him, as George's father, to 
 have some pride before her even on such 
 an occasion. 
 
 He gi'asped Michael's shoulder more 
 fii*mly with his trembling hand, erected 
 his head, and met Nora's earnest pained 
 look with one of gentle welcome.
 
 136 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 '^ Good morning, Nora," lie said, trying 
 to keep his lips from trembling as they 
 touched her forehead. 
 
 Michael longed for the miller to take 
 his hand from his shonlder. It was a 
 sharper struggle and trial than he had ever 
 dreamed of to have to stand so near to 
 Nora Ambray, so near that the edge of- 
 her riding habit took some of the white 
 mill-dust from his feet. 
 
 He knew that the blood was deserting 
 his face, and doubted whether his breath 
 would obey him should he be called upon 
 to speak even a single word. 
 
 By this time Mrs. Moon had approached 
 them, and was standing with her hands on 
 her hips, lost in admiration of the sweet- 
 ness of colour Nora's rapid ride had 
 brought to her cheeks and eyes. 
 
 Nora kept the miller's long trembling 
 hand as she received her aunt's kiss very 
 coldly. 
 
 Michael could see in a glance how
 
 Nora's ixteecessiox fails. 137 
 
 thorouglily she understood the power she 
 had over her, and at the same time saw 
 that she was too proud and too heartily 
 honest to like turning that power to use. 
 
 For nearly a minute no one apoke. 
 Mrs. Moon watched with some evident 
 misgiving, Ambray with hope, the frown 
 on Nora's brow as she took off her hat 
 and laid it on the table. 
 
 It fell to the floor, and Ma'r S'one, who 
 had followed her in, picked it up. He 
 stood gazing from it to his own and 
 Simon's, as if its similarity of shape sug- 
 gested to him the idea of hanging it on 
 the beam beside them, a proceeding which 
 his respect for Nora evidently made repug- 
 nant to him. 
 
 So he stood holding the hat in a state 
 of helpless indecision till Mrs. Moon 
 snatched it from him, and with a push 
 sent his weary little feet tottering hastily 
 back to the path of duty which he had 
 in his timid gallantry permitted himself 
 for one moment to abandon.
 
 138 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ** Your Uncle Ambray's here about the 
 miUs, Nara," said Mrs. Moon, thinking she 
 might perchance gain some little advantage 
 by opening the battle herself. '^ But do 
 take a glass o' wine, now ; you're tired. 
 There now," she added, after bustling to 
 the cupboard and pouring out some kept 
 for Nora's special use, '' take it right 
 arf, there's a pet ! " 
 
 ^^I don't want it. Aunt Jane, thank you," 
 answered Nora with honest impetuous dis- 
 pleasure, that showed her a true Ambray 
 even if her likeness to the old miller had 
 not done so. "I know what Uncle Ambray 
 has come to you about — I have heard — 
 but it cannot, surely, be true ? " 
 
 *' It's true, my girl," burst out the 
 miUer, dragging himself and Michael in 
 front of Nora. '' She's let the High MiUs, 
 Nora — she's ruined us at the turning-point 
 of our hves — she's got her purpose in it 
 too. She Jcnows " 
 
 His cough came on and shook him so
 
 Nora's ixteecession fails. 139 
 
 tliat Michael could scarcely support liim. 
 But his grief, having once begun to out- 
 pour itseK in the light of young eyes 
 flashing with s^Tnpathetic anger, was not 
 to be stopped. 
 
 " She Tcnotos if she takes the mills from 
 us she takes the last straw that lad can 
 cling to, if he fails in his art and comes 
 back to us. That's what she means — she 
 wants to starve us and disgi'ace us out of 
 the place ! But let her try. These old 
 hands shall guide the plough or pick the 
 dead bind off the poles before they shall 
 earn bread on any other soil but this, 
 that's been our own a century back and 
 more." 
 
 ^' And so shaU these hands too," said 
 Nora with great quietness, though her 
 voice seemed choking. *'But I cannot 
 understand it, Aunt. What is it all 
 about ? " 
 
 '^Why, the truth is, Nara," answered 
 Mrs. Moon, who seated herself in the arm-
 
 140 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 chair by the fire, and spread her handker- 
 chief over her lap as if preparing for a 
 doze — '^ the truth is, that what I'm doing 
 is for John Ambray's own good, and 
 Esther's good, and Garge's too, in the 
 long run, but your uncle is so vi'lent, 
 there's no getting him to see it. I'm 
 sure to hear him one ud think as I had 
 any intentions of going agen justice and 
 la' and everything, and arl because I 
 caan't afford to make playthings o' the 
 High Mills. Now, Nara dear, my pro- 
 posals concernin' your Uncle Ambray's 
 means of living was this — for I had pro- 
 posals, only it was no use making them 
 till he'd got over the first surprise at 
 losing the mills. Well, these was my 
 proposals, which I'm sure to amj right- 
 minded person must seem fair enough. 
 As John Ambray caan't get no profit out 
 o' the High Mills, he must give place to 
 them as can, and then there's nothing to 
 prevent him taking charge o' the stone
 
 noka's inteecession fails. 141 
 
 under the man as I let 'em to, and eamin' 
 his guinea a week ; or let him lay up, as he 
 ought to at his time o' life, and let Garge 
 come and take the place. It's just what 
 Garge wants, is a sharp hand like Phil- 
 lops 's over him." 
 
 ^^ Oh, that's your proposal, is it ? My 
 son and I are to be servants in our o^n 
 mill," said Ambray, turning to Nora, with 
 his forehead drawn up, and a bitter smile 
 upon his lips. 
 
 Michael could now see that Nora had 
 become convinced of the whole truth of 
 the matter, and that her cheeks were 
 almost crimson with indignation. 
 
 ^' Uncle 1" said she, laying her hand on 
 the miller's arm with an air of mingled 
 entreaty and command, " let me speak to 
 Aunt Jane alone about this. I'm sure it 
 will be best" for you to go home and leave 
 it to me a Httle while. Pray do." 
 
 This idea, however, evidently alarmed 
 Mrs. Moon more than all the poor miller's
 
 142 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 impotent rage liad done. It was easy to 
 see slie doubted lier own strength when 
 alone with her favourite. 
 
 ^^No, Nara," she exclaimed, rising from 
 her chair and looking more disturbed than 
 she had yet done. ^^ That'll be no use at 
 arl. I've made up my mind about the 
 High Mills, and nothing caan't tarn me. 
 When there's la' in the country I caan't 
 see why I'm to set at home and put up 
 with things just as if there was no la' at 
 arl. You're a young girl, Nara, as caan't 
 be supposed to know the value o' la'. You 
 know nothing o' business, and needn't, 
 or if you did you'd know that in business 
 la' must be respected. For your sake, 
 and the s^^ke o' my poor dear Maark's 
 family, I've put up with arl the worrit 
 and waste of the High Mills, tiU the 
 time's come as I caan't and won't put 
 up with it any longer." 
 
 Mrs. Moon's voice had, during this speech, 
 been gradually attaining its weU-known battle
 
 xoea's intercession fails. 143 
 
 pitcli. She had begun her battle march, 
 too, up and down the long parlour, her 
 sweeping skii'ts flowing wide, and creaking 
 boards ciying out under the weight and 
 energy of her tread. 
 
 Ma'r S'one turned back as he was 
 entering the room with more logs for 
 the fii'e, which was an excuse for hearing 
 what was going on, as he had already 
 supplied it too liberally. 
 
 This time, however, he tm^ned back and 
 declared to Ann Ditch and an old servant 
 listening some way do^m the passage, 
 
 '' Missis is up ai'ful ! " 
 
 The sound of her voice had already made 
 all loiterers start and turn to their work, 
 for when Mrs. Moon was what Ma'r S'one 
 called ^'up," no one on the farm remained 
 long in ignorance of the fact. At such 
 times she was like some warrior chief 
 who made one collection of his forces do 
 for settling not only the enemy for which 
 the summons to war had been given, but
 
 144 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 for calling to justice and punisliment all 
 the offenders on the territory at one and 
 the same time. 
 
 ^' Jane ! " cried the old miller in a tone 
 of despairing entreaty, ^4ook me in the 
 face and say I am to go, and tell my poor 
 Esther we're to turn out of the High Mills, 
 or to be servants there. Am I to do it ? " 
 
 *' You have heard my proposals, John 
 Amhray," answered Mrs. Moon, sweeping 
 by him. ^' Nara, there's the drarin'-room 
 ready for you — this is a busy day, as you're 
 aware, and this is scarcely a fit room for 
 you, when John Ambray's here cumberin' 
 the place with a tribe o' great hulking 
 men." 
 
 Michael, though he never felt less in- 
 clined to smile, had to bite his lip and 
 lower his eyes at this second allusion to 
 himself as a large number. 
 
 " Uncle," said Nora, '' go home, but 
 don't tell poor Aunt Esther yet. If I 
 cannot come to you before evening with
 
 kora's ixtercessiox fails. 145 
 
 better news, I will leave this house for 
 ever." 
 
 Mrs. Moon's eyes winced a little as she 
 heard the threat, but she was now too 
 thoroughly roused to one of her general 
 administrating fits of justice and law to 
 be stayed by it, though it came from 
 Nora's lips. The suppressed wrath in her 
 heart at many Httle wrongs and annoy- 
 ances in connection with business swelled 
 to overflowing at this trouble and oppo- 
 sition about the High Mills. 
 
 Like a soldier preparing for a general 
 slaughter, she marched up and down the 
 room with a remorseless step and eye. 
 
 ^^ You have heard my proposals, John 
 Ambray," she repeated. ^^ I leave you 
 to consider them, and to let Phillops know 
 whether you do or do not choose to stay 
 on as grinder. Ma'r S'one ! " Then as 
 a trembling " Yes, missis," was heard at 
 the door, ''There was that dog o' Ather- 
 ton's chasin' my chicken agen this 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 mornin'. I've waarned 'em four times — 
 I'll waarn 'em no more. Mind old Moore's 
 to shoot it next time it's found i' my 
 premises." 
 
 '' 'Cline om^ " 
 
 '^ And, Ma'r S'one ! that boy Jack's a 
 keppin' rabbits up in my 'ayloft. See as 
 he takes home the pair as he braght, 
 and let the others be tarned in wi' 
 mine to ^ pay expenses.' And, M'ar 
 S'one ! clean yourself as quick as you 
 can. Now look sharp, there's some biUs 
 to take round and wait answers ; and 
 you can jest call in at Slater's and say 
 as I shall take preceedin's next week. 
 And, Ma'r S'one ! I shall want t' harse and 
 shay ready at three this aarfternoon to goo 
 to my s'liciter's 'bout that there fence as 
 Leigh's harse knocked down. And, Ma'r 
 S'one ! when you're over at Tidhurst call 
 in at Smithers's 'bout the oats with my 
 compliments, and I caan't give no more 
 credit after Toosday. Jane ! this kitten's
 
 Nora's intercession fails. 147 
 
 arlways under my feet. Tell Ony I'U have 
 it drownded to-night." 
 
 Somewhat reheved apparently by the 
 dehverance of these commands, Mrs. Moon 
 again sank into her armchair at the fire. 
 
 The miUer, who had been watching her 
 and Hstening with a sort of fierce seK- 
 absorption, suddenly dragged his arm from 
 Michael, and with a passionate gesture of 
 his trembhng hands strode towards the 
 door. 
 
 " Aunt Jane ! " cried Nora, going hastily 
 to her, and laying her hand on her shoulder, 
 while she spoke in a voice scarcely above 
 a whisper, yet so distinctly that Michael, 
 who for the moment had forgotten t%follow 
 his master, heard it clearly, '^ and do you 
 really mean to let him go like that ? " 
 
 Something in her tone and touch made 
 Mrs. Best look up into the girl's face with 
 searching and startled eyes. 
 
 " Nara ! " she cried, rubbing her hand- 
 kerchief between her moist and nervous
 
 148 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 hands, *^ it's your own fault — it's arl your 
 fault. Give up that worthless hlaggerd of 
 a Garge, and while John Amhray lives the 
 High Mills shan't he took from him. I've 
 told you so before — I say it again for the 
 laarst time, Nara." 
 
 "For the last time — I hope — indeed," 
 said Nora, gently taking her hand from 
 her shoulder, hut speaking with an earnest- 
 ness that made Mrs. Moon tremble. "And 
 now. Aunt — good-bye.'" 
 
 Michael, during the minute or two which 
 had passed since the old miller broke from 
 him, had completely forgotten his own 
 existence in eager wonder as to what Nora 
 would do. 
 
 Nora's firm " good-bye," so fuU of 
 meaning, which he understood as well as 
 her aunt, made him start and take some 
 stops towards them, his eyes fuU of sad 
 entreaty, and his lips parted. 
 
 At the sound of his hmTied step both 
 turned and looked at him in surprise.
 
 Nora's intercessiox fails. 149 
 
 Michael stood still. The colour rose to 
 his dark face, and he muttered with 
 drooping eyes, 
 
 '^ I beg your pardon." 
 
 ^'What is it you were going to say?" 
 asked Nora. 
 
 <« Why, this is the man your uncle was 
 going to hire for a grinder," explained 
 Mrs. Moon, looking at him sharply. 
 '' Never heard o' such a thing ! Promising 
 to employ a tribe o' tramps when he's no 
 more right by la' to they miUs than I 
 have to Buck'nam Palace ! Just take 
 yourseH arf, my man, and next time you 
 hire yourself mind your master's got some- 
 thing for you to do." 
 
 Michael felt almost grateful to her for 
 thus suggesting to Nora that he was 
 probably going to remonstrate as to his 
 own position in the event of the mills 
 changing masters. 
 
 ^' Two days lost over it," he muttered, 
 to strengthen this idea in their minds ;
 
 150 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 and then he was obliged to leave the 
 house in great grief as to how the two 
 would part. He felt that, most likely, 
 their parting would be such as would 
 ruin the only hope he had of being 
 spared a life of misery, from which all his 
 natural cheerfulness of heart could not 
 save him.
 
 ( 151 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 MES. MOON HEAES WELCOME NEWS. 
 
 '' O what to her shall be the end ? " 
 
 Tenists-son, 
 
 Michael did not have to remain long in 
 suspense, for he had scarcely crossed the 
 yard when he heard Nora's quick step 
 on the garden path. 
 
