The Church with an Overshot-Wheel
Lakelands is not to be found in the catalogues of fashionable summerresorts. It lies on a low spur of the Cumberland range of mountains on alittle tributary of the Clinch River. Lakelands proper is a contentedvillage of two dozen houses situated on a forlorn, narrow-gauge railroadline. You wonder whether the railroad lost itself in the pine woods andran into Lakelands from fright and loneliness, or whether Lakelands gotlost and huddled itself along the railroad to wait for the ears to carryit home.
You wonder again why it was named Lakelands. There are no lakes, and thelands about are too poor to be worth mentioning.
Half a mile from the village stands the Eagle House, a big, roomy oldmansion run by Josiah Rankin for the accommodation of visitors who desirethe mountain air at inexpensive rates. The Eagle House is delightfullymismanaged. It is full of ancient instead of modern improvements, and itis altogether as comfortably neglected and pleasingly disarranged as yourown home. But you are furnished with clean rooms and good and abundantfare: yourself and the piny woods must do the rest. Nature has provided amineral spring, grape-vine swings, and croquet -- even the wickets arewooden. You have Art to thank only for the fiddle-and-guitar music twicea week at the hop in the rustic pavilion.
The patrons of the Eagle House are those who seek recreation as anecessity, as well as a pleasure. They are busy people, who may belikened to clocks that need a fortnight's winding to insure a year'srunning of their wheels. You will find students there from the lowertowns, now and then an artist, or a geologist absorbed in construing theancient strata of the hills. A few quiet families spend the summersthere; and often one or two tired members of that patient sisterhood knownto Lakelands as "schoolmarms."
A quarter of a mile from the Eagle House was what would have beendescribed to its guests as "an object of interest" in the catalogue, hadthe Eagle House issued a catalogue. This was an old, old mill that was nolonger a mill. In the words of Josiah Rankin, it was "the only church inthe United States, sah, with an overshot-wheel; and the only mill in theworld, sah, with pews and a pipe organ." The guests of the Eagle Houseattended the old mill church each Sabbath, and heard the preacher likenthe purified Christian to bolted flour ground to usefulness between themillstones of experience and suffering.
Every year about the beginning of autumn there came to the Eagle House oneAbram Strong, who remained for a time an honoured and beloved guest. InLakelands he was called "Father Abram," because his hair was so white, hisface so strong and kind and florid, his laugh so merry, and his blackclothes and broad hat so priestly in appearance. Even new guests afterthree or four days' acquaintance gave him this familiar title.
Father Abram came a long way to Lakelands. He lived in a big, roaringtown in the Northwest where he owned mills, not little mills with pews andan organ in them, but great, ugly, mountain-like mills that the freighttrains crawled around all day like ants around an ant-heap. And now youmust be told about Father Abram and the mill that was a church, for theirstories run together.
In the days when the church was a mill, Mr. Strong was the miller. Therewas no jollier, dustier, busier, happier miller in all the land than he.He lived in a little cottage across the road from the mill. His hand washeavy, but his toll was light, and the mountaineers brought their grain tohim across many weary miles of rocky roads.
The delight of the miller's life was his little daughter, Aglaia. Thatwas a brave name, truly, for a flaxen-haired toddler; but the mountaineerslove sonorous and stately names. The mother had encountered it somewherein a book, and the deed was done. In her babyhood Aglaia herselfrepudiated the name, as far as common use went, and persisted in callingherself "Dums." The miller and his wife often tried to coax from Aglaiathe source of this mysterious name, but without results. At last theyarrived at a theory. In the little garden behind the cottage was a bed ofrhododendrons in which the child took a peculiar delight and interest. Itmay have been that she perceived in "Dums" a kinship to the formidablename of her favourite flowers.
When Aglaia was four years old she and her father used to go through alittle performance in the mill every afternoon, that never failed to comeoff, the weather permitting. When supper was ready her mother would brushher hair and put on a clean apron and send her across to the mill to bringher father home. When the miller saw her coming in the mill door he wouldcome forward, all white with the flour dust, and wave his hand and sing anold miller's song that was familiar in those parts and ran something likethis:
"The wheel goes round,The grist is ground,The dusty miller's merry.He sings all day,His work is play,While thinking of his dearie."
