THE GOLDEN MILL
Three years have come and gone since the forge was built, and the three
misguided patriots, still loyal to their vow and to the thirty-three
stars on their dear old flag, are sitting together in the fair sunlight
of a Sabbath morning on the steps of the golden mill. Tumbler the
bear, very shaggy and faded as to his mangy coat, is sleeping
comfortably on the dusty path that winds away to the house. Coleman's
tawny and curly beard and the black hair on Bromley's face have grown
long and thick, and the down which beforetime was on Philip's lip and
chin now flares out from his neck and jaws like a weak red flame.
Philip sits a little apart from the others, with the telescope in its
leathern case strapped on his back, and there is a look of sadness in
his face and in his wandering, downcast eyes.
Three years have wrought great changes in the plateau. The harvests
have been abundant, and at a little distance from where the men sit
purple grapes hang in great clusters from the vines which have been
grown from cuttings of that solitary plant which overhung the branch on
the July day when they first came down its bank with the captain of the
troopers and Andy the guide.
The building of the mill has been a work of time, and it is not yet a
month since Bromley emptied the first yellow grist into the flaring
hopper. Two long years were spent in shaping the upper and the nether
stones, and the new mill was rightly called "golden," for five thousand
guineas from the mints of George the Fourth and good Queen Vic. were
melted in the forge and beaten into straps and bolts and rings and
bands for the wooden machinery. Gold glistens in the joints of the
dripping-wheel, and gleams in the darkness at the bottom of the hopper,
where the half of a priceless cavalry boot-leg distributes the corn
between the grinding-stones. The hopper itself is rimmed with gold,
and the circular wooden box, rough hewn, that covers the stones is
bolted and belted with the metal elsewhere called precious; and from
the half-roof of oak shingles to the slab floor, gold without stint
enriches and solidifies the structure. It plates the handle and caps
the top of the pole that shifts the water on to the wheel, and the
half-door which shuts out Tumbler the bear swings on golden hinges and
shuts with a golden hasp.
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN MILL.]
Healthy living and abundance of food have rounded the lusty brown limbs
of the three soldiers and charged their veins with good red blood; but
alas! in the midst of the abundance of nature and the opulence of the
golden mill, by reason of their tattered and scant covering they are
pitiful objects to look upon as they sit together in the sunlight. The
smart uniforms with yellow facings are gone, and the long cavalry
boots, and the jaunty caps with cross-sabers above the flat vizors; and
so little remains of their former clothing that they might almost blush
in the presence of the bear.
Lieutenant Coleman has some rags of blue flannel hanging about his
broad shoulders, which flutter in the soft wind where they are not
gathered under the waistband of a pair of new and badly made canvas
trousers having the letters "U.S." half lost in the clumsy seam of the
right leg and a great "A" on the back, which sufficiently indicates
that they have been made from the stiff cloth of the tent called "A,"
and that, if required, they could easily stand alone. Such as they
are, these trousers, on account of their newness and great durability,
seem to be the pride of the colony. They are certainly much smarter
than Philip's, which are open with rents and patched with rags of
various shades of blue, and tied about his legs with strings, and
finally hung from his bare, tanned shoulders, under the telescope, by a
single strip of canvas.
All three of the men have hard, bare feet, and the tunic or gown of
faded blue cloth which hangs from Bromley's neck shows by its age that
the overcoat-capes which were sacrificed to make it were sacrificed
long ago. This what-you-may-call-it is girded in at the waist by a
coil of young grape-vine covered with tender green leaves, and fringed
at bottom with mingled tatters of blue cloth and old yellow lining.
And this completes the costume of the dignified corporal who enlisted
from Harvard in his junior year, except some ends of trousers which
hang about his knees like embroidered pantalets.
With all their poverty of apparel, the persons of the three soldiers,
and their clothing as far as practicable, are sweet and clean, which
shows that at least two of them have lost none of that pride which
prompted them to stay on the mountain, and which still keeps up their
courage in the autumn of the good year '69. And now let us see what it
is that ails Philip.
Many entries in the diary for the fifth summer on the mountain, which
is just over, indicate that the conduct of Philip was shrouded in an
atmosphere of mystery which his companions vainly tried to penetrate.
So early as March 12, 1869, we find it recorded:
"Philip spends all his unemployed time in observations with the
telescope."
In the following April and May, entries touching on this subject are
most frequent, and Lieutenant Coleman and George Bromley have many
conversations about Welton's peculiar conduct, and record many
evidences of a state of mind which causes them much annoyance and some
amusement.
"May 12. Requested Philip to remove one of the bee gums to the new
bench. Instead of complying with my request, he plugged the holes with
grass, removed the stone and board from the top, and emptied a wooden
bowl of lye into the hive, destroying both swarm and honey. After this
act of vandalism he entered the house, took down the telescope, and,
slinging it over his shoulder, walked away in the direction of the
point of rocks, whistling a merry tune as he went."