 Michael stood still. They had parted, 
 then, in this great bitterness, he thought, 
 and the High Mills would be taken from 
 George's old father, and Nora would lose 
 her fortime all through her devotion to — 
 w^hat? He tm-ned roimd and looked at 
 the door fi'om which he had just come, 
 and a generous and ^dvid light filled his 
 eyes.
 
 152 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 The next moment, Mrs. Moon, who was 
 sitting with her face bm^ied in her hand- 
 kerchief, heard the door pushed open and 
 a step coming towards her. 
 
 She looked up and saw Michael, and 
 found herself compelled to attend to what 
 he said before she could speak a word. 
 
 ^^I have come to do you a service," said 
 Michael, with a simply truthful but authori- 
 tative manner, ^^but what I tell you to 
 save so much harm befalling, I shall expect 
 you to keep to yourseK. You will find it 
 better to do so. Hearing what I have 
 heard this morning makes me determine 
 to tell you what I'd much rather not be 
 the first to mention. When you hear 
 what it is, and when you remember I want 
 to hire myself to Mr. Ambray, you'll see 
 that what I ask is natural. This is what 
 I wish to let you know — George Ambray 
 will never marry your niece. You have 
 no need to be hard upon them on that 
 score. As I said, I do not choose to be
 
 MRS. MOON HEARS WELCOME NEWS. 153 
 
 the first to bring this sort of news up 
 from London — I came by it in a round- 
 about sort of way. Let it reach here in its 
 own time and manner, by some other news- 
 carrier than me, who want to please my 
 new master and not to have my head 
 broken, as I should be like enough if I'm 
 the first to say such a thing at the High 
 Mills." 
 
 ^' And, pray, what sharifcies am I to 
 have for the truth o' such a statement?" 
 inquired Mrs. Moon, hiding the satisfaction 
 on her face by stooping to alter the 
 arrangement of Ma'r S' one's logs on the 
 fire. 
 
 '^Any assurances that inquiries into my 
 character at my village, and at the mills 
 where I worked, can give you, you're 
 heartily welcome to," answered Michael in 
 a careless tone, " but I warn you, Mrs. 
 Moon, that if the Ambrays get a guess 
 at the truth, they'll — that is. Miss Nora 
 will — have no more to say to you. From
 
 154 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 what I've seen, the short time I've beeii 
 here, I know that it's the thoughts of 
 George only that makes her submit to be 
 dependent on yon, or to take anything from 
 you. She looks on the property as liis, 
 not yours ; but if she guessed that George 
 was — that he could never marry her, I know 
 well, by what I've seen and heard, she'd 
 not touch another penny of it. She'd 
 stick to the old folks, and work for them 
 and keep 'em from want, if she wore out 
 her life to do it." 
 
 Michael was for once in his life saying 
 a little more than he really knew, yet an 
 instinctive perception of Nora Ambray's 
 character told him this would be so with 
 her almost as clearly as actual experience 
 could have told him. 
 
 Mrs. Moon really knew better than 
 Michael did the truth of what he said. 
 Knowing it so well, she suffered as he said 
 it, for it stung the one affection of her 
 heart with sharp jealousy to be reminded
 
 MRS. MOON HEARS WELCOME NEWS. 155 
 
 that her favomite would cling to the old 
 miller in his beggary rather than to her in 
 her wealth, if George were no longer true. 
 
 '' When you said," continued Michael, 
 '' that you would leave the Mills as they 
 were before if Miss Ambray gave up 
 George, I half made up my mind to tell 
 you what I knew, for your own sake as 
 well as the young lady's and the miller's." 
 
 ^' Well, I caan't say but what it's natm-al 
 enough as you should speak," said Mrs. 
 Moon, '' and of course I can understand 
 youi' feelin's on the subjec' of not being 
 the first to bring unwelcome news — though 
 I caan't say as it's unwelcome to me, as 
 you may p'r'aps have found out, for John 
 Ambray seems to have confided evej-T/thing 
 to you." 
 
 Michael saw enough in her face and 
 heard enough in her altered voice to hope 
 that he might now leave her to her own 
 reflections with every chance of good for 
 the fate of the High Mills.
 
 156 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 He therefore modestly disclaimed know- 
 ing *^ everything," and wished her good day 
 in a way that made her afterwards speak 
 of him as ^^not at arl bad-mannered — 
 that man of Amhray's." 
 
 Scarcely ten minutes after he had left, 
 Ma'r S'one arrived at the miller's cottage 
 with a note from his mistress to John 
 Ambray, begging for a few minutes' con- 
 versation with Nora immediately. 
 
 Michael went to the mill, and receiving 
 no call to dinner, and being still left to 
 himseK long on in the afternoon, began 
 to fear his communication had not had 
 the effect he expected it to have on Mrs. 
 Moon.
 
 ( 157 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XYI. 
 
 MUTUAL MISGIVINGS. 
 
 '' My deep of life, I know, 
 Is unavailing e'en to poorly show. " 
 
 Beowning, 
 
 Michael's existence was apparently for- 
 gotten by all Lamberhui'st till four in the 
 afternoon, when Ambray burst the mill- 
 door open, calling his name. 
 
 '' Michael Swift ! what on earth have 
 you done with yourself all day ? Hollo 
 there! Swift!" 
 
 As the miller looked round on entering, 
 it seemed to him a good week's work had 
 been done. 
 
 His grey eyes lit with hearty approba- 
 tion, but, faUing on his new servant, became 
 instantly hard and suspicious.
 
 158 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 As Michael came forward, his face pale, 
 his hair flattened close to his brows by 
 the sweat of his hard work and the 
 pressure of his cap, which he now held 
 in his hand, there was something in his 
 look and attitude which struck Ambray 
 as being almost abject. 
 
 The miller immediately put his hard 
 work to the balance against him. 
 
 He stood, looking him full and steadily 
 in the face, with undisguised severity. 
 
 When Michael understood the look, he 
 quailed more, and caught hold of the steps. 
 
 ^^Look here, Michael Swift," said 
 Ambray. ^' Look me in the face, and tell 
 me you are not keeping anything back 
 that if I knew it would prevent my taking 
 
 you." 
 
 Michael remained quite motionless for 
 some time. 
 
 At last he raised his eyes with difficulty, 
 showing Ambray nothing in them but the 
 simplest honesty and sorrow.
 
 MUTUAL MISGIVINGS. 159 
 
 *' Master," he answered with, much 
 effort, '^I shall tell you nothing of the 
 kind. I don't know you well enough yet 
 to know what might or might not prevent 
 yom- taking me. All you have any right 
 to ask is for a good character of me. If 
 you don't trust what I gave you to read 
 — you have only to write to the man who 
 has put his name and address on it. I 
 have never done a dishonest thing in my 
 life. I have no more to say for myself." 
 
 " Would to God everybody could say as 
 much," Ambray retorted quickly, his 
 doubts dispersed by the Hght that flashed 
 from Michael's weary eyes as he spoke ; 
 — " and with as much truth as I believe 
 you can. You will have a master given 
 to suspicion if you come here as my 
 servant — I don't disguise that from you. 
 I've had enough to make my right hand 
 doubt my left. But come. I must tell 
 you that PhiUips's agreement is torn up 
 — done for. My niece has won the day.
 
 160 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 The mill and the grist both secured for 
 three months certain, and how mach 
 longer depends on you/' 
 
 " This is good news, master," answered 
 Michael, turning away to tighten the knot 
 in one of the bags hanging down from the 
 shafts. Deep gratitude and rehef had 
 brought the blood to his face more eagerly 
 than he cared for Ambray to see. 
 
 ^* Shake hands on it, man," cried 
 Ambray, kindhng under the influence of 
 his father's old port, which he had been 
 drinking freely at the farm. 
 
 Michael turned and stretched out his 
 hand heartily, but instantly withdrew it 
 again as if it had been stung. 
 
 '^ No," he stammered, confused, but 
 resolute, *' not till you know me better, 
 master." 
 
 ^'What," cried Ambray, ^^ you bear 
 malice, do you ? " 
 
 ^^I don't — I swear I don't — but I will 
 not shake hands with you till you know 
 me as — I wish you to know me."
 
 MUTUAL MISGIVINGS. 161 
 
 ** I know you already for a man one 
 must pick and choose one's words for," 
 said Ambray impatiently, ^^ which I'm not 
 used to for any man ahve — so I warn you 
 — but come away and have a glass of wine 
 of a sort that'll put you in a better temper." 
 
 Michael smiled as he opened the door. 
 He looked back with a glance of involun- 
 tary pride on the improvements he had 
 made on the ground-floor. 
 
 Ambray looked too and nodded. 
 
 ^'Yery well indeed," he said, ^^and you 
 can fetch the corn at once. Ma'r S'one is 
 to have it ready for you down in the old 
 oast house." 
 
 VOL. r.
 
 162 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 ma'k s'one and the calves. 
 
 " He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. " 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 The day's anxiety, suspense, and self-im- 
 posed toil liad left Michael weary in body 
 and soul. 
 
 His secretly cherislied hope grew faint 
 as the brightness of the chill March day, 
 as he walked towards Buckholt. 
 
 His words had had the effect he wished 
 them to have ; but was that all ? he 
 wondered. What harm might they not do 
 him if repeated to Nora or the miller? 
 How could he be sure that Mrs. Moon
 
 ma'r s'oxe axd the calves. 163 
 
 might not repeat tliem during some of 
 the discussions that by all accounts were 
 becoming more and more frequent between 
 the High Mills and the farm ? 
 
 As he drew near the house, Michael 
 saw, by the peaceful look of everything 
 about it, that the administration of justice 
 was over for the day. Even the old dog 
 whose death-warrant had been given was 
 there trespassing again, and welcomed 
 Michael into the yard. 
 
 Ma'r S'one was there sitting by the 
 low pen full of calves scarcely a month 
 old, in whose society he was taking his 
 early tea. 
 
 There was an air of peace and in- 
 nocence about the simple little picture 
 that made it seem as balm to Michael's 
 sorrowful eyes. 
 
 He looked at it for some time, then 
 approached the pen, and leant his arms 
 upon it. Ma'r S'one 's elbow, as he cut his 
 bread with a clasp-knife, came just over
 
 164 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 the top of the pen, and was causing a 
 soft, dreamy contention among the velvety 
 heads there, each of which sought to rub 
 against it. 
 
 ^^ You find these creatures pleasant com- 
 pany, Mr. Ma'r S'one," said Michael, 
 after watching a little while. 
 
 " That they be, sir," repHed Ma'r 
 S'one, looking down at them tenderly. 
 ^'I'd leiver get my vittles with 'em than 
 up at the Team any day, though it's mighty 
 improvin' there sometimes, bein' gen'ly 
 a scoUerd there as can read the noos- 
 paper right arf without spellin' ; but then 
 it's gen'ly 'bout murders, and I caan't 
 abide murders — they makes me creep, 
 they do. * 'Cline our 'erts,' I say, ^ t' keep 
 this la' ! ' " 
 
 Michael was gazing vacantly into a 
 sun-blinded velvety face that, baffled in 
 its attempts to reach Ma'r S'one, had 
 come to be fondled by the stranger. 
 At Ma'r S'one's last words, Michael's
 
 MAR SOXE AXD THE CALVES. 165 
 
 eyes dilated and swam, his hands clutched 
 each other over the side of the pen, and 
 a hard breath came labouring from him, 
 with the words — ■ 
 
 ''Amen, Ma'r S'one, Amen!"
 
 166 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 THE MILL IN OEDEE. 
 
 " The sun rides high, and fav'ring gales 
 Now seize and turn the cumbrous sails. " 
 
 Ambeay rose the next day about breakfast- 
 time in feverisb spirits, and nothing could 
 keep bim from going up the field far 
 enough to see the mill, with Fleetfoot 
 and the waggon at the door. 
 
 A strong north wind was blowing — the 
 sun made all the fresh downs look yellow 
 — the miU-sails swept round against the 
 bluest sky of the year. Michael's face 
 came and went at the windows, appearing 
 from that distance, as he smiled out at
 
 THE MILL IX OEDEE. 167 
 
 the miller, a very siin of brightness and 
 content. 
 
 Old Giiarder, the mill dog, ran inces- 
 santly to and fi'o between Michael and 
 his master, and did his best to keep 
 Fleetfoot from wasting his oats thi'ongh 
 a hole in his nose-bag by barking at him 
 from all sides, and even mounted to the 
 driver's seat in fi'ont of the waggon to 
 try whether his voice would have more 
 weight fi'om that place of authority. 
 
 Ambray and his wife went together to the 
 mill in the afternoon to see the improve- 
 ments Michael had akeady made there. 
 
 Michael, looking down from the stone 
 floor, saw them standing by the meal- 
 bin watching the meal as it came pouring 
 down. 
 
 The mill was going so fast that it came 
 down warmer than usual. 
 
 Old Ambray took some up in his cold, 
 trembHng fingers, and felt it with an 
 exquisite pleasure.
 
 168 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 '* Here it comes once more, old girl," 
 Michael heard him say, in a choking 
 voice; "plenty and warm, ay, warm from 
 the Almighty's hand ! ''
 
 ( 169 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THE MTLLEE STILL SUSPECTS MICHAEL. 
 
 '' But ever after, the small violence done 
 Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, 
 As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 
 A Little bitter pool about a stone 
 On the bare coast. " 
 
 Te^tnyson. 
 
 Ambeat had never forgotten that Michael 
 had refused to shake hands with him. 
 He was a man who was suspicious of 
 enthusiasm. He could understand and 
 honour a man doing his duty honestly 
 and to the full ; but such work as Michael 
 gave for wages, which, as the miller said 
 to his wife, ^'the man had not yet seen 
 the colour of," was a marvel and almost 
 a trouble to him.
 
 170 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Work that went beyond duty was re- 
 garded by him as a kind of conscience- 
 offering. 
 
 It was Michael's duty to give his best 
 attention to the grindstone, to turn all 
 winds he might to good account, to keep 
 the mill clean and free from damp, to carry 
 the meal and flour to the villages and farms 
 from which it had been ordered, to be 
 civil and obliging to his master and his 
 master's wife, and to be considerate of 
 the age and nerves of two such valued 
 and venerable servants as Fleetfoot and 
 Guarder. A grinder who neglected any 
 one of these things would have fallen into 
 great disfavour with Ambray. 
 