Then Aglaia would run to him laughing, and call:
"Da-da, come take Dums home;" and the miller would swing her to hisshoulder and march over to supper, singing the miller's song. Everyevening this would take place.
One day, only a week after her fourth birthday, Aglaia disappeared. Whenlast seen she was plucking wild flowers by the side of the road in frontof the cottage. A little while later her mother went out to see that shedid not stray too faraway, and she was already gone.
Of course every effort was made to find her. The neighbours gathered andsearched the woods and the mountains for miles around. They dragged everyfoot of the mill race and the creek for a long distance below the dam.Never a trace of her did they find. A night or two before there had beena family of wanderers camped in a grove near by. It was conjectured thatthey might have stolen the child; but when their wagon was overtaken andsearched she could not be found.
The miller remained at the mill for nearly two years; and then his hope offinding her died out. He and his wife moved to the Northwest. In a fewyears he was the owner of a modern mill in one of the important millingcities in that region. Mrs. Strong never recovered from the shock causedby the loss of Aglaia, and two years after they moved away the miller wasleft to bear his sorrow alone.
When Abram Strong became prosperous he paid a visit to Lakelands and theold mill. The scene was a sad one for him, but he was a strong man, andalways appeared cheery and kindly. It was then that he was inspired toconvert the old mill into a church. Lakelands was too poor to build one;and the still poorer mountaineers could not assist. There was no place ofworship nearer than twenty miles.
The miller altered the appearance of the mill as little as possible. Thebig overshot-wheel was left in its place. The young people who came tothe church used to cut their initials in its soft and slowly decayingwood. The dam was partly destroyed, and the clear mountain stream rippledunchecked down its rocky bed. Inside the mill the changes were greater.The shafts and millstones and belts and pulleys were, of course, allremoved. There were two rows of benches with aisles between, and a littleraised platform and pulpit at one end. On three sides overhead was agallery containing seats, and reached by a stairway inside. There wasalso an organ -- a real pipe organ -- in the gallery, that was the prideof the congregation of the Old Mill Church. Miss Phoebe Summers was theorganist. The Lakelands boys proudly took turns at pumping it for her ateach Sunday's service. The Rev. Mr. Banbridge was the preacher, and rodedown from Squirrel Gap on his old white horse without ever missing aservice. And Abram Strong paid for everything. He paid the preacher fivehundred dollars a year; and Miss Phoebe two hundred dollars.
Thus, in memory of Aglaia, the old mill was converted into a blessing forthe community in which she had once lived. It seemed that the brief lifeof the child had brought about more good than the three score years andten of many. But Abram Strong set up yet another monument to her memory.
Out from his mills in the Northwest came the "Aglaia" flour, made from thehardest and finest wheat that could be raised. The country soon found outthat the "Aglaia" flour had two prices. One was the highest market price,and the other was -- nothing.
Wherever there happened a calamity that left people destitute -- a fire, aflood, a tornado, a strike, or a famine, there would go hurrying agenerous consignment of the "Aglaia" at its "nothing" price. It was givenaway cautiously and judiciously, but it was freely given, and not a pennycould the hungry ones pay for it. There got to be a saying that wheneverthere was a disastrous fire in the poor districts of a city the firechief's buggy reached the scene first, next the "Aglaia" flour wagon, andthen the fire engines.
So this was Abram Strong's other monument to Aglaia. Perhaps to a poetthe theme may seem too utilitarian for beauty; but to some the fancy willseem sweet and fine that the pure, white, virgin flour, flying on itsmission of love and charity, might be likened to the spirit of the lostchild whose memory it signalized.
There came a year that brought hard times to the Cumberlands. Grain cropseverywhere were light, and there were no local crops at all. Mountainfloods had done much damage to property. Even game in the woods was soscarce that the hunters brought hardly enough home to keep their folkalive. Especially about Lakelands was the rigour felt.
As soon as Abram Strong heard of this his messages flew; and the littlenarrow-gauge cars began to unload "Aglaia" flour there. The miller'sorders were to store the flour in the gallery of the Old Mill Church; andthat every one who attended the church was to carry home a sack of it.
Two weeks after that Abram Strong came for his yearly visit to the EagleHouse, and became "Father Abram" again.
