Chapter III: The Arrival at the MILL House

IT was a fine afternoon at the end of September, on one of those golden days which frequently come when summer is ended, and the Mill House at W— was looking its best. It was an old stone house, close to the river, with lattice windows, around which creepers, now gorgeous with autumn's brilliant colouring, crept and twined whilst over the porch, which faced the southwest, clambered a monthly rose, on which a few pink blossoms bloomed, though it was so late in the season. Before the house was a well-kept plot of grass, surrounded by flower-beds and intersected by the path which led to the wicket-gate in the privet hedge which separated the garden from the high-road. And at the back of the house was a large yard, and a kitchen-garden reaching to the river's brink.

The mill wheel was silent on this perfect autumn afternoon, as it usually was on Saturday afternoons, and everything was very still within the house, where all was in apple-pie order. For visitors were expected, and a substantial meal was awaiting them in the parlour. Whilst in the kitchen, the kettle was singing merrily, and Jane, the capable middle-aged maid-of-all-work, in a spotless gown and clean cap and apron, was moving noiselessly about, duster in hand, in search of a speck of dust which might have escaped her notice.

"Everything's as clean as a new pin, and so it ought to be, seeing how I've slaved this day," she mused, her eyes wandering over the well-scrubbed table, the various shining tin and copper articles on the mantelpiece, and resting at length on the tall brass-faced clock which stood near the door. "Half-past four!" she exclaimed. "They ought to be here by this time."

She opened the door as she spoke, and walked along a dark, narrow passage which led her into a stone-paved hall, flooded with sunshine which found entrance through a window at the right of the front door. Outside the front door, beneath the porch, stood a very little woman—the Mistress of the Mill House—shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked for the expected approach of a vehicle on the road which stretched before the house and led to Oxford.

"Are they coming, ma'am?" Jane inquired, as she crossed the hall and joined her mistress.

"The gig is not in sight yet," replied Mrs. Grey—or Mrs. John Grey, as we must call her, to distinguish her from Mavis' mother. In fact, she was generally known as Mrs. John.

"The children are outside the gate; they are as excited as they usually are when we expect any one. I wonder what our visitors will be like. I don't think Mrs. Grey can have much heart, or she wouldn't have accepted this engagement to go to Australia. I know I could not endure to be parted from my children—and she has only one child. John has asked her to visit us on several occasions, but she has always found an excuse—generally that of work—for declining our invitations. Now she wants to make use of us, she can came to see us fast enough."

Mrs. John spoke in an aggrieved tone. She was a fair-haired, blue-eyed little woman, who had held the post of useful help to a neighbouring farmer's wife previous to her marriage. She owned rather a sharp tongue and a jealous temper, but she was an affectionate wife and mother, and her husband and children loved her dearly. And it was she who, by her thrifty ways and good management, had helped to make the miller the well-to-do man he was to-day. Her unreserved manner of speaking to her servant was to be accounted for by the fact that Jane had lived at the Mill House before Mr. Grey had married, in his parents' lifetime, and was regarded more as a friend than a dependent.

"I expect Mrs. Grey hasn't had opportunities for visiting," Jane said thoughtfully. "She must have had to work very hard since her husband's death."

"He ought not to have been a clergyman," observed Mrs. John. "Gentlemen with private means can afford to do as they please, but he came of working stock. How much wiser it would have been, if he had been brought up to some business!"

"I don't know about that, ma'am," Jane responded. "Christ's disciples came from working stock, anyway. Master Rupert was just the man to be a clergyman, his heart was in his work."

"He should not have married, to leave his wife and child unprovided for."

"He could not foresee his life would be cut short as it was, ma'am. I've always wondered why God took him—but, there, He knows best, and all things will be made plain to us some day. Isn't that the gig I see in the distance?"

At that moment the wicket-gate swung open, and a little girl, blue-eyed and fair-haired like her mother, ran up the garden path, crying excitedly—

"They're coming! They'll be here in a few minutes now! Do come to the gate to meet them, mother, and you, too, Jane."

They willingly complied, so that when the gig, in which were seated Mr. Grey and his sister-in-law, with Mavis between them, drew up before the Mill House, the strangers were gratified to find all the household there to meet them.

The miller was the first to get down from the conveyance. He was a tall, stout man, whose stooping shoulders proclaimed his trade, for they looked as though they were accustomed to bear heavy burdens such as sacks of flour. He had a loud, hearty voice, and his plain, somewhat heavy countenance, usually wore an expression of great kindliness. Having lifted Mavis from the gig, he helped his sister-in-law to alight, and then, addressing her by her Christian name—Margaret—he commenced a round of introductions.

"Margaret, let me introduce you to my wife—Lizzie. Lizzie, this is poor Rupert's wife, and here's his little girl, who's his living image. Rose and Bob, come here and speak to your aunt and cousin. Yes, that's right, Rose, kiss Mavis and make her welcome."

"And here's Jane! You've heard of Jane, haven't you, Margaret? Yes, I thought Rupert must have spoken of her to you; he and Jane were always good friends. Now go into the house, all of you—I'm sure the travellers must want their tea—and I'll be in as soon as I have taken out the horse. The luggage is coming by the carrier."