 But here was a man, who, not content 
 with making good use of the day and the 
 day winds, must needs spend many of his 
 nights also, laying in wait to catch and 
 yoke to his master's service each wind 
 that moaned across the dark and solitary 
 downs, or came sighing up the valley, 
 moist and heavy from the sea.
 
 THE MILLER STILL SUSPECTS MICHAEL. 171 
 
 On breezeless days, Michael deyoted his 
 time to the cultivation of a piece of ground 
 belonging to the mills, and lying between 
 Ambray's cottage and a pasture-field of 
 Buckholt Farm. 
 
 The half-wild, half-barren state in which 
 this had lain for the last ^Ye years had 
 troubled Ambray sorely, being a constant 
 theme for Mrs. Moon's calm satire, and 
 a cause of dissension between himseK and 
 George ; for George had disliked gardening 
 as much as '^ millering," and his father's 
 strength was greatly overtaxed by the mill 
 alone. 
 
 It was therefore no smaU pleasure and 
 triumph to Ambray to see, and have others 
 see, his unprofitable little wilderness thus 
 brought to order and use ; and claiming 
 its small, sweet share in the universal 
 bloom and promise of the spring. 
 
 All April possessed no touch of green 
 so fair to his eyes as the buds that opened 
 on this spot, nor any note of music so
 
 172 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 sweet in liis ears as the singing of the 
 bii'ds above the soil Michael had cleared 
 and refreshed. 
 
 Yet, as he crept along, leaning on his 
 stick, wrapt up, and keeping as much as 
 possible in the patches of sunshine, he 
 would watch Michael at his work with 
 more suspicion than gratitude. 
 
 Sometimes Michael would look up, and 
 meet his strange gaze with eyes so per- 
 fectly frank and honest that the miller 
 felt ashamed of himself, and would go 
 home and abuse his wife for not having 
 provided a better supper for Michael. 
 
 But once or twice Michael had en- 
 countered his master's look in a very 
 different manner — his eyes had turned 
 to the earth, sick and confused, his hand 
 had trembled on the spade. Then Ambray 
 had looked at him hard — he was not a 
 mercifal, though he was a just man. He 
 had looked at him as if he would search 
 out the secrets of his soul, and Michael,
 
 THE MILLEK STILL SUSPECTS MICHAEL. 173 
 
 when lie next sat down to eat in the old 
 people's presence, knew that they were 
 regarding him as one who had come into 
 a strange place to hide him from the shame 
 of some dishonest act. 
 
 Sometimes Michael bore this treatment 
 with exceeding patience and meekness ; 
 sometimes he chafed under it with sub- 
 dued but visible passion, dashing the mill 
 keys down when he went to bed, and 
 treading the floor as if he would grind 
 it to powder. 
 
 These fits of temper did more to reassure 
 his master as to the wholesome state of 
 his soul than anything else; yet Michael 
 hated himseK whenever he had been pos- 
 sessed by one of them even for a minute, 
 and did his utmost to retain that very 
 gentleness and forbearance which roused 
 the miller's suspicions. 
 
 But more and more often, as the spring 
 came on, Michael saw upon his master's 
 face the look which said as plainly as look
 
 174 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 could say — ^* I shall find you out soon, my 
 man; you cannot deceive me long." 
 
 Yet in spite of all Ms obstinate suspicion, 
 scarcely a day "passed without Ambray 
 deriving some ray of comfort, cheerfulness, 
 and renewed love of life from that very 
 study of Michael's character to which his 
 suspicion moved him and which strengthened 
 his suspicion. 
 
 The glow of a spirit more healthful, more 
 honest, more fervent than any that had 
 lived near him before was warming and 
 comforting him, and he knew not whence 
 the warmth and comfort came. It was the 
 sunshine of the spring, the prospect of his 
 son's return, Nora's bright, brief visits, the 
 certainty of keeping the High Mills for 
 yet three months more — anything, in fact, 
 but the companionship and service of the 
 man whom he was determined to '^find out."
 
 ( 1^5 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 NEWS OF GEOEGE. 
 
 '' Hope deferred maketh the heart sick : but when the 
 desire cometh, it is a tree of life." 
 
 Proverbs. 
 
 Several days passed without bringing 
 Ambray any reason to repent of his 
 bargain. 
 
 He w^as much within doors dui^ing that 
 time, the weather being changeable and 
 his asthma bad ; but he heard from all 
 quarters of the industry and civility of his 
 servant. 
 
 When the wind served, Michael worked 
 by night as well as by day. 
 
 Far and wide over the country, and far 
 and wide on the sea, people began to look
 
 176 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 for the light at the High Mills every windy 
 night. 
 
 The little waggon, with Michael standing 
 a few yards in front of it, smihng at 
 Fleetfoot's slow advance with a kind of 
 placid despair, became one of the most 
 familiar sights on the road and in the 
 lanes about Lamberhnrst. 
 
 He had as yet made no friends but 
 Ma'r S'pne ; and there were days, when 
 Ambray was confined to his bed, that 
 Michael passed without speaking or being 
 spoken to from morning till night ; and 
 this to one who had not been used to 
 walk a dozen yards without receiving a 
 greeting fro;m familiar lips was a very 
 strange experience. It was the more so 
 to Michael, because of his having always 
 been possessed by a strong interest in his 
 fellow-creatures. 
 
 Sometimes in the spring evenings, when 
 Ambray was suffering more than usual, and 
 his wife scarcely left his side a minute,
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 177 
 
 and wlien there was nothing doing at the 
 mill, Michael found his time of leisure 
 — brief as it was — hang very heavy on his 
 hands. 
 
 Once, when he looked in at the Team 
 by way of a change, the company, unable 
 in his presence to think of anything but 
 the High Mills and their owners, con- 
 versed all the evening about *^ Ma'rs 
 Garge " and his feats in running and 
 wi'estling, his handsome face, his good 
 humour, his pleasant word to everybody, 
 his popularity among rich and poor, his 
 looked-for return. 
 
 Michael never spent another evening at 
 the Team. 
 
 Nora rode over nearly every morning. 
 Her visit at Stone Crouch was coming 
 to an end, and her aunt was busy with 
 preparations for her return. 
 
 Michael dreaded this return, yet longed 
 for it. The sadness and agitation he 
 suffered in her presence had a strange 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 fascination in it. One moment he found 
 himself longing that he might meet her, 
 and the next he would be doing his utmost 
 to avoid her. 
 
 Even if he chanced to be seated with 
 Mrs. Ambray at dinner or tea, when she 
 came he would disappear at once, leaving 
 not only the room, but the house, and 
 sometimes while it was raining heavily. 
 
 The Ambrays were always too much 
 excited by her visits to take any notice 
 of Michael ; but Nora saw and noticed 
 him, and wondered he should have so 
 much delicacy. 
 
 One morning, Michael had gone to 
 Buckholt Farm with the old miller, to 
 ask for permission to make some serious 
 alteration in the works of the mill. 
 
 Mrs. Moon was standing in her usual 
 attitude of consideration, her fingers on 
 her chin, when she suddenly started and 
 ran towards the door. 
 
 Nora had come, and Michael no sooner
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 179 
 
 saw her entering the room with her aunt, 
 than he knew some great change had 
 come over her. 
 
 The strained, wan look had gone from 
 her eyes, which seemed to fill the room 
 with light and sweetness as they came 
 into it. 
 
 The sight of this new joy and peace 
 in her startled Michael, and filled him 
 with a vague alarm, and set him question- 
 ing himself fearfully as to what it could 
 mean. 
 
 Seeing Ambray, Nora went straight to 
 him, and laying her hands on his breast, 
 looked up into his face, and smiled such a 
 smile as Michael never before dreamed of. 
 
 The miller also looked haK afraid of 
 Nora's happiness. Placing a trembling 
 hand on her shoulder, he uttered her 
 name, half questioningly half reproach- 
 fully- 
 
 ''Nora!" 
 
 She bowed her head twice, as if unable
 
 180 • THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 to do more, tlien laid lier cheek against 
 Mm, and laughed and sobbed out — 
 
 ^^ Yes, yes ; we will kill the fatted calf 
 and make ready. The dear, dear prodigal 
 is found, and I know that he will soon be 
 here." 
 
 In the mill where Michael had first 
 worked, the machinery which regulated 
 the sails to the variations of the wind was 
 reached at an arm's length up the grinding- 
 floor wall. 
 
 Now, the habit of stopping noise and 
 confusion by stretching up to touch this 
 had so grown into him, that in any mental 
 tumult, even when he was far away from 
 the mill, Michael would often throw his 
 arm up its full length against the wall, 
 door, or tree he might be standing near, 
 and feel with his fingers, as if he thought 
 that something should hang within reach 
 by which he could restore calmness and 
 order to his mind.
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 181 
 
 When Nora, after one vain attempt to 
 keep her joy from bursting upon Ambray 
 in his sorrow, like a too vivid gleam of 
 light on eyes that have been long in the 
 dark, gave way to it with the twofold force 
 of tears and laughter, first making with 
 this rain and sunshine a bow of promise 
 on his darkness, then more than fuLfilhng 
 the promise with her words, Michael's arm 
 was flung up against the wall, and his 
 fingers groped over the sHppery oak with 
 a passionate and desperate persistency. 
 
 What had she said? The prodigal was 
 found ? Whom could she mean, save 
 George ? But how, then, could she say 
 that he was found and was coming home ? 
 
 Like the builders of Babel, Michael's 
 thoughts were struck with confusion. 
 
 Was he, like them, to be shown by 
 some miracle that the work he had begun, 
 and in which lay all the peace the world 
 could give him, was too daring to be 
 permitted ? Was this hope, this vein of
 
 182 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 gold whicli he had found and followed in 
 the very pit of despair, to prove but a 
 deceitful thing, that should lead him deeper 
 into the same pit ? 
 
 As he asked himself this, a sudden 
 change came over him. The first throng 
 of wild thoughts Nora's words had sent 
 rushing into his brain were banished as 
 cowardly — as base. 
 
 What had he been fearing ? Michael 
 asked himself. The very thing he ought 
 most to hope for — if it were possible. 
 Could he not bear it ? Could he not 
 rejoice at it? 
 
 His eyes, full of a desperate and tender 
 courage, looked at the doorway, and he 
 told his God he could endure fearlessly 
 the sight of a Lazarus-Hke face if it might 
 appear there, — the sound of a Lazarus-Hke 
 voice if it might speak answering to a 
 father's and a lover's cry of welcome. 
 
 Yes, he could endure it even though the 
 face and voice spoke of him such things
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 183 
 
 as should make the man at whose feet he 
 had come to offer a life's service, and all 
 the country in which he was so helpless a 
 stranger, turn upon him and without trial 
 hiu'ry him before that Judgment which he 
 feared so much less than man's. 
 
 By Mrs. Moon's clock Michael experi- 
 enced such thoughts, such sufferings but 
 for one moment : by his own face they 
 might have had possession of him for ten 
 3^ears. 
 
 Dm'ing this moment Nora remained with 
 her face resting where she had hidden it, 
 against Ambray's, when she saw every one 
 looking at her as she cried out her news. 
 
 Ambray stood looking down at her. He 
 had taken his hand from her shoulder, and 
 both his hands and his face seemed eloquent 
 of an instinct warning him against taking 
 her and the hope and joy of which she told, 
 to his longing heart. 
 
 At the instant when Michael, with his 
 ai-m thrown up against the wall, was
 
 184 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 trying to realize how much he could 
 endure if George might indeed come hack, 
 the miller caught sight of a letter crushed 
 in Nora's hand as it rested on his shoulder. 
 
 He recognized the writing. 
 
 The patient suspense and douht passed 
 from his face. He held Nora off, and 
 spoke to her gently and half banteringly, 
 as if his own faith in his son had never 
 been shaken, and he only had her joy to 
 think of. 
 
 ** He has written to you, then, the bad 
 boy ? He has written at last ! " 
 
 Had such a face as Michael had been 
 trying to picture really appeared before 
 him, his own could not have shown more 
 terrified amazement than it did when Nora 
 looked up and answered proudly and de- 
 lightedly — 
 
 '^ Yes, he has written to me ! " 
 
 *^I may read it? I may read my son's 
 letter ? " Ambray at once entreated and 
 demanded.
 
 NEWS OF GEOEGE. 185 
 
 She put it into his hands, holding them 
 a moment as she said — 
 
 ^^ I stopped to ask as usual, feehng so 
 sick of the httle shop. And when they 
 gave me this just now, I don't know what 
 I did. I emptied my pocket for the 
 children, and I think I gave Tommy my 
 whip; yes, that I did." 
 
 ^'Oh, Nara! Nara ! " cried Mrs. Moon. 
 ^' Did ever anybody see such a girl! I 
 gave a guinea for it on'y laast Jenuwery," 
 she added, appeaUng to Michael as the 
 only person likely to be unengrossed by 
 George's letter. 
 
 But Michael's eyes were fixed upon his 
 master as he perused the letter, which 
 he read aloud — 
 
 ^' My deae Noea, 
 
 ^' I needn't teU you^ surely, though 
 father's last letter was very strange, that 
 my apparent neglect in writing home has 
 been fi'om simple reluctance to do so till
 
 186 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 I had something more promising to say of 
 myseK and work. 
 
 ^' I do wish you would persuade father not 
 to write to me in that style. I know I've 
 not got on as we all expected I should do, 
 but, from all I hear from fellows who've 
 begun art as I have, I'm no worse than 
 many others. It seems necessary to be 
 made disappointed and sick of the thing 
 before you succeed. 
 
