to
thicken on his head. His heart was young and
vigorous; and if
his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and steady in
his wrists. He carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe
apple; he stooped a little, but his step was still firm; and his
sinewy hands were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure.
His face was covered with those wrinkles which are got in open air,
and which
rightly looked at, are no more than a sort of permanent
sunburning; such wrinkles
heighten the
stupidity of
stupid faces;
but to a person like Will, with his clear eyes and smiling mouth,
only give another charm by testifying to a simple and easy life.
His talk was full of wise sayings. He had a taste for other
people; and other people had a taste for him. When the
valley was
full of tourists in the season, there were merry nights in Will's
arbour; and his views, which seemed whimsical to his neighbours,
were often enough admired by
learned people out of towns and
colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily
better known; so that his fame was heard of in the cities of the
plain; and young men who had been summer travellers spoke together
in CAFES of Will o' the Mill and his rough
philosophy. Many and
many an
invitation, you may be sure, he had; but nothing could
tempt him from his
uplandvalley. He would shake his head and
smile over his tobacco-pipe with a deal of meaning. 'You come too
late,' he would answer. 'I am a dead man now: I have lived and
died already. Fifty years ago you would have brought my heart into
my mouth; and now you do not even tempt me. But that is the object
of long living, that man should cease to care about life.' And
again: 'There is only one difference between a long life and a good
dinner: that, in the dinner, the sweets come last.' Or once more:
'When I was a boy, I was a bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether it
was myself or the world that was curious and worth looking into.
Now, I know it is myself, and stick to that.'
He never showed any
symptom of
frailty, but kept stalwart and firm
to the last; but they say he grew less talkative towards the end,
and would listen to other people by the hour in an amused and
sympathetic silence. Only, when he did speak, it was more to the
point and more charged with old experience. He drank a bottle of
wine
gladly; above all, at
sunset on the hill-top or quite late at
night under the stars in the arbour. The sight of something
attractive and unatttainable seasoned his
enjoyment, he would say;
and he professed he had lived long enough to admire a candle all
the more when he could compare it with a planet.
One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed in such
uneasiness of body and mind that he arose and dressed himself and
went out to
meditate in the arbour. It was pitch dark, without a
star; the river was
swollen, and the wet woods and meadows loaded
the air with
perfume. It had
thundered during the day, and it
promised more
thunder for the
morrow. A murky, stifling night for
a man of seventy-two! Whether it was the weather or the
wakefulness, or some little touch of fever in his old limbs, Will's
mind was besieged by tumultuous and crying memories. His boyhood,
the night with the fat young man, the death of his adopted parents,
the summer days with Marjory, and many of those small
circumstances, which seem nothing to another, and are yet the very
gist of a man's own life to himself - things seen, words heard,
looks misconstrued - arose from their forgotten corners and usurped
his attention. The dead themselves were with him, not merely
taking part in this thin show of memory that defiled before his
brain, but revisiting his
bodily senses as they do in
profound and
vivid dreams. The fat young man leaned his elbows on the table
opposite; Marjory came and went with an apronful of flowers between
the garden and the arbour; he could hear the old
parson knocking
out his pipe or blowing his resonant nose. The tide of his
consciousness ebbed and flowed: he was sometimes half-asleep and
drowned in his recollections of the past; and sometimes he was
broad awake, wondering at himself. But about the middle of the
night he was startled by the voice of the dead
millercalling to
him out of the house as he used to do on the
arrival of custom.
The hallucination was so perfect that Will
sprang from his seat and
stood listening for the summons to be
repeated; and as he listened
he became
conscious of another noise besides the brawling of the
river and the ringing in his
feverish ears. It was like the stir
of horses and the creaking of
harness, as though a
carriage with an
impatient team had been brought up upon the road before the
courtyard gate. At such an hour, upon this rough and dangerous
pass, the supposition was no better than
absurd; and Will dismissed
it from his mind, and resumed his seat upon the arbour chair; and
sleep closed over him again like
running water. He was once again
awakened by the dead
miller's call, thinner and more spectral than
before; and once again he heard the noise of an equipage upon the
road. And so
thrice and four times, the same dream, or the same
fancy, presented itself to his senses: until at length, smiling to
himself as when one humours a
nervous child, he proceeded towards
the gate to set his
uncertainty at rest.
From the arbour to the gate was no great distance, and yet it took
Will some time; it seemed as if the dead
thickened around him in
the court, and crossed his path at every step. For, first, he was
suddenly surprised by an overpowering
sweetness of heliotropes; it
was as if his garden had been planted with this flower from end to
end, and the hot, damp night had drawn forth all their
perfumes in
a
breath. Now the heliotrope had been Marjory's favourite flower,
and since her death not one of them had ever been planted in Will's
ground.
'I must be going crazy,' he thought. 'Poor Marjory and her
heliotropes!'