That season the Eagle House had fewer guests than usual. Among them wasRose Chester. Miss Chester came to Lakelands from Atlanta, where sheworked in a department store. This was the first vacation outing of herlife. The wife of the store manager had once spent a summer at the EagleHouse. She had taken a fancy to Rose, and had persuaded her to go therefor her three weeks' holiday. The manager's wife gave her a letter toMrs. Rankin, who gladly received her in her own charge and care.
Miss Chester was not very strong. She was about twenty, and pale anddelicate from an indoor life. But one week of Lakelands gave her abrightness and spirit that changed her wonderfully. The time was earlySeptember when the Cumberlands are at their greatest beauty. The mountainfoliage was growing brilliant with autumnal colours; one breathed aerialchampagne, the nights were deliciously cool, causing one to snuggle cosilyunder the warm blankets of the Eagle House.
Father Abram and Miss Chester became great friends. The old millerlearned her story from Mrs. Rankin, and his interest went out quickly tothe slender lonely girl who was making her own way in the world.
The mountain country was new to Miss Chester. She had lived many years inthe warm, flat town of Atlanta; and the grandeur and variety of theCumberlands delighted her. She was determined to enjoy every moment ofher stay. Her little hoard of savings had been estimated so carefully inconnection with her expenses that she knew almost to a penny what her verysmall surplus would be when she returned to work.
Miss Chester was fortunate in gaining Father Abram for a friend andcompanion. He knew every road and peak and slope of the mountains nearLakelands. Through him she became acquainted with the solemn delight ofthe shadowy, tilted aisles of the pine forests, the dignity of the barecrags, the crystal, tonic mornings, the dreamy, golden afternoons full ofmysterious sadness. So her health improved, and her spirits grew light.She had a laugh as genial and hearty in its feminine way as the famouslaugh of Father Abram. Both of them were natural optimists; and both knewhow to present a serene and cheerful face to the world.
One day Miss Chester learned from one of the guests the history of FatherAbram's lost child. Quickly she hurried away and found the miller seatedon his favourite rustic bench near the chalybeate spring. He wassurprised when his little friend slipped her hand into his, and looked athim with tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Father Abram," she said, "I'm so sorry! I didn't know until to-dayabout your little daughter. You will find her yet some day -- Oh, I hopeyou will."
The miller looked down at her with his strong, ready smile.
"Thank you, Miss Rose," he said, in his usual cheery tones. "But I do notexpect to find Aglaia. For a few years I hoped that she had been stolenby vagrants, and that she still lived; but I have lost that hope. Ibelieve that she was drowned."
"I can understand," said Miss Chester, "how the doubt must have made it sohard to bear. And yet you are so cheerful and so ready to make otherpeople's burdens light. Good Father Abram!"
"Good Miss Rose!" mimicked the miller, smiling. "Who thinks of othersmore than you do?"
A whimsical mood seemed to strike Miss Chester.
"Oh, Father Abram," she cried, "wouldn't it be grand if I should prove tobe your daughter? Wouldn't it be romantic? And wouldn't you like to haveme for a daughter?"
"Indeed, I would," said the miller, heartily. "If Aglaia had lived Icould wish for nothing better than for her to have grown up to be justsuch a little woman as you are. Maybe you are Aglaia," he continued,falling in with her playful mood; "can't you remember when we lived at themill?"
Miss Chester fell swiftly into serious meditation. Her large eyes werefixed vaguely upon something in the distance. Father Abram was amused ather quick return to seriousness. She sat thus for a long time before shespoke.
"No," she said at length, with a long sigh, "I can't remember anything atall about a mill. I don't think that I ever saw a flour mill in my lifeuntil I saw your funny little church. And if I were your little girl Iwould remember it, wouldn't I? I'm so sorry, Father Abram."
"So am I," said Father Abram, humouring her. "But if you cannot rememberthat you are my little girl, Miss Rose, surely you can recollect beingsome one else's. You remember your own parents, of course."
"Oh, yes; I remember them very well -- especially my father. He wasn't abit like you, Father Abram. Oh, I was only making believe: Come, now,you've rested long enough. You promised to show me the pool where you cansee the trout playing, this afternoon. I never saw a trout."