 '' At first the very smell makes one feel 
 an artist. You like it amazingly. Turpen- 
 tine's not so very bad, and megilp's 
 delicious! While that sort of thing lasts 
 you may be sure you're no good. Wait till 
 you hate it, find it sickening, as I do now, 
 and then when you've got your nose well 
 ground down to it you may look about 
 you, and see your work cut out before 
 you a bit. Do you know, I was actually 
 going to make my own colours at first, 
 Nora, — ^thought a deal about Van Eyck — 
 and perhaps you'll scarcely believe ^me
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 187 
 
 when I tell you that three ' muffs ' out 
 of four go in for that kind of bosh at 
 first. But it's a fact nevertheless. Now, 
 I can't tell you how grateful I feel to 
 the artists' colourman, and how defiantly 
 confident I feel of being able to get all 
 I want no fui'ther -off than Eathbone 
 Place and Long Acre. Yes, I've cut all 
 that humbug now, and know that when 
 I can draiv I can paint. So I am 
 getting on a little. The knowledge of 
 half-a-dozen weak places in yom^ picture 
 dodged yesterday, to be come at with a 
 shudder to-day, turpentine on your brain, 
 and fellows distracting and mystifying 
 you, who know so much and do so httle — 
 hoio they make me miss the sweet faith 
 and pride in me at home which is almost 
 enough of itself to make me earn self- 
 respect. 
 
 " Dear Nora, what wouldn't I give some- 
 times to be crossing the Longbridge field, 
 in the evening — to meet somebody — to
 
 188 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 begin the hundred and sixty-eighth sketch 
 (is it ?) of the old black mill ! 
 
 ''I have got a capital little model for 
 one of the figures in my picture (' The 
 Wayfarers'). Indeed, I have two such 
 models for it as I never expected to find. 
 Unfortunately, as these poor creatures 
 are both blind, I shall — as you'll under- 
 stand — be obliged to change our idea of 
 the picture a little ; not so very much, 
 though. Most of the fellows I told you 
 about think it an improvement rather 
 than otherwise. And these two treasures 
 — the man a mass of rags and cunning 
 indescribable, the girl a gem — they quite 
 give me fresh hope and confidence. Only, 
 for his own sake, dear Nora, don't let 
 father write again like that. He seems to 
 think I'm in love with the life here — I 
 only wish he knew what it is ! What 
 I'd give to wake and hear the old 
 sounds again — the crackling of the faggots 
 being broken for the fires, and the old
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 189 
 
 di'aw-wells creaking — instead of these 
 infernal street cries ! 
 
 ^' Nora, darling, whether I succeed or 
 
 not, I have defcermined on one thing, 
 
 and that is to live down home as yon 
 
 always wished. How I trust you wish it 
 
 still ! Father hints you are changed 
 
 thi'ough what he calls my neglect ; but 
 
 yom' own dear letter tells me this is 
 
 not so. I do wish you would prevail 
 
 upon him not to write in that way. 
 
 He can't imagine the effect it has upon me. 
 
 Don't let them turn you against me. 
 
 Nora, my own dearest, if I ever do 
 
 cease to think of you as I told you I 
 
 thought of you when I cut the names, I 
 
 should indeed be too base to be forgiven 
 
 by you. Believe in my possible success 
 
 a Httle longer if you can — but in success 
 
 or failure, beheve me, 
 
 ''Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 " Geoege Ambeay. 
 
 ''P.S. — To show you the effect those
 
 190 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 letters of father's have on me I mnst 
 tell you a dream I had about him 
 last night. I thought something had 
 happened that had offended him hope- 
 lessly — some crime of mine I suppose 
 it was ; yet I was on my way up 
 the White Lane trying to get home. I 
 could hear the mill, and the sound made 
 me try to hurry on towards it. But I could 
 not stir. My feet seemed turned to stone, 
 and the more I tried the heavier they 
 grew. Then I dreamt that people from 
 here passed me, and I knew they were 
 going to tell father all that I had been 
 myself too cowardly to tell him. Yet 
 it was such a strange feeling I hardly 
 know how to describe it ; but there I was, 
 trying to shout to them to let me go 
 first, but either I had no voice or they 
 wouldn't heed me, for they didn't. And 
 I can't describe to you the agony it was 
 to see them reach the mills, and to hear 
 my father crying out at me."
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 191 
 
 *'Well," said the miller, in a tone of 
 tender reproach, '' I didn't think the lad 
 could even dream that I'd ever hear him 
 slandered behind liis back. But come! 
 Isn't it the right sort o' letter ? What 
 do you say, Jane Moon ? " 
 
 "Well, John Ambray," answered his 
 sister-in-law, caressing her double chin, 
 and speaking in a calmly reflective but 
 puzzled tone that exasperated the miller^ 
 *'I caan't say much 'cept as it's Garge — 
 Garge from first to laarst. J^itentions ! arl 
 intentions." 
 
 The miller shut his eyes and mouth 
 as if to keep his passion prisoner, and 
 when he had apparently turned some 
 inner key upon it, he said gently to Nora, 
 while something glittered at the ends of 
 his white eyelashes — 
 
 " Why, it's enough to make you jealous, 
 Nora — he's writing to you, yet here's 
 ' father ' in mostly every line. Ay, my 
 cliild, this is comfort indeed. You are
 
 192 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 right — how can we do enough for such a 
 prodigal ? We have no robe to put on him 
 — except it's his little old white coat that 
 hangs in the mill — ^well, that was a garment 
 of innocence, God knows — and he might 
 do worse than put it on again. We've no 
 rings for his fingers, but we will comfort 
 him — won't we, my child ? " 
 
 Nora fell into his arms with a cry, and 
 he clasped her to his heart, trembling 
 very much. 
 
 A hand — too heavy to be Nora's — 
 touched his shoulder. He looked round 
 and saw Michael with one arm thrown up 
 against the wall, while with the other he 
 pointed to the letter Ambray still held. 
 
 He was very pale, his eyes were wild 
 and blood-shot, but had a gentle expression 
 in them. As Ambray faced him he seemed 
 unable to speak, though he still pointed 
 to the letter. 
 
 ^^What now, Michael Swift? What 
 have you to say on the matter?" asked
 
 NEWS OF GEORGE. 193 
 
 the miller encouragingly, tliinking that 
 perhaps Nora's presence confused the 
 man, and not noticing half the strange- 
 ness of his look. 
 
 ^' The date," Michael said, speaking 
 with his hreath, and without voice. Then 
 aloud, and with a vehemence that had 
 solemnity as well as passion in it, he 
 repeated — 
 
 ^' The date, I say ! — the date ! Do you 
 read a letter hke that, and feel it like 
 that, and not care to know when it was 
 written and what has happened — I mean 
 what time has passed — since ? " 
 
 '^ The date?" said Amhray, looking at 
 the letter. ^' Why, George hardly ever did 
 date his letters, and I don't suppose he's 
 dated this. No, not a sign of a date. But 
 what's the matter with you, man ? A 
 date's not a thing of Hfe or death, is it ? " 
 
 He turned fully, and looked at Michael, 
 and Nora also looked at him in a sort of 
 vague annoyance and surprise. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Michael lowered his head, and dragged 
 his arm slowly from the wall. 
 
 " I — I beg your pardon," he said, 
 scarcely audibly. ^^I only wished to — I 
 — I myself once made a great mistake 
 through — through this same thing. A 
 letter that " 
 
 u There, there ! of course you meant 
 well," Ambray interrupted him ; ^' I know 
 that. Where are you going?" 
 
 Michael was gliding quietly past him. 
 
 "Without turning his face towards him, 
 Michael answered gently — 
 
 ^' To the mill, master. I am not wanted 
 here now, I think."
 
 ( 195 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 LAMBEEHUKST AT CHUECH. 
 
 *^ At cliurcli, in silks and satins new, 
 With hoop of monstrous size ; 
 She never slumbered in her pew — 
 But when she shut her eyes. " 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Michael passed sucli a night as he had 
 known but once before in all his life. 
 
 He felt that some cruel, mysterious hand 
 must be working against him and his 
 cherished pm^pose. How else had this 
 letter come ? 
 
 To increase his trouble, Mrs. Moon sent 
 for him in the evening just as he was lock- 
 ing up the mill. 
 
 I wish to know," said she, when 
 
 cc
 
 196 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Michael came into lier parlour, ^' how I am 
 to give any belief at arl to your statement, 
 in tlie face of such a letter as that from 
 Garge Ambray ? " 
 
 Michael looked at her a moment in 
 silence, half gloomy, haK contemptuous. 
 
 When he answered her, it was with 
 an impatient, almost defiant, turn of his 
 head, as he went towards the door. 
 
 '' That letter, Mrs. Moon," he said, '' was 
 written long ago ; but pray take it for what- 
 ever you think it's worth. As for me, IVe 
 said all I have to say on the matter. 
 Nothing can happen to change the truth of 
 what I said. I wish you good night." 
 
 Nora came home about the middle of 
 April. On the same afternoon that she 
 arrived with her boxes at the farm, Ma'r 
 S'one toiled up to the miller's cottage, 
 holding — with the edge of his smock 
 between it and his fingers — a little note. 
 It was an invitation to Ambray and his
 
 LAMBERHURST AT CHURCH. 197 
 
 wife to drink tea with their niece and 
 Mrs. Best. 
 
 The miller was for refusing it, but Mrs. 
 Ambray and Michael overruled him, and 
 prevailed upon him to let Ma'r S'one carry- 
 back a gi'atefol acceptance. 
 
 After that day Michael never left the 
 mills without taking a long look from the 
 little terrace to ascertain that Nora was 
 not on her way to or from the cottage. 
 
 When he reached the door he stood 
 still and Hstened, and, if he heard her voice 
 within, — as he did several times — he would 
 return to the mill, or go and work in the 
 garden till she left. 
 
 The first time that he saw her face after 
 her return was at church. 
 
 She and Mrs. Moon now sat alone in the 
 large old pew, where Ambray used once 
 to sit with his father and mother, his old 
 grandfather, and all his brothers, while he 
 was yet too small to know the weariness 
 of having to dangle his feet a few inches
 
 198 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 above the hassock they could not reach, 
 while indeed he was still too httle to dangle 
 them at all, but could only turn, direct 
 towards the pulpit, a pair of tiny soles, 
 which perhaps pleaded his small cause 
 eloquently enough, by thus simply and 
 mutely offering evidence to their very 
 recent and sHght acquaintance with the 
 earth, among the sinners of which their 
 owner was called upon thus early to pro- 
 claim himself. 
 
 The grey head which now bent beside 
 Ma'r S'one's and others as lowly, on the 
 most backward of the free seats, told a 
 very different story, — offered very different 
 evidence as to its need of mercy. 
 
 It was during the sermon, when Mrs. 
 Best slept soundly with her fat hands 
 folded on the large pocket-handkerchief 
 spread over her claret-coloured satin dress, 
 and when Ma'r S'one and a curly-headed 
 plough-boy, between which two Michael 
 sat, were requiring constant reminders
 
 LAMBERHURST AT CHURCH. 199 
 
 from eacli shoulder tliat he was neither 
 a pew wall nor a bundle of hay, — it was 
 at this time that he ventured to look at 
 Nora. 
 
 He had scarcely done so when his eyes 
 fell, fall of perplexity and wonder. 
 
 Why was she so pale, so different from 
 when he had last seen her face in the 
 parlour at Buckholt Farm ? 
 
 He dared not look again, because her 
 eyes had been gazing straight towards the 
 seat which he shared with the Ambrays 
 and her aunt's servants, yet he would 
 have given much to know whether her 
 face was indeed so altered as it had 
 seemed to him ; whether it really wore 
 that look of vague suffering, that desire 
 for divine guidance and help, a desire 
 which had appeared to him to be ex- 
 pressed there as humbly as it was on 
 Ma'r S'one's face, when he prayed that 
 his heart might be inclined to keep his 
 Master's laws.
 
 200 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 If he had been right, — if her face had 
 really looked so, — ^what had caused the 
 change ? 
 
 Had George Ambray's letter, read many 
 times, begun to have a different meaning 
 to her at last ? 
 
 Was she beginning to suspect that some- 
 thing worse than debt, and long absence 
 without explanation, had wrung from him 
 those expressions of repentance which had 
 so moved her, and gladdened his father's 
 heart ? Had Mrs. Moon hinted at what he 
 had told her about George ? 
 
 While he was trying for courage to 
 look once again at Nora's face so as 
 to be better able to answer hinself these 
 questions, the voice which Mrs. Best had 
 found so soothing ceased ; and she woke 
 with a start, and fixed instantly a look 
 at once appreciative and critical on the 
 old vicar, as if, on the whole, she approved 
 of the sermon, but could decidedly point 
 out a flaw or two in it, if closely questioned 
 on the subject.
 
 LAMBERHURST AT CHURCH. 201 
 
 Ma'r S'one also woke, sighing and 
 shaking liis head, and murmuring very 
 self-reproachfully, 
 
 '^ 'Cline our 'erts," and finishing his 
 prayer upon his knees. 
 
 The plough-hoy, too, lifted his curly head 
 from Michael's shoulder, turning upon him 
 as he did so a look of surly indignation, as 
 if requesting him not to take such a liberty 
 again. 
 
 Now come the blessing, the silence, the 
 rush of fi'esh air and sunshine through the 
 door the beadle has noiselessly opened ; 
 mysterious sounds among the union boys 
 as they are trying to persuade each other, 
 by nudges and kicks, to begin the general 
 uprising ; mysterious sounds, also, among 
 the old men in the free seats, — a gentle 
 fumbling for sticks and crutches, patting 
 and coaxing of stiff, gaitered legs, that 
 apparently have mistaken this for their 
 last journey here, and gone to sleep. 
 
 Silence again : then suddenly, and at its
 
 202 TEE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 full, the noise of the rising of a large parish 
 in a little church ; the minghng of rusthng 
 silk and creaking old limbs, the roll of the 
 organ, the light fall of well-to-do feet, and 
 the grinding and clattering of myriads of 
 little hobnails. 
 
 Down sails Mrs. Moon, the richest woman 
 in the parish,- — ^placid, self-conscious, doffed 
 to and nodded to by high and low. 
 
 Will he see Nora once more ? Michael 
 wonders. No : the crowd hides her, the 
 Ambrays are waiting for him at the tiny 
 side door. 
 
 One more glance across the motley little 
 mass moving all one way, across the smart 
 bonnets, the files of tiny corduroyed figures ; 
 but it is a vain glance. 
 
 He sees no more of Nora, and in another 
 instant finds himself again by his old 
 master, the old duties, the old sickening 
 necessity of listening to the old story 
 pressing upon him. 
 
