Thither thy destiny
Answer what speaks to thee.”
CHAPTER III.
THE MILL AND THE CHANGELING.
The outer appearance of the old mill in which we lived and grew up I have touched upon; and now I take up my pen to paint in black and white the old, moldering interior of the shell.
The building stood upon a triple arch of red brick that spanned the stream, and extended from shore to shore, where, on each side, a house of later date stood cheek to jowl with it. It looked but an indifferent affair as viewed from the little bridge aforesaid, which was dedicated to St. Swithun of watery memory, but in reality extended further backward than one might have suspected. Moreover, to the east side a longish wing, with a ridged roof of tiles, ran off at right angles and added considerably to the general dimensions. To the west stood a covered yard, where once the mill wagons were packed or unloaded; but this, in all my memory of it, yawned only a dusty spave, given over to the echoes and a couple of ancient cart wheels whose rusty tires and worm-pierced hubs were mute evidence of an inglorious decay.
These were for all to see—but behind the walls!
Was the old mill uncanny from the first, or is it only the ghosts with which our generation of passions has peopled it that have made it so? This I can say: That I never remember a time when Jason or I, or even Zyp, dared to be in the room of silence alone—and in company never for more than a few minutes. Modred had not the same awe of it, but Modred’s imagination was a swaddled infant. For my father I will not speak. Maybe he was too accustomed to specters to dread them.
This room was one on the floor above the water, and the fact that it harbored the mill wheel, whose booming, when in motion, shook the stagnant air with discordant sounds, may have served as some explanation of its eeriness. It stood against the east wing and away from the yard, and was a dismal, dull place, like a loft, with black beams above going off into darkness. Its only light came from a square little window in front that was bleared with dust and stopped outside with a lacework of wire. Against its western wall was reared a huge box or cage of wood, which was made to contain the upper half of the wheel, with its ratchet and shaft that went up to the great stones on the floor above; for the mill race thundered below, and when the great paddles were revolving the water slapped and rent at the woodwork.
Now it behooves me to mention a strange fancy of my father’s—which was this, that though no grain or husk in our day ever crumbled between the stones, the wheel was forever kept in motion, as if our fortunes lay in grinding against impalpable time. The custom was in itself ghostly, and its regularity was interrupted only at odd moments, and those generally in the night, when, lying abed upstairs, we boys would become conscious of a temporary cessation of the humming, vibrating noise that was so habitual to the place. To this fancy was added a strange solicitude on the part of my father for the well-being of the wheel itself. He would disappear into the room of silence twice or thrice a day to oil and examine it, and if rarely any tinkering was called for we knew it by the sound of the closing of the sluice and of the water rush swerving round by another channel.
Now, for the time I have said enough, and with a sigh return to that May afternoon and little Zyp, the changeling.