Late one afternoon Father Abram set out for the old mill alone. He oftenwent to sit and think of the old days when he lived in the cottage acrossthe road. Time had smoothed away the sharpness of his grief until he nolonger found the memory of those times painful. But whenever Abram Strongsat in the melancholy September afternoons on the spot where "Dums" usedto run in every day with her yellow curls flying, the smile that Lakelandsalways saw upon his face was not there.
The miller made his way slowly up the winding, steep road. The treescrowded so close to the edge of it that he walked in their shade, with hishat in his hand. Squirrels ran playfully upon the old rail fence at hisright. Quails were calling to their young broods in the wheat stubble.The low sun sent a torrent of pale gold up the ravine that opened to thewest. Early September! -- it was within a few days only of theanniversary of Aglaia's disappearance.
The old overshot-wheel, half covered with mountain ivy, caught patches ofthe warm sunlight filtering through the trees. The cottage across theroad was still standing, but it would doubtless go down before the nextwinter's mountain blasts. It was overrun with morning glory and wildgourd vines, and the door hung by one hinge.
Father Abram pushed open the mill door, and entered softly. And then hestood still, wondering. He heard the sound of some one within, weepinginconsolably. He looked, and saw Miss Chester sitting in a dim pew, withher head bowed upon an open letter that her hands held.
Father Abram went to her, and laid one of his strong hands firmly uponhers. She looked up, breathed his name, and tried to speak further.
"Not yet, Miss Rose," said the miller, kindly. "Don't try to talk yet.There's nothing as good for you as a nice, quiet little cry when you arefeeling blue."
It seemed that the old miller, who had known so much sorrow himself, was amagician in driving it away from others. Miss Chester's sobs greweasier. Presently she took her little plain-bordered handkerchief andwiped away a drop or two that had fallen from her eyes upon Father Abram'sbig hand. Then she looked up and smiled through her tears. Miss Chestercould always smile before her tears had dried, just as Father Abram couldsmile through his own grief. In that way the two were very much alike.
The miller asked her no questions; but by and by Miss Chester began totell him.
It was the old story that always seems so big and important to the young,and that brings reminiscent smiles to their elders. Love was the theme,as may be supposed. There was a young man in Atlanta, full of allgoodness and the graces, who had discovered that Miss Chester alsopossessed these qualities above all other people in Atlanta or anywhereelse from Greenland to Patagonia. She showed Father Abram the letter overwhich she had been weeping. It was a manly, tender letter, a littlesuperlative and urgent, after the style of love letters written by youngmen full of goodness and the graces. He proposed for Miss Chester's handin marriage at once. Life, he said, since her departure for athree-weeks' visit, was not to be endured. He begged for an immediateanswer; and if it were favourable he promised to fly, ignoring thenarrow-gauge railroad, at once to Lakelands.
"And now where does the trouble come in?" asked the miller when he hadread the letter.
"I cannot marry him," said Miss Chester.
"Do you want to marry him?" asked Father Abram.
"Oh, I love him," she answered, "but -- " Down went her head and shesobbed again.
"Come, Miss Rose," said the miller; "you can give me your confidence. Ido not question you, but I think you can trust me."
"I do trust you," said the girl. "I will tell you why I must refuseRalph. I am nobody; I haven't even a name; the name I call myself is alie. Ralph is a noble man. I love him with all my heart, but I can neverbe his."
"What talk is this?" said Father Abram. "You said that you remember yourparents. Why do you say you have no name? I do not understand."
"I do remember them," said Miss Chester. "I remember them too well. Myfirst recollections are of our life somewhere in the far South. We movedmany times to different towns and states. I have picked cotton, andworked in factories, and have often gone without enough food and clothes.My mother was sometimes good to me; my father was always cruel, and beatme. I think they were both idle and unsettled.
"One night when we were living in a little town on a river near Atlantathey had a great quarrel. It was while they were abusing and tauntingeach other that I learned -- oh, Father Abram, I learned that I didn'teven have the right to be -- don't you understand? I had no right even toa name; I was nobody.
"I ran away that night. I walked to Atlanta and found work. I gavemyself the name of Rose Chester, and have earned my own living eversince. Now you know why I cannot marry Ralph -- and, oh, I can never tellhim why."