 How sick he feels this morning of these
 
 LAMBERHUEST AT CHURCH. 203 
 
 glittering cIot\tis, and tlie old mills that 
 seem to look loweringly upon liim from 
 the hill as lie toils on towards them, 
 supporting his master, who leans so mi- 
 grudgingly upon him, because he thinks 
 his arm unworthy of giving him support ! 
 
 How sick, too, of the thoughts of seeing 
 again that door of George's room standing 
 open to show him, directly he enters the 
 miller's house, its almost awful air of 
 expectancy and waiting !
 
 204 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 APEIL EVENINGS. 
 
 " My ear is open like a greedy shark 
 To catch the tunings of a voice divine." 
 
 " Your accents bland 
 Still sounded in my ear, when I no more 
 Could hear your footstep touch the gravelly floor. " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 When lie liad been a montli at Lamber- 
 hurst, Micliael bad. a letter from borne. 
 It was sbort and cool enougb, but be was 
 as agitated over it as a little scboolboy 
 wbose dimpled fingers tremble round tbe 
 seal of bis motber's first letter. 
 
 Micbael's letter was from bis fatber, 
 and contained tbe key to wbat bad been
 
 APEIL EVENINGS. 205 
 
 a very great mystery to him — tlie undated 
 letter from George received by Nora. 
 
 " The Green, Thames Dutton, 
 "April 2nd. 
 
 ^^ Deae Michael, 
 
 '^ I am very glad to hear you got 
 the place you was after, and your mother 
 is glad you are quite well and comfortable. 
 We are pretty well, thank God, except 
 for rheumatis in the same leg as before. 
 I posted a letter the day after you left 
 which I found directed but not stamped 
 in the pocket of poor Grant's coat. We 
 supposed you meant to take it with you, 
 as it was directed to the same place as 
 you are at, and forgot it. I dare say it 
 will have reached all right. Your mother 
 pertic'lerly hopes you go to church reg'ler, 
 and has your things mended weekly, as 
 your brother Tom has just come home in 
 a shocking state. 
 
 '^ Your affectionate father, 
 
 *' Joseph Swift."
 
 206 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Micliael felt that tliere was a great 
 Necessity for this letter to be destroyed; 
 but be could not do it. 
 
 It was read, laugbed and sigbed over, 
 as if it bad been tbe most brilliant and 
 moving epistle that ever was penned, and 
 wben it bad become worn almost to tatters 
 in bis pocket, it was placed between tbe 
 leaves of Micbael's Bible, wbere it remains 
 to tbis day. 
 
 One evening, wben tbe old miller bad gone 
 to bed, and Micbael sat alone with Mrs. 
 Ambray, concentrating all bis vast strength 
 into bis effort to put ber thread through 
 the eye of ber needle, they heard a step 
 across the Httle garden. 
 
 ^' Nora ! " declared Mrs. Ambray, and 
 rose briskly. 
 
 The door was opened before she had 
 time to reach it, and Nora came in, closed 
 it, and met her aunt with a weary and 
 gentle manner that Michael somehow felt 
 without looking up.
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 207 
 
 Too much absorbed in tbe mere sense 
 of her presence, and too unself- conscious 
 to remember lie would be noticed at all, 
 Michael continued to make thrusts at 
 the needle's eye, though his heart seemed 
 to give his arm great strong jerks that 
 kept the thread very wide of its destina- 
 tion. 
 
 He did not know that Nora could not 
 help smiling at him, till he guessed it 
 from Mrs. Ambray's laugh, as she good- 
 natm'edly snatched both needle and thread 
 from him, exclaiming, 
 
 ^' Come, bless the man ! Why, I wouldn't 
 give my eyes for yours, handsome as they 
 are." 
 
 Michael, with a quick glance, half merry 
 half reverential, at Nora, rose, and in some- 
 what clumsy precipitation retreated upstairs 
 to his own room. 
 
 ^' Why, he's gone up in the dark," cried 
 Mrs. Ambray. '' Why, Michael ! " 
 
 They heard him returning, and Mrs.
 
 208 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Ambray met Mm at tlie foot of tlie stairs 
 with, a candle. ^^You mnst have a good 
 conscience, man," she said, laughing as 
 she gave it into his hands. 
 
 Michael, in venturing one more glance 
 at Nora, had not clearly heard her words, 
 and immediately recollecting himself, asked 
 with some confusion, 
 
 ^' I — I — must have — what ? " 
 
 ^^ A clear conscience," repeated Mrs. 
 Ambray, '^ going up in the dark like that." 
 
 Nora's eyes were turned carelessly 
 towards the broad, dark, honest face of 
 this man, whom she was beginning to 
 notice had an air of unaffected primitive 
 grandeur wherever and in whatever attitude 
 she saw Mm, and she could not help 
 wondering, almost unconsciously, at the 
 change that came over it at her aunt's 
 words. She could have understood a 
 natural start, implying that Michael's 
 conscience was no clearer than most 
 people's, or a seK-satisfied smile, implying
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 209 
 
 it was as clear as lie could reasonably 
 desire it. But tlie change that passed over 
 his face then expressed neither of these 
 feeHngs. It was more hke a sudden pas- 
 sion of sadness seizing him. 
 
 His eyes looked towards her with the 
 helpless, wistfal look of the eyes of dumb 
 creatures — expressive yet inexpressible — 
 the small cmwe of lip, showing through 
 the dark beard, quivered, the pale cheeks 
 and great forehead became a shade more 
 pale, then the eyes were almost shut, 
 with a start — the face fell a Httle forward, 
 and Mrs. Ambray, unconscious of anything, 
 closed the door on it. 
 
 ^' What an immensity of expression is 
 wasted on common, handsome people," 
 said Nora, after the effect of the httle 
 staircase picture had vanished with 
 Michael's candle. ^' Now, I'm sui-e that 
 man might be a poet or some such sensi- 
 tive being, to judge by the constant play 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 of expression on his face. Wliat is it? 
 I suppose tlie trutli is the face is handsome, 
 isn't it ? And beauty is a magnifier of 
 expression. Michael probably never read 
 a Hne of poetry in print or nature, and as 
 to sensitiveness, I dare say his soul's as 
 hard-mouthed as Aunt Jane's cob." 
 
 *^ Nonsense, Nora," answered Mrs. Am- 
 bray, rather sharply. ^' Michael has very 
 keen, quick feehngs. One can hurt or 
 please him with what one says before 
 the words are out o' one's mouth. He's 
 all he seems, is Michael, and a great 
 deal more too." 
 
 '^ Then," said Nora in a softer voice, 
 *^ he has some great grief." 
 
 ^^ That he has, poor fellow ! " answered 
 her aunt ; ^' he's been shamefully jilted by 
 some minx of a girl or other. I often 
 wish I could tell her a bit of my mind. 
 Sometimes I think he'll never get over it." 
 
 ^^ He doesn't look iU ? " 
 
 *'Not always; but, Nora, I don't know
 
 APEIL EVENINGS. 211 
 
 what to make of him — lie's too good. 
 Upon my word, my dear," slie said, her 
 eyes filling as she laid her hand on the 
 astonished girl's — ^^ don't laugh at me, but 
 this man is for all the world like those 
 sort o' children as we say are too sweet 
 o' spirit to live — he is, indeed." 
 
 " Does he often look so sad as he did 
 just now ? " asked Nora. 
 
 *'Yes, often — and yet the least thing 
 will make him happy as a king. A kind 
 word fi'om your uncle makes him as if 
 he'd got springs to his feet all day, and 
 di'mouds in those black eyes of his. He's 
 a mystery, is that man." 
 
 Michael had been too gi'eatly disturbed 
 by the thought and the wild msh that 
 Mrs. Ambray's words had awakened in 
 him to hear, as he might otherwise easily 
 have heard, these remarks upon himself. 
 > The Httle staircase, being small and 
 almost perpendicular, was a sort of ear-
 
 212 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 trumpet to Micliaers room, rather than a 
 means of keeping off sound from tlie 
 parlour below. The door at the foot had 
 a gap all round it, and Michael's room had 
 no door at all, but some old flour-sacks, 
 stitched together, hanging there in place 
 of one. 
 
 He had grown accustomed to hearing 
 himself talked about by the miller and his 
 wife after he had gone up to bed, and had 
 given up throwing out hints that he could 
 hear every word. 
 
 The miller would remember for some 
 little time, and be more careful, but he was 
 a man who said little, yet did not care to 
 trouble about what he said, or how he said 
 it. He therefore only grew irritated, and 
 spoke louder when his wife said ^'hush! " 
 and if his remark had been in Michael's 
 dispraise, repeated it in a louder voice and 
 with sundry additions, which pained or 
 amused the lonely occupant of the attic, 
 according to the mood that might be on him.
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 213 
 
 To-mght Michael had come up in such 
 excitement as to be unable for some time 
 to hear or to remember that he could hear. 
 Nora's voice, too, was still a httle strange 
 to him, and Mrs. Ambray was always careful 
 to speak low. 
 
 For some minutes he had enough to do 
 to conquer the panic that had seized him 
 at the careless words Mrs. Ambray had 
 spoken while his eyes had been on Nora's 
 face, which he saw for the first time in 
 the soft shade and star-hke light of that 
 sorrow which he understood so much 
 better than she did herself. 
 
 Her blue soft eyes, resting that moment 
 unconsciously on his face, in all their 
 pathetic wonder at life, had made him 
 tremble through all his soul — for he felt 
 that they pleaded to him, without her 
 knowledge, for the solution of the mystery 
 that was gathering over her young heart 
 and its hopes like a bhghting mist over a 
 garden of summer flowers.
 
 214 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Still agitated and steeped to tlie lips in 
 new grief, Michael put out his candle, and 
 sat with his arm on the sill of his open 
 window. 
 
 The thick dew had frozen lightly — ^the 
 moon was eagerly clear and fresh — the 
 fruit trees hung their heavily-blossomed 
 boughs, and shivered hstlessly — lambs in 
 the Buckholt meadows bleated with cold. 
 All the soft new things of the spring 
 seemed shiveringly and plaintively agree- 
 ing they had come too soon. 
 
 Michael remembered all that he looked 
 out upon long years afterwards — for that 
 night was one of deep importance in his 
 strange history. He knew that it would 
 be so; indeed, it seemed to him when he 
 came up there and knew that Nora was 
 where he could hear her voice, and by- 
 and-by, when his ears grew used to that, 
 her words also, he felt he should know 
 what was as a matter of life and death to 
 him — whether hers was a nature likely to
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 215 
 
 recover from the shock of a gi'eat calamity 
 or one to be ruined by it. 
 
 The moment that he first allowed him- 
 seK to draw in his face fi'om the fresh 
 night, and tm^n towards the sacks in the 
 doorway, Mrs. Ambray was speaking. 
 
 She had none of that unrestrainable 
 impetuosity of expression that the Am- 
 brays all possessed, and Michael only 
 heard a word or two of what she said. 
 But when Nora answered her he heard 
 distinctly, though the sweet flow of her 
 voice was in danger of distracting him 
 from her words, as the flow of a stream 
 distracts the eye of one looking for the 
 stones in its clear depths. 
 
 ^'I shall never forget," she said, ^^the 
 fright he gave me the first time I saw 
 him, when he came over to Stone Crouch 
 to tell me the mills were going to be 
 let. They're very uncomfortable beings, 
 those people that have such overmuch 
 expression. He was a good fellow to feel
 
 216 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 your trouble, but Ms look wben I came 
 in ! It was like a person's wbo bad come 
 witb awful news." 
 
 *^ I don't tbink you'd bave been so mucb 
 surprised, Nora," said Mrs. Ambray, more 
 loudly and sbarply tban usual, ^' if you'd 
 known tbe trouble as he'd left bebind bim 
 bere — your uncle coughing himself to fits, 
 and me here distracted, and none to look 
 to but him. Ma'r S'one shook like a leaf 
 when he brought up the news — and indeed 
 I must say, Nora, I don't myself see such 
 * overmuchness ' of feeling if a young 
 man with parents of his own did feel and 
 show his feehngs at such a time. It isn't 
 every young man," added the good soul, 
 with a slight choking in her throat, ^'that 
 looks on me as George does, as a mother 
 deserving of no jot of respect and dooty. 
 God knows Tm not tired yet of ^ over- 
 much ' feehng shown me." 
 
 '^ Dearest aunt, I didn't mean the man 
 felt too much for you," explained Nora;
 
 APRIL E^TDNINGS. 217 
 
 '' I meant lie showed more concern than 
 he really felt. These great black and 
 white faces always do." 
 
 '' His deeds are what I judge by, Nora," 
 answered Mrs. Ambray, still with some 
 asperity. ''I know they have expressed a 
 sight more feeling than even his good 
 honest face has." 
 
 ^^WeU, weU,'' said Nora, in a haK 
 beseeching, haK laughing tone ; ^^ I beg 
 your pardon, and his too." 
 
 '^Hush!" 
 
 ^^Why? Can he hear?" 
 
 '' No, he's sound enough asleep by this 
 time, but you needn't wake him." 
 
 '^Do you know, Aunt," said Nora, in an 
 altered Yoice that made the angry flush 
 die off Michael's cheek and his eye grow 
 full of forgiveness and reverence, '' I should 
 have been almost glad to have proved 
 this man of yours a hypocrite." 
 
 The dark eye flashed at the sacks again, 
 demanding as Mrs. Ambray did in angry 
 astonishment —
 
 218 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ** Why, Nora,- in the name o' wonder ? '* 
 
 ** Because," answered Nora, ^*I would 
 rather he had been anything than that he 
 should help to drive me to the belief all 
 life seems driving me to just now. Aunt, 
 isn't it true — find — in this world goodness 
 — and there with it — ^bone of its bone, 
 flesh of its flesh, you find — sorrow?" 
 
 She uttered the last words with such 
 bitter vehemence, Michael rose, and Ms 
 arm went up in the old way against the 
 wall. 
 
 He was lost in a tumult of perplexity as 
 to what her words could mean to her, and 
 of horror as to what they meant to liim, 
 while the miller's wife cried out en- 
 treatingly and soothingly, 
 
 " No, lassie, no ! What ! is this our 
 Nora? Is this what they've taught our 
 bright one in the grand, gay world ? " 
 
 Michael heard the scimd of a chair 
 being pushed away, and guessed that 
 George's mother had risen, and was
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 219 
 
 caressing and comforting the girl tenderly 
 and respectfully, as he had often seen her 
 do when he had come into the cottage 
 without knowing the visitor was there. 
 
