_For the Table Book._
-------------Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,
Without our special wonder?
At the basis of the Wolds, in the north riding of Yorkshire, creeps a
sluggish stream, on whose bank may be seen the ruins of a mill, which
our good forefathers supposed to be haunted. I often gaze upon those
ruins with great interest; not so much for its picturesque beauty,
which, like a flower in the wilderness, makes solitude less lonely, as
for the many endearing claims it has upon my memory, by way of
association. It stands near the home of my childhood, it reminds me of
the companions of my youth, and tells of pleasures long departed.
It is now nearly ten years since I listened to a story, which haunts me
like the recollection of a fearful dream; perhaps, because of its
locality, or rather, of its having been told me as a _fact_. Be it as it
may, I have thought it worth the relating; and trust that the readers of
the _Table Book_ will at least be _interested_.
The mill, at the time referred to, had been uninhabited for some ten or
twelve years. It had found an occupier in the person of Joe Davis. The
inhabitants of the distant, though nearest village, endeavoured to
frighten Joe, the miller, by telling him of its being haunted. He
laughed at what he called their idle fears, bade them keep their
superstitious nonsense for their children’s ears; and laughingly added,
that if nought but ghosts visited the mill, he stood a good chance of
getting what he most required after a hard day’s work--a quiet rest.
When Joe took possession of the mill, he was as jolly a fellow as ever
lived, and a fine buxom wife had he, and three rosy children. His cup of
happiness was filled to the brim; his song, merry as the lark’s, and his
loud, hearty laugh, were alternately to be heard above the rush of the
dam, and the click-clacking of the wheel. When his work was done, it was
a treat to see him playing with his children at blindman’s-buff, or hide
and seek, or dandling them upon his knee.
All went on well for some time; but in a few months Joe became an
altered man. There was a visible difference in his face and manner. At
first, a shade was seen to overcast his hitherto unclouded brow--then
his cheek became robbed of its bloom, and his step lost its buoyancy.
His laughter (when he _did_ laugh, which was seldom) seemed laboured,
and was followed by a sigh; and the song--_that_ favourite song, which
he had so often sung to Mary in his courtship--faltered on his lips.
Instead of clinging to his home and family as usual, he deserted them;
and when the straying villager kindly questioned him as to the change,
he would not answer, but shake his head, and hurry onwards.
One day Mary found her husband unusually depressed. “Come, come,” said
she, “I’m sure all is not right within.” She hung fondly upon his
neck--kissed him, and besought him to make her the partner of his
sorrow; he raised his head, gazed at her affectionately, and endeavoured
to smile away her apprehensions--but it would not do. He dashed the tear
from his eye, and rushed out of the room.
Joe Davis had dreamed a dream; or, as my narrator informed me, had seen
a vision. Sitting one evening in his little parlour, with his wife and
children before him, he, on a sudden, leaned back in his chair--his eyes
became glazed, and were rivetted on the picture of his wife holding
three roses in her hand, which hung over the mantelpiece--he thought
that he beheld a shadow of himself bend over the picture, that the roses
began to fade, and, in fading, he distinctly saw the faces of his
children, while the portrait of his wife by degrees became colourless.
Such was the dream which gave him so much concern--such was the prophecy
which ere long was to be fulfilled.
Joe left his house, telling Mary he would return before night. The
darkness set in, but he did not make his appearance. Poor Mary, as the
night advanced, became mistrustful--she looked at the clock, and
listened for his approaching step. It was nearly midnight; and, save the
melancholy monotonous ticking of the clock, and the low breathing of her
sweet children, who were sleeping near, all was silent as the
grave--when, on a sudden, the eldest child cried out, “Father, how cold
you are!”--Mary started, and beheld the death-pale face of her husband
kissing her children--she shrieked wildly, and fell senseless on the
floor.
When Mary came to herself the fire was out, and the clock had stopped.
She endeavoured to calm her agitated mind, and thought she heard the
noise of the dam, and her husband singing the chorus--
We’ll always be merry together, together,
We’ll always be merry together.
She listened, and thought of her children, whom (by the revealment of
one of the secrets of her prison-house) she knew were dead. The rest of
that horrible night was a (----)
The morning came with its beautiful purple light--the lark hailed it
with his matin-song--the flower bloomed at the very door-stone of the
mill--the schoolboy whistled as he passed, as if in mockery of her woe.
The light of reason had passed from Mary Davis. In the course of the day
the body of her husband was found in the dam, but Mary knew it not.--
Say, gentle reader, did not Heaven deal kindly to her in bidding her
taste the waters of oblivion?
----I shall never forget the story.