Better than any sympathy, more helpful than pity, was Father Abram'sdepreciation of her woes.
"Why, dear, dear! is that all?" he said. "Fie, fie! I thought somethingwas in the way. If this perfect young man is a man at all he will notcare a pinch of bran for your family tree. Dear Miss Rose, take my wordfor it, it is yourself he cares for. Tell him frankly, just as you havetold me, and I'll warrant that he will laugh at your story, and think allthe more of you for it."
"I shall never tell him," said Miss Chester, sadly. "And I shall nevermarry him nor any one else. I have not the right."
But they saw a long shadow come bobbing up the sunlit road. And then camea shorter one bobbing by its side; and presently two strange figuresapproached the church. The long shadow was made by Miss Phoebe Summers,the organist, come to practise. Tommy Teague, aged twelve, wasresponsible for the shorter shadow. It was Tommy's day to pump the organfor Miss Phoebe, and his bare toes proudly spurned the dust of the road.
Miss Phoebe, in her lilac-spray chintz dress, with her accurate littlecurls hanging over each ear, courtesied low to Father Abram, and shook hercurls ceremoniously at Miss Chester. Then she and her assistant climbedthe steep stairway to the organ loft.
In the gathering shadows below, Father Abram and Miss Chester lingered.They were silent; and it is likely that they were busy with theirmemories. Miss Chester sat, leaning her head on her hand, with her eyesfixed far away. Father Abram stood in the next pew, looking thoughtfullyout of the door at the road and the ruined cottage.
Suddenly the scene was transformed for him back almost a score of yearsinto the past. For, as Tommy pumped away, Miss Phoebe struck a low bassnote on the organ and held it to test the volume of air that itcontained. The church ceased to exist, so far as Father Abram wasconcerned. The deep, booming vibration that shook the little framebuilding was no note from an organ, but the humming of the millmachinery. He felt sure that the old overshot wheel was turning; that hewas back again, a dusty, merry miller in the old mountain mill. And nowevening was come, and soon would come Aglaia with flying colours, toddlingacross the road to take him home to supper. Father Abram's eyes werefixed upon the broken door of the cottage.
And then came another wonder. In the gallery overhead the sacks of flourwere stacked in long rows. Perhaps a mouse had been at one of them;anyway the jar of the deep organ note shook down between the cracks of thegallery floor a stream of flour, covering Father Abram from head to footwith the white dust. And then the old miller stepped into the aisle, andwaved his arms and began to sing the miller's song:
"The wheel goes round,The grist is ground,The dusty miller's merry."
-- and then the rest of the miracle happened. Miss Chester was leaningforward from her pew, as pale as the flour itself, her wide-open eyesstaring at Father Abram like one in a waking dream. When he began thesong she stretched out her arms to him; her lips moved; she called to himin dreamy tones: "Da-da, come take Dums home!"
Miss Phoebe released the low key of the organ. But her work had been welldone. The note that she struck had beaten down the doors of a closedmemory; and Father Abram held his lost Aglaia close in his arms.
When you visit Lakelands they will tell you more of this story. They willtell you how the lines of it were afterward traced, and the history of themiller's daughter revealed after the gipsy wanderers had stolen her onthat September day, attracted by her childish beauty. But you should waituntil you sit comfortably on the shaded porch of the Eagle House, and thenyou can have the story at your ease. It seems best that our part of itshould close while Miss Phoebe's deep bass note was yet reverberatingsoftly.
And yet, to my mind, the finest thing of it all happened while FatherAbram and his daughter were walking back to the Eagle House in the longtwilight, almost too glad to speak.
"Father," she said, somewhat timidly and doubtfully, "have you a greatdeal of money?"
"A great deal?" said the miller. "Well, that depends. There is plentyunless you want to buy the moon or something equally expensive."
"Would it cost very, very much," asked Aglaia, who had always counted herdimes so carefully, "to send a telegram to Atlanta?"
"Ah," said Father Abram, with a little sigh, "I see. You want to askRalph to come."
Aglaia looked up at him with a tender smile.
"I want to ask him to wait," she said. "I have just found my father, andI want it to be just we two for a while. I want to tell him he will haveto wait."
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