 ^'Aimt," said Nora, in a voice half 
 choked with tears, " I don't get on in 
 what you caU the grand, gay world. To 
 me it is neither grand nor gay. I have 
 been in it too long or not long enough 
 to be happy in it. I understand it either 
 too well or not at all." 
 
 ^^ Oh, my poor child," said Mrs. 
 Ambray with quiet but deep pain, *'it's 
 because you are not free in it. You are 
 chained to us — you with your sweet face 
 and your goodness and wealth that ought 
 to make you the happiest of the happy 
 — you are chained to that ungra — unlucky 
 boy." 
 
 ''You dear soul!" cried Nora, and 
 Michael knew by her voice that she was 
 smiling that tremulous dehcious smile 
 he knew so well, and that reminded him
 
 220 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 of the rusli of May sunliglit over yellow 
 fields. ^' Do you pity me for that '^ Ah! 
 would you if you knew ? If you knew the 
 comfort it is to me to feel that I am 
 not one of those I see struggUng against 
 each other, in what you call the world, 
 for they hardly know what — something 
 which when they get they are seldom 
 satisfied with, so far as I can see — hut 
 I tell you I know too little ah out it. 
 I am spoilt by my feeling of security 
 and peace in such a home and such a 
 life as I look to with George. I am 
 made selfish by my own confidence and 
 happiness. Eeally, aunt, you don't know 
 how ungenerous and censorious I am. 
 My poor father would say, that having 
 my own ship safe in the harbour, I stand 
 and condemn those who are still striving 
 and fighting and wrecking each other to 
 get in too. Dear aunt, never fear for my 
 faithfulness to George — to you all — to the 
 life we have talked of — beheve me, whether
 
 APEIL EVENINGS. 221 
 
 it's my fault or not, I can find no rest 
 for tlie sole of my foot, but in the dear, 
 dear old home." 
 
 Then Michael heard the two laughing 
 and crying together, and knew that youth 
 and generosity, and age and gratitude, had 
 kissed each other — with murmurs of con- 
 stancy and consolation and hope. 
 
 ^^ After all, Nora," said the old voice 
 presently, in a tone of solemn, sweet 
 resignation, ''it's only those as has mis- 
 fortunes like us can know what real 
 happiness is. Only fancy, my darhng, the 
 blessed woman among women I shall be 
 when comes that boy in at that door." 
 
 '' Yes, that's what I say," cried Nora 
 joyously. " Ours, after all, is that sort of 
 grief that may be melted like these spring 
 frosts. And then everything will seem so 
 astonishingly warm and sweet because 
 we've fancied it must be winter. How 
 I shall laugh at all I've feared and 
 fretted — at the first glimpse of his face!"
 
 222 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 *' Yes, but think o' me," said the miller's 
 wife, who, like most people that habitually 
 find their happiness in the happiness of 
 others, was impressed with the superiority 
 of her joy over theirs. "■ Think o' me 
 standing here, and seeing by your sweet 
 face that you're rewarded for all your 
 goodness, and seeing his eyes looking 
 round at me — hke this — ^in his old way, 
 when he'd come in late — as much as 
 to say, *May I dare to look at father? 
 Shall I catch it much ? ' and then to see 
 ]2is — Hs — father turn and see him, and 
 —ah ! — ^" 
 
 The prospect of that meeting was too 
 much for George's long-suffering mother, 
 and Michael heard a sound by which he 
 knew the thin old arms had been cast 
 upon the table to receive and hide the 
 ecstatical old face. 
 
 Ma'r S'one now came to fetch his young 
 mistress home, and Michael, Hke some
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 223 
 
 ** seer in a trance," saw them go away 
 under the snowy pear trees. 
 
 He had sat listening to the swinging 
 to of each gate from the High Mills to 
 Buckholt, and to the age-smitten child- 
 voice of Ma'r S'one telling Nora all that 
 had happened at the farm dm-ing her 
 absence, and when these sounds had 
 ceased, could hardly reaHze that he had 
 indeed had the insight he so coveted into 
 this tender and faithful soul. 
 
 He sat for hours crushed with a sense 
 of shame at what he felt his baseness in 
 daring to have looked into so sacred a 
 temple. 
 
 Yet again and again he dared to look 
 into it, or perhaps he might have said 
 he was compelled to do so, for now that 
 Ambray habitually sickened of his weary 
 days so as to be glad to begin his weary 
 nights early by going to bed soon after 
 dusk, Nora would come out of pity to 
 sit with his wife, and Michael, when there
 
 224 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 was no use in being at the mill, banished 
 himself to his room with the sack door. 
 
 Sometimes he tried to be very honest, 
 and whistled till his breath was gone, 
 or till Mrs. Ambray called up the stairs — 
 
 ^' Bless the man! don't make that 
 noise — don't ! One can't hear oneself 
 speak ! " 
 
 Nora did not come only to talk of 
 George. She brought books, and read to 
 the old woman, often for some hours 
 together, and she talked out her thoughts 
 about what she read, and Michael would 
 declare to himself, ^^ I thought book- 
 writers the cleverest folk in the world; 
 but this young lady goes beyond them. 
 All she says about the books is better 
 and higher than what the books say for 
 themselves." And Michael, not knowing 
 that it is often easier to go beyond a great 
 thought, when such is once expressed, 
 than it is to approach it ever so distantly 
 before it is expressed, began to look on
 
 APRIL EVENINGS. 225 
 
 Nora as tlie very soul of msdom and know- 
 ledge, as well as a marvel of love and filial 
 devotion. 
 
 The world she opened to him by her 
 reading, and her talking never lost for 
 him her presence. It was with the light of 
 her own thoughts that he looked upon, 
 everything she made known to him, and 
 as she did, all unconsciously, make known 
 so much that it was impossible for a large 
 honest, though fallow, mind like Michael's 
 to forget, her image in his soul became 
 immovable. 
 
 He could not thing of anything without 
 pausing to wonder how she would think of it. 
 
 It was now that quite a new hfe began 
 for him, Eeading became a necessity. He 
 made journeys to the Bay constantly for the 
 books Nora had mentioned or read portions 
 from. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray, whose favourite he was, 
 was proud of this, and when he had gone 
 to the mill, showed them to Nora, who 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 agreed that lie was a " superior man," 
 and sometimes felt haK ashamed of per- 
 mitting without a word his humble and 
 reverential exit at her approach.
 
 ( 227 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 Michael's NmnxLY trial. 
 
 *' His heart beat awfiiUy against his side 
 For power to speak, but still the ruddy tide 
 Stifled his voice and pulsed resolve away. " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 No more letters, dated or undated, had 
 arrived from George ; but as lie had said 
 that he should not write again until the 
 fate of his pictures was decided, this caused 
 no surprise or disappointment. 
 
 The loving and expectant hearts kept 
 each other full of happy restlessness with 
 the idea that he might arrive any day, any 
 moment. 
 
 Every night Michael heard his master 
 remonstrating against the house being shut 
 up so early, and he knew he kept awake
 
 228 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 an liour or more, sometimes many hours, 
 after all was still and dark, straining his 
 ear for the step, the knock, the voice, 
 till his heavy eyelids fell and shut away the 
 world and its vain hopes, and he was stilled 
 with a foretaste of death's tranquillity. 
 
 Michael knew all this because the walls 
 were so thin he could hear every word 
 that was spoken below almost as well as 
 if he were in the same room with the 
 speaker. And often Ambray, long after 
 all had been silent, would ask his wife 
 if she did not think there was a sound 
 like wheels or horses' feet coming up the 
 White Lane, or teU her that Guarder had 
 barked, or the gate had creaked. 
 
 There were times when the conscious- 
 ness of these grey heads lying awake far 
 into the night in such trembhng and 
 tender expectancy became almost unen- 
 durable to Michael. 
 
 Starting up, he would half dress himself 
 and steal barefooted down the steep,
 
 Michael's nightly trial. 229 
 
 narrow stairs, stand with Ms palms against 
 their door, and be within a breath of 
 bursting it open and falling on his knees 
 before them, his face scarcely needing 
 language as an interpreter. 
 
 But before anything else was done, 
 when only his noiseless feet had stood 
 there, and his noiseless palms touched the 
 door, he would turn and fly back, leaving 
 upon the walls that shut in the stairs 
 the prints of his moist hands dying away 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 Back in the thin-walled solitude of his 
 little room, where he was forced to be so 
 quiet and careful, he would cast himseK 
 upon his bed, thanking God he had gone 
 no further, and telling himseK he must 
 not, could not, make known to these poor, 
 weak, loving creatures the full extent of 
 their sorrow, till they had learned that 
 they had at least a more faithful servant, 
 if not a better son than George, to sup- 
 port and comfort them.
 
 230 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Evening after evening, up in his little 
 room with the sack-door, Michael forgot 
 where he was in the mixed delight, pain, 
 and wonder of Hstening to Nora's voice. 
 
 The story of faithfulness, love, and trust- 
 ful hope was always the same, yet always 
 fresh and marvellous to him. 
 
 Sometimes he thought himseK favoured 
 above all men to be allowed insight into 
 such a nature, to be permitted to watch 
 it putting forth all its brightest and best 
 treasures of thought, experience, memory, 
 and anticipation, all for the comfort and 
 refreshment of an old and sorely-tried soul, 
 who could only repay it by a wondering 
 gratitude. 
 
 At other times, as he came out in the 
 spring mornings, he felt very differently. 
 The thought of Nora, and the beautiful 
 things she had said or read, made him 
 loiter on his way to the mill, and feel so 
 unfit for anything but tender dreaming, that 
 he determined to Hsten no more, and to
 
 Michael's nightly teial. 231 
 
 read no more of tlie books she spoke of 
 as dear friends. 
 
 But the charm had become too strong 
 and subtle to break very easily. 
 
 It seemed to him that, however long 
 he might banish himseK from the sound 
 of that rich voice, and from sight of the 
 famihar and dear face and form, he was 
 really undergoing some kind of painful 
 and injurious starvation till he allowed 
 himself to hear or see her again. 
 
 If the effect of yielding to the sweet 
 spell had been all against his works and 
 conscience, Michael would have broken it 
 without hesitation. But he knew this 
 was not so. He knew he was learning 
 much and rapidly, and that good was 
 being confirmed in him which before had 
 been but vague and uncertain. 
 
 He learnt that his own submission and 
 sacrifice of his youth and strength to his 
 father had not been the result of simple 
 weakness or indolence of mind, as at times
 
 232 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 he had half feared, and as kind people in 
 his own village would have persuaded him 
 it was. 
 
 By the light of Nora's goodness and intel- 
 ligence he was enabled to see, as he had 
 never done before, the soundness and purity 
 of his own aims and wishes, and all his 
 dearest thoughts. This amazed and filled 
 him with delight. Yet, at the same time, his 
 secret sorrow was enlarged and intensified. 
 
 It seemed almost terrible that his soul 
 should be gladdened and strengthened by 
 that very truth and tenderness which 
 would make this sweet lady more certain 
 to be crushed by the calamity that he 
 alone knew of. 
 
 On some nights, after Hstening to their 
 talk about George hour after hour, Michael's 
 sleep was full of wild and painful dreams. 
 
 Once Mrs. Ambray had been kept up 
 late by the miller's cough. She had seen 
 him at last slumbering peacefully, and was 
 just sitting down for a quiet haK hour
 
 Michael's nightly trial. 233 
 
 with her feet close to the fire, her warm 
 ale heside her, and her Bible on her weary- 
 knees. 
 
 She was enjoying in this way all that 
 earthly reahties and heavenly promises 
 could yield her, and telling her patient old 
 heart that things might be worse, when she 
 heard a smothered cry from Michael's room. 
 
 In a moment she was half-way up the 
 stairs with her candle in her hand, Hsten- 
 ing. 
 
 She soon understood he was but sighing 
 and muttering in his sleep, and went in and 
 wakened him ; at which Michael was much 
 astonished, and promised to be quiet at 
 once.
 
 234 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 MAY MOENINGS. 
 
 " Every fresh and fair tree, 
 Blowing in the spring, 
 Apple bright and pear tree 
 Now are garlanding, 
 
 " Making sweet and shady- 
 All the orchard ways. 
 Where my pretty lady 
 Walks o' sunny days." 
 
 The next day the miller's wife alluded 
 to Micliaers dream in a manner that 
 surprised and embarrassed him exceed- 
 ingly, more especially as she did so before 
 Nora, who had come up to the High 
 Mills in the morning, with some dainty 
 for her uncle's lunch. 
 
 Michael had come to the cottage to 
 ask his master's will concerning a tire-
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 235 
 
 some customer wliom he could not satisfy. 
 To answer him, Ambray had to go 
 rummaging on an old bill-file, and while 
 he was doing so, Mrs. Ambray began her 
 attack. 
 
 ^^ Michael," said she, ^^ I thought you 
 were a more sensible man. As it is, I'm 
 ashamed of you, that I am." 
 
 Michael smiled and looked gently sur- 
 prised — not in the least knowing what 
 she meant, but being well used to her 
 bantering. 
 
 In truth, the old woman was rather proud 
 of Michael, and often said more to him 
 before Nora than she would have said at 
 other times, just to show off hor intimacy 
 with and motherly authority over him. 
 
 Michael, who was at heart something 
 of a comedian of that quiet kind that 
 enjoys its own power, which it often 
 uses for its own amusement solely, at 
 once fell into a haK imbecile expression, 
 and then took upon that an air of hurt
 
 236 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 surprise — all so delicate, that Nora could 
 not for lier life have told whether he was 
 or was not acting. 
 
 ^^ Ashamed of — of me?" said Michael, 
 his dark eyes cast down, his hrows lifted. 
 
 "Yes, indeed I am," answered Mrs. 
 Ambray, touching Nora's foot with her 
 own. " I should 'a' thought, with that 
 great heard o' yours, you'd been too much 
 of a man to be sighing and dying all this 
 time for a minx of a girl that doesn't 
 care for you. A fine fellow like you, I 
 am ashamed of you. A pretty lot o' 
 nonsense you must have in your head 
 that you can't hold your tongue about it 
 when you're asleep. Ah, you may look ! 
 I heard you — ^with your ^ Could she be quite 
 without mercy and pity for any one ? ' and 
 your * She shall feel at least that I deserve 
 her pity.' Of course it all shows me 
 what you're after — throwing yourself at 
 that minx's feet again — and I say it'll be 
 a very unmanly and siUy action. There,
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 237 
 
 Micliael ! I began in fun, but I mean it 
 seriously." 
 