The miller's wife led the way into the house with Mrs. Grey, whilst the children followed with Jane, who told Mavis she ought to feel at home at the Mill House because her father and grandfather had been born there. The visitors were taken upstairs by their hostess, to the room which was to belong to Mavis.

"I thought you would like to occupy the same bedroom," said Mrs. John, glancing from mother to daughter, "more especially as you are to be parted so soon."

"Very, very soon!" sighed Mavis, mournfully.

"What a pretty room this is!" exclaimed mother, looking around with an appreciative smile. "I like that old-fashioned mahogany bed, and the window-seat; and how nice to be able to indulge in a white counterpane and white curtains! In London, in the part where we have been living, they would be drab in no time. It is very kind of you to spare Mavis such a beautiful room."

"Yes, indeed," Mavis said earnestly; "I shall put my desk on that table by the window, and there I shall write my letters to you, mother, and—" Her voice faltered, and the sentence ended in an involuntary sob.

"I hope you will be happy with us, I'm sure," said Mrs. John, her heart touched by the little girl's emotion. "You must call me 'Aunt Lizzie,'" she added.

"Yes, Aunt Lizzie," Mavis replied, her face brightening. "Oh," she cried, as her gaze wandered out of the window, "what a lovely view!"

It was, indeed. For in the distance lay Oxford in the mellow autumn sunshine. The spires and towers of the grand old university town standing out against a background of pale-blue sky. Whilst nearer was a green stretch of meadow-lands through which the river made its way.

"Yes, it is very lovely," her mother agreed. Then, as their hostess left the room, she continued, "I am so very glad I could come with you, for now I shall be able to picture everything as it really is. It seems a dear old house, and I am sure we have been given a hearty welcome. Now let us be quick and remove the traces of our journey; your aunt said tea would be ready in a few minutes."

Mavis was a trifle shy with her cousins at first, and greatly disappointed them, after tea, by saying that she would prefer to remain with her mother in the parlour to going into the garden with them. Bob, who was her junior by a year, regarded her rather scornfully; but Rose, being older, was better able to understand her cousin's feelings, and whispered to her brother—

"Never mind, Bobbie, she'll like to play with us when her mother's gone; of course she wants to stay with Aunt Margaret now. Wouldn't you want to stay with mother if she was going away next week for months and months?"

So Mavis remained with her mother till bedtime. She was in exceedingly low spirits, and on retiring to rest, she bedewed her pillow with tears before she fell asleep. She slept well, however; and when she was awakened by her mother's kiss, she opened her eyes to find another fine day had dawned.

That was a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, and, oh, how very quickly to two of the inmates of the Mill House it slipped away! To Mavis and Mrs. Grey, the hours seemed to fly. They attended the services in the village church in the morning and evening, and the little girl, as she knelt between her mother and aunt at the latter service, felt that her heart must surely break, for it was aching so painfully. And when the Vicar ascended the pulpit to preach, she was glad that the light from the oil lamps with which the church was lit was so inferior, because she did not want any one to notice the misery which she was sure was depicted on her face.

The Vicar, Mr. Moseley, was quite an old man, and Mavis had heard her uncle tell her mother at dinner-time that he had had a very troublous life, that his best years had been spent in hard work in the metropolis, and that he had been presented with the living of W— five years previously. In a corner of the yard outside the church, he had laid his wife quite lately. She had been his faithful helpmeet for more than forty years, and yet there was no sign of trouble on his face as Mavis saw it by the light of the wax candles in the pulpit, but rather was its expression one of contentment. In a voice which, without being loud, was deep and distinct, he gave out his text—

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you:
not as the world giveth, give I unto you.
Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

It was a sermon about loneliness. The words of his text, the preacher reminded his congregation, were the words with which Jesus had consoled His disciples after He had told them He was going to leave them. He had promised them the Comforter, the Holy Ghost, even the Spirit of truth, to abide with them for ever. Jesus had not left the world comfortless, He had left His peace, not such peace as the world gives, it was something higher, mightier than that, something all-satisfying, for its root was faith in God. They were not to be troubled, neither were they to be afraid.

Mavis listened with rapt attention as the Vicar proceeded in such simple language that she found no difficulty in following him. It seemed to her that he was preaching to her alone, for all he said fitted in with her mood. Perhaps God had told him what to say, she reflected; yes, she was sure He had. She slipped her hand into her mother's and kept it there, and the sigh she gave at the conclusion of the sermon was one of contentment. Then the Vicar gave out the number of a hymn, which was a favourite of hers, and she joined in singing it heartily.

"'Saviour, again to Thy dear Name we raise
With one accord our parting hymn of praise;
We stand to bless Thee ere our worship cease;
Then, lowly kneeling, wait Thy word of peace.'"

Many a one in the congregation turned to look at the little girl with the beautiful voice which rang out so clearly and unfalteringly. And her aunt wondered that the child should have the heart to sing with such evident enjoyment on the eve of separation from her mother, as though she had not a trouble in the world.