And with that he raised his eyes towards the window that had once
been hers. If he had been bewildered before, he was now almost
terrified; for there was a light in the room; the window was an
orange oblong as of yore; and the corner of the blind was lifted
and let fall as on the night when he stood and shouted to the stars
in his
perplexity. The
illusion only endured an
instant; but it
left him somewhat unmanned, rubbing his eyes and staring at the
outline of the house and the black night behind it. While he thus
stood, and it seemed as if he must have stood there quite a long
time, there came a renewal of the noises on the road: and he turned
in time to meet a stranger, who was advancing to meet him across
the court. There was something like the
outline of a great
carriage discernible on the road behind the stranger, and, above
that, a few black pine-tops, like so many plumes.
'Master Will?' asked the new-comer, in brief military fashion.
'That same, sir,' answered Will. 'Can I do anything to serve you?'
'I have heard you much
spoken of, Master Will,' returned the other;
'much
spoken of, and well. And though I have both hands full of
business, I wish to drink a bottle of wine with you in your arbour.
Before I go, I shall introduce myself.'
Will led the way to the trellis, and got a lamp lighted and a
bottle uncorked. He was not
altogetherunused to such
complimentary interviews, and hoped little enough from this one,
being schooled by many disappointments. A sort of cloud had
settled on his wits and prevented him from remembering the
strangeness of the hour. He moved like a person in his sleep; and
it seemed as if the lamp caught fire and the bottle came uncorked
with the
facility of thought. Still, he had some
curiosity about
the appearance of his
visitor, and tried in vain to turn the light
into his face; either he handled the lamp clumsily, or there was a
dimness over his eyes; but he could make out little more than a
shadow at table with him. He stared and stared at this shadow, as
he wiped out the glasses, and began to feel cold and strange about
the heart. The silence weighed upon him, for he could hear nothing
now, not even the river, but the drumming of his own arteries in
his ears.
'Here's to you,' said the stranger, roughly.
'Here is my service, sir,' replied Will, sipping his wine, which
somehow tasted oddly.
'I understand you are a very
positive fellow,' pursued the
stranger.
Will made answer with a smile of some
satisfaction and a little
nod.
'So am I,' continued the other; 'and it is the delight of my heart
to tramp on people's corns. I will have nobody
positive but
myself; not one. I have crossed the whims, in my time, of kings
and generals and great artists. And what would you say,' he went
on, 'if I had come up here on purpose to cross yours?'
Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp rejoinder; but the
politeness of an old innkeeper prevailed; and he held his peace and
made answer with a civil
gesture of the hand.
'I have,' said the stranger. 'And if I did not hold you in a
particular
esteem, I should make no words about the matter. It
appears you pride yourself on staying where you are. You mean to
stick by your inn. Now I mean you shall come for a turn with me in
my barouche; and before this bottle's empty, so you shall.'
'That would be an odd thing, to be sure,' replied Will, with a
chuckle. 'Why, sir, I have grown here like an old oak-tree; the
Devil himself could hardly root me up: and for all I
perceive you
are a very entertaining old gentleman, I would wager you another
bottle you lose your pains with me.'
The dimness of Will's eyesight had been increasing all this while;
but he was somehow
conscious of a sharp and chilling scrutiny which
irritated and yet overmastered him.
'You need not think,' he broke out suddenly, in an explosive,
febrile manner that startled and alarmed himself, 'that I am a
stay-at-home, because I fear anything under God. God knows I am
tired enough of it all; and when the time comes for a longer
journey than ever you dream of, I
reckon I shall find myself
prepared.'
The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it away from him. He
looked down for a little, and then, leaning over the table, tapped
Will three times upon the forearm with a single finger. 'The time
has come!' he said solemnly.
An ugly
thrill spread from the spot he touched. The tones of his
voice were dull and
startling, and echoed
strangely in Will's
heart.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, with some discomposure. 'What do you
mean?'
'Look at me, and you will find your eyesight swim. Raise your
hand; it is dead-heavy. This is your last bottle of wine, Master
Will, and your last night upon the earth.'
'You are a doctor?' quavered Will.
'The best that ever was,' replied the other; 'for I cure both mind
and body with the same prescription. I take away all plain and I
forgive all sins; and where my patients have gone wrong in life, I
smooth out all complications and set them free again upon their
feet.'
'I have no need of you,' said Will.
'A time comes for all men, Master Will,' replied the doctor, 'when
the helm is taken out of their hands. For you, because you were
prudent and quiet, it has been long of coming, and you have had
long to
discipline yourself for its
reception. You have seen what
is to be seen about your mill; you have sat close all your days
like a hare in its form; but now that is at an end; and,' added the
doctor, getting on his feet, 'you must arise and come with me.'
'You are a strange physician,' said Will, looking steadfastly upon
his guest.
'I am a natural law,' he replied, 'and people call me Death.'
'Why did you not tell me so at first?' cried Will. 'I have been
waiting for you these many years. Give me your hand, and welcome.'
'Lean upon my arm,' said the stranger, 'for already your strength
abates. Lean on me as heavily as you need; for though I am old, I
am very strong. It is but three steps to my
carriage, and there
all your trouble ends. Why, Will,' he added, 'I have been yearning
for you as if you were my own son; and of all the men that ever I
came for in my long days, I have come for you most
gladly. I am