 ^^But," protested Michael, hiding his 
 deepening colour by putting the tips of 
 his fingers to his forehead with an 
 affectation of stupid, puzzled incredulity, 
 ''there's some mistake. Me talk in my 
 sleep!" 
 
 Then suddenly, as if struck by a brilliant 
 idea, his face Hghted up, and pointing to 
 the old miller, he exclaimed — 
 
 ''It must have been the master you heard 
 say all — all that in his sleep." 
 
 The miller gave a low growhng sort of 
 laugh, and Nora could not help laughing 
 herseK to see Michael pretending to shrink 
 back in mortal fear, as Mrs. Ambray seized 
 an old stick in the corner and shook it at 
 him threateningly. Old Guarder, who was 
 always at Michael's heels, began to floimder 
 about, barking beseechingly for peace. 
 The miller looked up and cried, 
 
 " Grive it him, wife!" and he and Nora
 
 238 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 laughed afresh. Mrs. Ambray chased 
 Michael round the room, and there was 
 quite a merry uproar. Ma'r S'one, who 
 had come to summon Nora to dinner, 
 joined in at the door, Hke a cracked 
 silver bell. 
 
 There had not been such mirth in the 
 house since George went away as was 
 caused by Mrs. Ambray's playful attack 
 on Michael. 
 
 "Marnin', sir — marnin', ma'am," said 
 Ma'r S'one, still touching his silver forelock, 
 and still keeping on his chirping, grass- 
 hopper-like laugh till the water stood in 
 his Uttle blue eyes. *^ This he's like old 
 times — it he's Ma'rs John. Why, Ma'rs 
 Michael be gett'n just like a son to ye — 
 eigh, missis ? " , 
 
 '' When that shall be, Mr. Ma'r S'one," 
 said Michael, dropping suddenly from all 
 his affectation into an attitude of gentle 
 humihty and solemnity, and speaking in 
 a voice whose weary tone thrilled with
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 239 
 
 ecstatic yearning — ^^ when that shall he, 
 there'll be a prouder and a happier man 
 in the world than there ever was before, 
 let him have been who or what he 
 might." 
 
 The miller, with his hands on the bill- 
 file, looked at him in astonishment, and 
 a sort of far-off kindhness in his eye. 
 
 Mrs. Ambray was silent, not daring to 
 take Michael's words as she would have 
 done had the miller not been present. 
 
 Nora was more amazed than any one, 
 for she had caught all the solemn passion 
 of the eyes and voice as none else had. 
 
 Nora thought of Michael's eye and voice 
 all the way home, and came to the con- 
 viction, in her own mind, that this faith- 
 ful, grateful servant of the miller's must 
 have had one of those hard lives to which 
 ordinary kindness makes a blissful contrast. 
 
 There seemed to her no other possible 
 reason for his coming to the High Mills,
 
 240 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 and settling himself there in such humble 
 and touching content and gratitude. She 
 had, in spite of all her anxiety about 
 George, felt compelled to think of Michael 
 and his ready sympathy and goodwill; and 
 her first suspicion as to what it meant had 
 been an unjust one. 
 
 She thought that he must have some idea 
 (she could not understand exactly what) 
 of ingratiating himself with them all, and 
 ultimately of renting the mill himself. 
 
 His warning about the missing date on 
 George's last letter made her feel very 
 angry with him, and suspect him of wishing 
 to have George's absence and previous 
 silence regarded by them in the worst light. 
 
 His confusion before her and avoidance 
 of her all made her suspect that he knew 
 himself to be guilty of wishing and working 
 for other ends than the simple good of his 
 employers, as he outwardly seemed to be 
 wishing and working for. 
 
 Yet, through all this, there had been times
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 241 
 
 when Michael's simple honesty of purpose 
 so shone out in his face, that Nora had 
 revulsions of feehng for him, and her eye 
 would brighten upon him, with that irre- 
 strainable and subtle recognition which 
 flashes fi'om one deeply true nature to 
 another in spite of aU disguise. 
 
 When Michael met one of these involun- 
 tary looks, for a moment or two he enjoyed 
 such peace and elation of spirit as he never 
 knew mortal man might feel. 
 
 The next minute it would be as a dream, 
 or as the shooting of a star, so quickly gone 
 that the eye could not trust itself in having 
 reaUy seen it. 
 
 It was often in vain he tried to comfort 
 himself, in his times of sadness, with the 
 thought of such sweet confidence having 
 existed between Nora and himseK for even 
 the space of a Hghtning flash. Yet some- 
 times he could recall it, and all the dehght 
 it had caused him would rush over him 
 again and make him pause in his work, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 242 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 trembling and unable to keep the moisture 
 from bis eyes or tlie smiles from bis lips. 
 
 Wben be was at work in tbe miller's 
 garden, Nora bad more tban once come 
 upon bim witb tbis look on bis face. 
 
 Kemembering wbat Mrs. Ambray bad 
 told ber about Micbael's supposed love- 
 story, and tbe words be bad said in bis 
 sleep, Nora smiled to berself wben sbe 
 saw bim so elated, and was toucbed by 
 tbe strengtb of bis bope. 
 
 Sbe often told ber aunt tbat sbe doubted 
 tbe wisdom of ber tbrowing sucb dis- 
 couragement on tbe idea tbey botb tbougbt 
 Micbael bad of being yet reconciled to bis 
 false love. 
 
 But Mrs. Ambray was merciless on tbe 
 matter. 
 
 ^^ Don't tell me, Nora!" sbe would 
 answer. '^ A fine fellow bke tbat to allow 
 a girl to play witb bis feebngs in sucb a 
 way ! But, I always teU you, you don't 
 know Micbael yet, or you wouldn't talk so.
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 243 
 
 Besides being what he is, he gets more and 
 more of a scholar every day. I only wish 
 poor George had ever been as fond of his 
 books ; but I'm sm-e . it was as if all his 
 schooling went for nothing but making him 
 dislike the sight of a book afterwards." 
 
 The good soul little knew what heartaches 
 these comparisons she was always making 
 between the two young men gave poor 
 Nora. 
 
 Michael's Kfe at the High Mills was to 
 her only too often a silent, gentle, but most 
 saddening reminder of what George's had 
 never been. It almost seemed that he had 
 been sent there to teach her the bitter 
 lesson — how bhnd love could be, how blind 
 her own had been. 
 
 Thus Michael's presence in the fields and 
 lanes and mill, and in the humble home 
 she so loved, had a sorrovi-ful influence over 
 her, though the presence was to all appear- 
 ance so bright and cheering. 
 
 She believed him to be quite innocent
 
 244 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 of meaning to cause tliis effect on her, and 
 he was so, and often wondered what a 
 strange, steadfast, almost defying gaze that 
 she sometimes fixed on him could mean. 
 The truth was, such looks were nothing but 
 the answers Nora's sad eyes involuntarily 
 gave to the things Michael's hfe taught 
 her about George. 
 
 At the times they fell on Michael, her 
 faithful heart was saying, ^' And if all this 
 was so — if George is proved a thousand 
 times more faulty — ^yet, will that alter my 
 love for him?" 
 
 But Michael not dreaming of the truth, 
 was penetrated to the quick by these looks. 
 He would, after meeting one of them, shut 
 himself in the mill and sit swaying to and 
 fro on the lower steps, his hands locked in 
 each other as he muttered, 
 
 *^ She sees — she sees something I" 
 
 Sometimes he would grope his way at 
 once to where George's little mirror hung, 
 and gaze into it with blank questioning, as
 
 MAY MORNINGS. 245 
 
 if lie almost expected to see that certain 
 fainting, yearning eyes had left their re- 
 flections in his own, and that Nora had 
 recognized them there. 
 
 The spring continued fine. The children 
 came up in troops to the mill-field to look 
 after their floral types, the daisies. The 
 beauty of Michael's new world increased 
 around him with such soft but marvellous 
 speed, that often when he came in the 
 morning to look out at the mill mndow, 
 he would, after his first glance at the 
 earth, push back his cap, murmuring aloud 
 some word of wonder, and throwing 
 upward, as if straight into God's eyes, a 
 smile of irrepressible lowly, but full-hearted 
 congratulation, as intensely real as that with 
 which some humble workman in a great 
 sculptor's studio might turn to his master 
 after beholding a night's progress of the 
 inspired hand. 
 
 Nora, whose night rests grew more brief
 
 246 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 as George's absence and silence strength- 
 ened, of ten saw Midaael thus. 
 
 Her early walks were through the miller's 
 garden, because it was the only spot she 
 felt belonged to the Ambrays, by right of 
 possession as well as justice, and it seemed 
 to her the centre of all the spring's 
 loveliness. 
 
 Here Michael every morning met her, or 
 watched her from the mill terrace, and took 
 to his trembhng heart great hoards of joy 
 and sorrow^ — vast enough to last a Hfetime. 
 
 He never quite knew what that morning 
 vision was to him till there came a run 
 of rainy days to deprive him of it. 
 
 Then the mill seemed a prison indeed, 
 and all hfe a weary penance.
 
 ( 247 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 A POETENTOUS VISITOK. 
 
 *^ Death and life are in the power of the tongue." 
 
 Proverbs. 
 
 A WEEK of wet weather, with scarcely a 
 gust of wind from Monday to Saturday, 
 had improved neither Ambray's cough nor 
 his temper. 
 
 Michael was beginning to look habitually 
 scared and downcast at his approach, and 
 at the sound of his voice. 
 
 On Satm'day evening, more as an excuse 
 to escape from the cottage than from any 
 other motive, Michael pretended to remem- 
 ber that a hinge of one of the mill windows 
 was loose, and might be letting in. the damp 
 if left over Sunday.
 
 248 " THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 It had just ceased raining when lie went 
 out, but all the world looked as if it could 
 never dry up and brighten again ; and the 
 mill had a stark, dead stillness and hfeless- 
 ness about it by no means cheering to a 
 miller's eye. 
 
 Michael entered and went up to the 
 stone floor, where he stood looking out half 
 vacantly from the window of which he had 
 spoken. 
 
 He had pushed it open, and was watching 
 the smoke rising, or rather being held down 
 by the damp as it came from the chimneys 
 of Buckholt Farm. 
 
 He had been standing there for nearly 
 ten minutes, not thinking so much as 
 being overgloomed by thoughts that came, 
 like the clouds passing above him, with- 
 out any working of his mind. 
 
 There had been no sound since he 
 stood there but the water dripping from 
 the mills and the pale trees ; and now 
 he was startled by hearing a loud bark
 
 A PORTENTOUS VISITOR. 249 
 
 from Guarder ; wliicli was immediately 
 answered by a bark from another dog, and 
 then there was a noise, as if challenger 
 and challenged rolled over on the stones 
 together. 
 
 Michael looked down fi'om the window. 
 He did not see the dogs, but he saw 
 a figm^e walking along on the grass by the 
 side of the path, and after his first glance 
 at it he fell back a step or two, and stood 
 watching its approach. 
 
 His OTSTL face had changed in that 
 moment — had lost its look of sadness 
 and vague foreboding, and taken on it 
 the blank, breathless air of one confronted 
 suddenly by a new and an unexpected 
 calamity. 
 
 The figm-e came too near for Michael 
 any longer to see it. 
 
 The bell fastened to the ground-floor 
 door rang loudly ; an instant after he 
 heard the lifting of the latch. 
 
 Michael turned and looked at the open-
 
 250 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 ing in the floor where the ladder was, and 
 breathed hard. 
 
 He knew his delay must be but mo- 
 mentary; he must go down, whoever or 
 whatever awaited him. That was Ambray's 
 door at which the summons had come ; 
 he was Ambray's servant; there was no 
 help for him. He was a stranger : there 
 were none to take his part. 
 
 His eyes, turning slowly and heavily 
 about in a despairing search for aid, fell 
 on the grindstone. 
 
 He went and stood before it, and looked 
 down at it, and the panic and despair in 
 his eyes softened and kindled to sorrow 
 and passion. 
 
 Without moving his lips, and while 
 keeping his eyes, misty, and burning, and 
 still, cast upon the stone, he pleaded 
 mutely with God. 
 
 Was the stain which his hands had 
 innocently brought upon this stone, and 
 which none saw but him, not, after all, to
 
 A PORTENTOUS VISITOR. 251 
 
 be ground out by his hands, though he 
 was wilhng to make that work the aim 
 and end of his hfe ? 
 
 Had he not for this pm^pose deserted, 
 in then- old age, his father and mother ? 
 And had any one seen the pathos of 
 Michael's eyes as he set this deed before his 
 Maker, he might well have believed these 
 two to be Httle less than angels, instead 
 of being the most selfish old couple in 
 the world, as in truth they were. 
 
 Had he not been patient since he came 
 here, and was his patience and was all 
 his work to go as nothing ? 
 
 Had the end indeed come ? Was Ambray 
 to hear all now — this day — this evening ; 
 was his fury to come upon him in this dull 
 rainy Hght, while the mills were standing 
 still, and every one's door was closed on 
 the drenched world ?
 
 252 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 geoege's model. 
 
 " This man's brow, like to a title leaf, 
 Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. " 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Slowly, and with a certain faint trustfalness 
 in his face, Michael at last approached the 
 opening, set his heel on the ladder, and 
 went down. 
 
 He did not pause an instant in the 
 grinding-room, or on the dressing-floor, 
 where he threw one qnick glance at the 
 sketches on the bin, but went on down 
 the broader steps till he came close to 
 the open door and the person who had 
 admitted himself. 
 
 The visitor stood with his hand still
 
 George's model. 253 
 
 on the latch, and his face turned in the 
 direction from which Michael came ; though 
 his eyes were not looking in the same 
 direction, but were turned to the ground 
 with an attentive expression. 
 