At another time he was asked to set the Slow-John in motion to crack a
mess of hominy, and instead of spreading the corn on the rock he
covered that receptacle with a layer of eggs, and hung the bucket on
the long arm of the lever.
Such evidences of a profound absence of mind were constantly occurring;
and if they were not indications of his desire to return to the world,
his secret observations with the telescope made it plain enough that he
was absorbed in events outside the borders of Sherman Territory. If
questioned, he assigned all sorts of imaginary reasons for his conduct,
and at the same time he held himself more and more aloof from his
companions, to wander about the plateau alone.
During the previous winter, Philip had reported that one of the four
young girls removed by the Confederates at the time of the capture of
the officers had reappeared in the vicinity of the burned house. This
fact was soon forgotten by Coleman and Bromley, who were working like
beavers, pecking the stones for the mill; but to Philip it was an event
of absorbing interest. Where were the others? What sufferings and
what indignities had the returned wanderer endured in her long absence,
and what hardships and dangers had not she braved to reach her native
valley again? Gentle as Philip's nature was, he possessed in a marked
degree the power to love and the hunger to be loved in return.
Occasionally a man in a dungeon or on a desert island, or in the shadow
of a scaffold, has devoted himself to a one-sided passion in
circumstances as baffling as those that hedged in Philip.
The sight of this lonely girl wandering back to the blackened ruin in
the deserted clearing furnished the dolorous lady his knightly fancy
craved. A speck in the distance, he drew her to his arms in the magic
lens, and consoled her with such words of sympathy and endearment as
his fancy prompted. In short, he had the old disease that makes a
princess out of a poor girl in cow-skin shoes and a homespun frock, and
had it all the worse that she kept her distance, as this one did. In
the long days when storms interrupted his observations, or fog hung
over the valley, he wrote tender letters to his princess on prepared
leaves of his prayer-book, in which the grave responses of the Litany
ran in faint lines, like a water-mark, under the burning words on the
paper.
He watched Jones and the kindly neighbors (not including Shifless)
clearing away the wreckage and rebuilding the Smith house between the
sturdy stone chimneys. The new cabin was divided by an open covered
passage, through which Philip could look with the glass to the sunlit
field beyond, and watch the Princess Smith entering either of the doors
opposite to each other in the sides of the passage.
This love of Philip's had sprung into being full fledged, without any
stage of infant growth like an ordinary passion. Besides its
unsuspecting object, it was ample enough to take under its wings her
wandering kinsfolk, dead or alive, and included the cow with the
soundless bell which came to be milked in the evening by the hands of
the princess herself, and then to crop the grass and lie in the dust of
the road until morning.
From the time when she waved him a banner of smoke at sunrise until the
firelight reddened on the cabin window, Philip came to linger almost
constantly on the rocks, to the neglect of his share in the labors of
the little community. When planting-time came, and hands were in
demand to spade up the soil, his companions for the first time secured
and hid away the telescope. For a day--for two days--Philip was
uneasy, going and coming by himself, doing no work, speaking to no one,
scarcely partaking of food. At last the suspense and disappointment
became unendurable, and going to Lieutenant Coleman, resting from his
work in the shade of a spreading chestnut, he threw himself at his feet
and begged for the return of the telescope, revealing for the first
time the nature of his infatuation. His lips once opened, poor Philip
ran on in a rhapsody so fantastic and incoherent that the diseased
state of his mind was at the same time made apparent.
In the diary for July 6, Lieutenant Coleman writes:
"An unspeakable calamity has fallen on the dwellers in Sherman
Territory. Reason has been blotted out in the mind of our companion
Philip, and now we are but two in the company of an amiable madman."
In view of Philip's malady Lieutenant Coleman felt it wise to humor him
with the telescope, and to try the effect of more active sympathy by
joining him in his observations.
After an eager examination of the clearing in the valley, "Gone!
Gone!" he cried in a voice of despair. "You have driven away my
princess! You hate her--you and the other one! You hate me! I'm not
wise enough for your company--you and the other one. Give me back my
princess--give me back--"
Taking the glass from his trembling hand, Coleman leveled it on the
house in the clearing; and, happily, there stood the woman, midway of
the passage, and on the point of advancing into the light.
"Take her back, dear Philip," he said, returning him the telescope.
"We will never steal her again--I and the other one. See, there she
is!"
With a quick movement Philip looked, and without a spoken word he fell
a-laughing and crooning in his delight, in a way so unnatural and so
uncanny that it was sadder to see than his excitement.
The only chance of reclaiming Philip seemed to be in the direction of
feigning sympathy with and interest in his delusion, trusting to time,
in the absence of opposition, to bring him back to reason.
Never after this exhibition of petulance on the rocks with Lieutenant
Coleman did he show the slightest tendency to violence. When he came
in on that particular evening, the lieutenant took his hand, and in a
few friendly words told him how glad he was that all was well and that
the lost was found, and ordered the flag run up in honor of the
occasion.
Philip looked in a dazed way at the flag, showing that that emblem had
lost its old power to stir him with enthusiasm. All that summer, when
his expert advice was sorely needed, poor infatuated Philip took no
more interest in the construction of the golden mill than he took in
the spots on the moon. He was as ignorant of the affairs of Sherman
Territory as the Princess Smith, that plain, ignorant working-girl in
the valley, was of his existence.
So week after week, and month after month, through the long summer and
into the sad autumn days, his companions kept a melancholy watch on
Philip, who wandered to and fro on the mountain, with the telescope in
its leathern case strapped over his bare shoulders, as we saw him first
in the shadow of the golden mill.
Scantily as the three soldiers were clad at that time, they still had
their long blue overcoats to protect them from the cold of winter, and
broken shoes to cover their feet; and so in the short December days
poor Philip, grown nervous and haggard with want of sleep, strapped the
telescope outside his coat, and wandered about the point of rocks.
The morning of January 10, as it dawned on the three forgotten
soldiers,--if it may be said to have dawned at all,--cast a singular
light on the mountain-top. It had come on to thaw, and the time of the
winter avalanches was at hand. The sky overhead was of a colorless
density which was no longer a dome; and it seemed to Philip, as he
stood on the rocks, as if he could stretch out his hand and touch it.
Somewhere in its depth the sun was blotted out. Ragged clouds settled
below the mountain-top, and then, borne on an imperceptible wind, a sea
of fog swallowed up the clouds and blotted out the valley and the
ranges beyond, even as it had blotted out the sun, leaving Sherman
Territory an island drifting through space.
Philip closed the telescope with a moan, and replaced it in its
leathern case. Even the trees on the island, and the rocks heaped in
ledges, grew gray and indistinct, and presently the thick mist resolved
itself into a vertical rain falling gently on the melting snow. The
strokes of an ax in the direction of the house had a muffled sound,
like an automatic buoy far out at sea. Philip turned with another
sigh, and took the familiar path in the direction of the ax, groping
his way in the mist as a mountaineer feels the trail in the night with
his feet.
The sound of the chopping ceases, and a great stillness broods on the
mountain. Evidently the chopper has sought shelter from the rain.
Brown leaves begin to show where the snow has disappeared on the path,
so familiar to the feet of the wanderer that no sound should be needed
to toll him home. But to-day, while his feet are on the mountain-top,
his aching heart is in the valley. She has gone forever from the arms
of the lover she never saw. He sees before him the wedding of
yesterday, and in his gentleness he is incapable of hating even his
successful rival. He is capable only of grief. Bitter tears fall on
his breast and on his clasped hands. A great aching is in his throat,
and a dimness in his suffused eyes. He throws his arms out and presses
his temples with his clenched hands, and mutters with a choking sound,
as he walks. He does not know that the rain is falling on his upturned
face. He turns to go back. He changes his mind and advances. He is
no longer in the path. He has no thought of where he goes. The blades
of dead grass, and the dry seeds and fragments of leaves, cling thick
upon the sodden surface of his tattered boots. He strides on absently
over the ground, parting the fog and cooling his feverish face in the
rain; and every step leads him nearer to the boulder face of the
mountain where the great avalanches are getting ready to fall a
thousand feet into the Cove below.
The events of yesterday go before him. He sees the procession come out
of the church house, the women in one group and the men following in
another, and he and she going hand in hand in the advance. He feels
the sunshine of yesterday on his head and the misery in his heart.
Then it is night, and he sees the lights of the frolic at the cabin in
the clearing. He is no longer the cheerful, happy Philip of other
years, but a weakened, distracted shadow of that other Philip
staggering on through the rain.
He has forgotten his soldier comrades and the meaning of his life on
the mountain. He has forgotten even his patriotism and the existence
of the flag with thirty-three stars. Sherman Territory is receding
under his feet, and the grief that he has created for himself so
industriously and nursed so patiently is leading him on.
A blotch of shadows to the right assumes the ghostly form of spreading
trees, the naked branches blending softly in the blanket of the fog.
The gnarled chestnuts, that looked like berry-bushes while they waited
at the deserted cabin on that first night for the moon to go down, give
no voice of warning, and Philip comes steadily on, with the telescope
strapped to his back and the load in his heart. Under his heedless
feet the dead weeds and the sodden leaves give way to the slippery rock.
[Illustration: PHILIP ON THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE.]
For a moment the slender figure crossed by the telescope is massed
against the mist overhanging the Cove. Then there is a despairing cry
and a futile clutching at the cruel ledge, and, in the silence that
follows, the vertical rain, out of the blanket of the fog, goes on
shivering its tiny lances on the slippery rocks.