 He was an old man, of medium height, 
 dressed in patched and ragged clothes, 
 the appearance of which a thorough 
 drenching had not improved. He had a 
 long white beard, and a high forehead, 
 and was superficially venerable looking, 
 but to eyes that rested on his face many 
 moments, it was evident he was not 
 wanting in the low- cunning and brute 
 strength of nerve natm^al to the born 
 vagrant. 
 
 His blindness — for Michael knew it was 
 this affliction which caused him to keep 
 his eyes on the ground while his face 
 was lifted towards the steps — ^his blind- 
 ness, no doubt, kept him unaware of how 
 plainly his mouth revealed the haK pity- 
 ing contempt with which he regarded
 
 254 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 the world in general. Wliy, it was difficult 
 to tell. 
 
 All tliat was unpleasant in the " old 
 man's face struck Michael now for the 
 first time. 
 
 When he had seen that face before — 
 the only occasion on which he ever had 
 seen it before, it was under a flaring 
 gas-lamp, in a crowd — and all that had 
 struck him in it the^ was its age — its 
 white beard, its blind eyes rolling and 
 straining in their sockets in helpless and 
 yet awful anger — he had seen it thus, 
 and for one minute only, and the image 
 of it had never quite left him since. 
 He had never wished it to leave him. 
 He had cherished it in his memory that 
 he might say to himself, when he grew 
 faint-hearted and sick of soul over that 
 minute's history, ^' Could any man have 
 looked on this blind face, and stayed his 
 hand just then ? " 
 
 Would the old man know him ? He
 
 George's model. 255 
 
 had heard his voice that night, and 
 Michael knew the wonders of bhnd men's 
 memories. 
 
 The old man, far too dignified to Hft 
 his hat, pushed it further off his fore- 
 head, and assuming a proud meekness of 
 voice as well as some vague sort of 
 emotion, inquired — 
 
 *^ Sir, do I— do I stand before — Mr. 
 Ambray?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Ambray is not in the mill," 
 Michael answered without hesitation, then 
 watched, searched the face before him 
 with patient intentness for any sign of 
 recognition of his voice. 
 
 He saw none. The blind man was 
 evidently aware of something that made 
 his senses very attentive over the voice 
 itseK while it spoke, and for an instant 
 or two over the recollection of it when 
 it had ceased speaking. 
 
 This, however, might be his habit when 
 hearing, as he must so often have heard,
 
 256 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 voices wliicli perplexed him for tlie 
 moment tlirougli their resemblance to 
 other voices. 
 
 Not the least curiosity or excitement 
 followed his very careful study of Michael's 
 voice and its vibration. 
 
 Having learnt that the master of the 
 High Mills was not present, he became 
 less ceremonious. Letting go the latch, 
 he stepped briskly in and took off his 
 hat, and shook the wet from it in 
 Michael's face. 
 
 *' He'll be here some time to-night, old 
 Ambray, won't he — eh ? " he asked, rub- 
 bing his knuckles, which, while shaking his 
 hat about, he had knocked against a shaft. 
 
 *' No, he won't," answered Michael. 
 
 Again there was the same attentive- 
 ness over the voice while it spoke, and 
 after it had spoken; and again the same 
 lack of excitement followed the con- 
 sideration. 
 
 He put his hat on, and Michael was half
 
 George's model. 257 
 
 hoping, haK fearing, he would go without 
 making known his object in coming there. 
 
 But the old man, after feeling about, 
 touched a sack of flour, on which he 
 immediately seated himseK, wet as he 
 was, ^4th a grunt of satisfaction. 
 
 Michael only wished he had been an 
 utter stranger, that he might give him 
 his opinion upon this proceeding. 
 
 ^^You Ambray's man, eh?" inquired the 
 blind tramp, adjusting himself comfortably 
 on his yielding seat. 
 
 ^' I am, and I am going to the house. 
 Can I take the master any message ? " 
 
 ^^ No, thank yer, young man. Must see 
 him. Must see him. Come another day. 
 I'll have a rest now. So this is a mill. 
 Never was in one before." 
 
 If he were never to be in one again, 
 Michael thought, so much the better. ^'I 
 Hke the smeU of it," said his unwelcome 
 visitor, lifting his nose and sniffing vigor- 
 ously. " By-the-by, where's my dog ? Just 
 
 VOL, I. S
 
 258 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 look out and see, will yer ? Here ! Jowler ! 
 Jowler ! " 
 
 Before Michael had made np his mind 
 "whether to obey this command or not, a 
 miserable animal, who looked as if he 
 had a share of all the cares of the world, 
 rushed in with a string attached to his 
 collar, and entangling his legs as he ran. 
 
 *' Come, Jowler," said his master with 
 unaffected feeling, ^' come and let us see 
 if that clumsy country brute hurt you. 
 You shud keep that beast chained up," 
 he added to Michael, as he carefully felt 
 Jowler all over; " he flew out very savage 
 upon Jowler, and I'll let yer know, my 
 man, if he'd a hurt him it ud bin as much 
 as his life's worth. A retriever — yours is 
 a retriever, ain't he ? Well, you've just 
 to ask and pay to get another, exactly 
 like him ; but I'd like to know the name 
 by which you'd find another such as 
 Jowler." 
 
 As Michael could not deny the difficulty
 
 George's model. 259 
 
 of such an undertaking, he made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Yonr young master's at home now, 
 ain't he ? " asked the bhnd man suddenly. 
 
 *^ Who V said Michael involuntarily, and 
 understanding what was meant the instant 
 he had said it. 
 
 '^ Young Ambray — your master's son — 
 George Ambray — he's at home here now — 
 eh— ain't he ? " 
 
 Michael laid his hand on the shaft, and 
 looked steadily at the blind face. 
 
 There was a world of covert meaning 
 in it — a world of secrecy and cunning; 
 but Michael drew from it, in spite of 
 this, the belief that the question had been 
 put in faith — that the man was really 
 ignorant as to the thing he had asked 
 about. 
 
 From that moment he drew fi'eer 
 breath. Why, he asked himself, should 
 he fear this man, if he neither remem- 
 bered meeting him that night nor knew 
 of what had happened since ?
 
 2G0 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 Why was lie here, then, inquiring for 
 Ambray ? No doubt to bring some charge 
 against George. If this should be- so, he 
 must keep the man at all hazards from 
 meeting Ambray. 
 
 For the next few moments Michael 
 suffered a great contempt for himself for 
 having thus been overwhelmed with fears 
 for his own safety, and keeping his eyes 
 closed to what might prove danger to the 
 name which he had sworn to keep as 
 unsulhed as he might. 
 
 Was it selfishness or great unselfishness 
 that made Michael feel suddenly cheerful 
 and courageous when he found he had to 
 do battle on George's account instead of 
 his own ? It was a question Michael found 
 himself unable to answer when he thought 
 of it some hours after the miU was closed 
 and he had gone home. 
 
 After considering a little while, and 
 looking with puzzled eyes upon the blind 
 man and his dog, as they settled them-
 
 George's model. 261 
 
 selves more at their ease on his sack of 
 flour, ]\Iichael thought the best thing he 
 could do would he to try and remove 
 the impression of extreme disrespect and 
 inhospitahty his silence must have given. 
 
 ''Might you have been born bUnd, now," 
 he inquired, "or was it an accident?" 
 
 " Accident ! no, thank yer, young man. 
 No, I'm happy to say I'm a so born. 
 Don't know nothing about sight at aU. 
 Never seed in my life." 
 
 ''Well," said Michael, trying to keep his 
 patience as his satm-ated guest stretched 
 himself on the floiu' sack, pommelling it 
 to make a comfortable place for his ragged 
 elbow, "it's a blessing to be contented, 
 certainly." 
 
 " Contented ! Why, I wouldn't have 
 sight at no price ; it ud be like a hextra 
 arm or somethink o' that kind — I shouldn't 
 know what to do vdih it. Here, p'r'aps 
 you'd hke to have a look at my stiffikit." 
 
 While Michael was wondering what on
 
 262 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 earth that might be, the blind man drew 
 from his pocket a small parchment roll, 
 which having untied he held out to him. 
 
 ^^ There," said he, as Michael took it; 
 *' I wears that 'ere round my neck, but 
 most folks in London might be as blind 
 as me for the notice they takes on it. 
 Not as your country bumpkins are much 
 better. They will read it, it's true, stand 
 before yer, a concealin' of yer from the 
 public thorerfare, and spell it out to the 
 last letter, then walk away as coolly as if 
 they'd bin a readin' it on a dead man's 
 tombstone." 
 
 Meanwhile Michael was reading on the 
 card, written in a schoolmaster-like hand, 
 the words, ^^ Christian charity is sohcited 
 on behalf of Ei chard Bardsley, born blind, 
 who at the age of seventy-three walked 
 from York to London, where he waits his 
 end in the full reliance that his generous- 
 hearted fellow-creatures of this dity will 
 not see him starve."
 
 GEORGES MODEL. 263 
 
 ^^ And you find Jowler a pretty fair 
 guide ? " asked Michael, venturing to pat 
 the queer head as he returned Mr. 
 Bardsley his card. 
 
 " Well, yes," he answered, turning to- 
 wards Jowler, who was showing the whites 
 of his eyes as he lifted them to his master 
 with an expression which seemed to 
 imj)lore that he would please say the best 
 he could of him ; ^' well, yes, leavin' out 
 o' the question one or two Httle failin's 
 which all sight-gifted natur', human and 
 otherwise, is invariably addicted to — and 
 namin' which I must, I really must " — 
 shaking his head at Jowler, who gave a 
 little whine, and twisted himself as though 
 he knew well enough something not alto- 
 gether pleasant was being said of him, 
 and he entreated his character might be 
 spared as much as possible — ^^must specify 
 POUNCING as the most wicious, and apt to 
 trip a person up unawares, specially when 
 it's after a spaiTer on the edge of a cm'b-
 
 264 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 stone, or a rat in the bottom of a ditch. 
 I might mention fixin' his mind on per- 
 ticler streets, and always tugging in them 
 perticler directions, as ilconwenient to a 
 person who happens to have a will of his 
 own likewise ; but tugging is a ilcon- 
 wenience only, pouncing is a wice — a 
 wice 1" And Mr. Bardsley shook his 
 stick at Jowler with one hand, while he 
 felt a large bump on his forehead with 
 the other. 
 
 As Jowler looked depressed, and gave a 
 melancholy yawn, after this account of 
 him, his master felt it incumbent on him 
 to put his hand in his pocket and draw 
 forth and show to Michael the little 
 money-box he usually carried, and which 
 was heavy enough when holding ever so 
 few coppers, Bardsley assured him, to try 
 the teeth and temper of any dog living. 
 
 " And what is more, sir," said Bardsley, 
 *' there is a haction of Jowler' s life, which 
 did ought to 'a' won for him a respect above
 
 geop.ge's model. 265 
 
 coppers, as makes the box heavy about 
 little, and is trying to his teeth. It is a 
 haction I should have had recorded on the 
 stiffikit, only the young man as wi'ote the 
 present stiffikit in this here beautiful hand 
 was caused, by circumstances over which 
 he had no control, to leave the country 
 — that is to say, sir, he was transported 
 for forgery ; and I was afeard as two 
 different handwiitin's on the stiffikit might 
 look unprofessional, consequently Jowler's 
 haction is still between hisself and me and 
 the Almighty. It was a time, sir, when 
 bad luck did seem hke a bloodhound as 
 'ud tasted our blood and meant to have 
 the last di'op. My Httle grandchild had 
 come into the world a few hours or so, 
 and was a crying at it still with all her 
 might and main. My poor son, a so-born 
 like myself, was a waitin' on her and her 
 mother, and blubbin' with joy as his Uttle 
 child was born to see, which she were, 
 sir, and with sorrer as she shud see
 
 266 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 such trouble in tlie beginning. I lay on a 
 mat in the corner, racked with rheumatis, 
 and Jowler hard by, a growlin' out now 
 and then in his sleep with hunger. Not 
 a crumb had any of us had for more 
 hours than would be credited. Every 
 mornin' since I 'ud bin bad had that 
 there dog stood waitin' with the box in 
 his mouth a trjdn' to coax me out. His 
 own feehn's taught him how badly money 
 was wanted in the box, for he had always 
 been used to bite short when it was 
 empty. His respect for the box, though, is 
 nothing in regard to his respect for the 
 stiffikit ; for seeing people stand and stare 
 at it afore they drop money in the box 
 makes him naturally look on that as 
 the most important. He wouldn't by no 
 means let me go out without it, as I used 
 to be goin' to do sometimes in my flurry 
 of mind when my poor son's wife was 
 in her tantrums. He'd go back and stand 
 at the head o' my bed, where the stiffikit
 
 George's model. 267 
 
 was hung on the knob, and there wait till 
 I come and took it down and put it round 
 my neck. On this momin' I'm speakin' 
 of he wakes up all of a sudden, gits the 
 box, brings it to the head of the bed, and 
 sits looking up at the stiffikit, and giving 
 little pitiful howls. Presently he begins 
 makin' jumps at it. Then it all came to 
 me what he was after. ' Come here, old 
 boy,' says I ; ' have yer own way, and the 
 Lord guide yer.' So I twisted the stiffikit 
 string round his neck short, and he dashed 
 out. He hadn't been gone a quarter of a 
 hour before he came back tearing like 
 mad, rattling something in the box, and 
 the stay-lace woman, and the match gal, 
 and two or three more from the steps 
 where I used to sit, comin' up the stairs 
 after him to tell me how he come there, 
 and how they all knowed old Bardsley 
 was in trouble." 
 
 "Well done, Jowler," cried Michael, 
 patting him, " he carry coppers ; why, he
 
 268 THE HIGH MILLS. 
 
 deserves to have nothing but gold in his 
 box to the end of his days." 
 
 " Come, old boy, we must be on the 
 tramp, or little missis 'uU wonder what's 
 come of us. Well, young man," he added, 
 turning to Michael as he took Jowler's 
 string, "I shall look in on yer master agen 
 on Monday. Now, Jowler, not there. 
 No pouncing, you rascal 1 Out, sir, out ! " 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Vrinied hy William Moore Sc Co. 
 
 4
 
 wimm 
 
 
 
 
 ^^y^^M 
 
 ^'.;f
 
 
 = '* 
 
 ■yV*: 
 
 
 
 i :;^;4MS^%^s-'.•• 
 
 :fo
 
 
 t/