Saint Mary's Beacon

PETER FANE.

The road from Keene village to Bethnal Corners ran zigzaggering down the side of a hill and then, having traversed a stretch of level ground, crossed Stony Brook by a covered wooden bridge whose time-stained walls were yet adorned with fragments of gaudy colored circus posters. The road was in none too good repair, especially upon the hillside where the rains had washed bare stones and left ruts and hollows, and the bridge was dilapidated and shook ominously under each passing vehicle or pedestrian. But there were few travelers over either road or bridge and the town was poor, so the selectmen left it both for time and the elements to prey upon unchecked.

At the side of this road, just before it came to the bridge stood the grist mill and cottage of Peter Fane, joined one to the other by an enclosed shed and unpainted and unadorned except by clambering vines and the weather stains of past years.

It was the evening of the day before Thanksgiving, in the year 18--. Peter Fane, the miller, doorway of the cottage smoking his big-bowled pipe and looking out over the dusty road as it wound down the hill. He was an old man of some 70 years, but he looked fresh and hearty, as if likely to weather many another summer sun. His long white hair and white beard harmonized with the flour-dusted jean overalls which he wore, and his black eyes scanned the scene about him with a wistful, eager expression, as if hoping to see some anxiously expected traveler. But there was no moving thing nor sign of life within Peter Fane's sight, save only a belated crow swiftly winging his way to his home among the leafless trees upon the hill.

The sun was setting behind a bank of cloud which the wind was swiftly driving up from the northwest, and as its beams were withdrawn the air grew gray and became colder. It was very still; the only sounds were the murmur of the brook near by, flowing over the stones and pebbles of its bed, or the "caw, caw," of the distant crows. So still was it, indeed, that the silence seemed to force itself upon Peter Fane's unwilling attention, and the expression of expectation on his face faded and was replaced by a look of grave disappointment.

Seventy years had Peter Fane as boy and man lived by that old mill. He was but 20 when his father dying left him to run the old mill: and for fifty years he had remained at his post, stationary amid all the changes and events about him. And how many changes there had been; how many friends had come or gone, died or moved away, during the lapse of those many years! Business had been brisk and he had worked hard, and laid aside for a rainy day: business had been dull, and he had smoked his pipe and waited for better times.

There was no lack of life about the old mill in those early years, for the road was then a highway over which stages and numerous teams passed each day. There was then almost invariably a group around the mill door, while within the air was almost misty with flying flour dust, and the machinery kept up an almost continuous clatter. Now months sometimes passed before the mill was set in motion, and the grass around the door was seldom pressed by other feet than Peter Fane's, and the passers by were few and far between.

The contrast between the old times and the new forced itself upon Peter Fane's mind as he stood at his cottage door in the gloaming of that Thanksgiving eve; and with a sigh of regret for those vanished years, he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and turning back into the cottage busied himself in preparing his evening meal--for Peter Fane lived alone, unless a faithful dog can be called a companion.

All the day Peter Fane had been oppressed with that peculiar intuition which every one sometimes during his life, that some one, he knew not whom, was about to arrive. This feeling had haunted Peter Fane; it had brought him more than once to the door, and now, as he sat by the fireside, with his dog curled up at his feet, it continued to hunt him. Yet his reason told him that his expectation was only idle folly, for who was there in the wide world who would care to seek the old miller out, now that wife, children and friends were dead?

He sat by the fire, smoking and thinking, until bed time came and then he carefully laid his pipe upon the shelf, and going once more to the door opened it and looked out. The clouds covered the whole of the sky and the snowflakes were falling thick and fast, and all the earth was hidden beneath their fleecy crystals. Though the moon and the stars were hidden there was yet a dim light in the air that indistinctly and vaguely disclosed the dark outlines of the mill near by, and the bridge farther off, and the bare branches of the trees overhead: but of human life there was no sign. Peter Fane looked carefully about him, then shut and fastened the door, piled the ashes over the glowing brands upon the hearth that there might be live coals to light his fire the next morning and went to bed.

He slept, then suddenly awoke, for something had roused him from slumber. He raised himself up and listened, not sure whether the sound he had seemed to hear was real or only some echo of memory in his brain. for now as he sat up in bed silence reigned, the vibration of the gong ringing yet, faint and indistinct, but still perceptible through the silence. Surely it must have been the striking of the clock which had roused him: and yet it had seemed like a sound more strange and unfamiliar. But while he listened the sound was repeated--it was a tapping on the door--and, hastily rising from bed, Peter Fane drew on his clothes and went to the door and opened it.

There was no fear in his mind that the nocturnal visitor might be bent on some evil errand, nor any thought that the occurrence was unusual: it seemed to him a perfectly rational event, just as one dreaming passes through curious scenes without wondering at their oddity.

Peter Fane, therefore, opened the door without the least sentiment of fear or surprise and saw, in the snow by the door step, a man upon horseback.

"Good day to you, miller," said the stranger. "Can you grind me this sack of corn?" and as he spoke he pointed to a bag that was slung across the horse's crupper.

" 'Tis an odd time to set the mill going," answered Peter Fane. "Could you not have come earlier? I have been expecting you all day."

"I have had a long road to travel," the stranger replied, "for there are few mills nowadays where a simple man like me can have his grain ground; and this sack must be turned into meal before the morrow's dawn."

"Well, then," said Peter Fane, "put up your horse in the shed by the mill, and come in and warm yourself. All these long years no man could ever say that I refused to grind his grist, nor shall they say it now." And while the stranger drove his horse into the shed as he was bidden, Peter Fane rekindled his fire and lighted his lamp, and, as the light illuminated the room, he glanced at the clock and saw that its hands pointed to five minutes after midnight.

"It is a snowy night," said the stranger, as he entered, and, standing by the fire, shook upon the hearth the snow from his garments. "It is a snowy night, a night when the wind is cold, and one when such a fire, as this is very welcome."

Peter Fane scanned his visitor closely.

"Have I not seen you before?" he said, pressing his hand to his brow as if in thought. "There is something in your face which seems strangely familiar, and yet I cannot recall the time nor place where we have met before."

"We meet so many men in the world," answered the stranger, with an odd smile upon his countenance, as he warmed himself by the fire. "We meet so many men in the world that their faces linger without cause in our memories. If you yourself cannot recall the time that we have met before I cannot aid you to do so."

"Well," answered the miller, as he rose and took the lamp in his hand, "if grist is to be ground there is no time like the present to grind it in."

"Lead the way and I will follow," replied the stranger; and Peter Fane proceeded to the mill, while the stranger walked behind.

"Bring in your grist," said Peter Fane, as he swung open the wide front door of the mill with many a creak and groan of its rusty hinges.

"May I not also lead in my horse?" asked the stranger. It is a cold night outside, and your shed has many a crack and crevice that lets in the cold north wind. The brute is a faithful brute, and has borne me well, and the shelter of the mill is better than the shelter of the shed."

"Ay, lead him in," answered the miller. "Never truer word was spoken than that the merciful man is merciful to his beast." 'Tis a fine animal," he continued, as the horse was led forward, "and I'll warrant, one that no ordinary amount of labor will tire. But I marvel much that so fine a beast should be of such a color."

"It is not the least of his merits," replied the stranger. "There is not one dark hair upon him. From ear-tip to hoof his coat is white as the driven snow."

"He will not mind the clatter of the mill, will he?" asked Peter Fane.

"Not he!" replied the stranger, lifting down the bag of grain. "Now miller show me the hopper where I
As with a rumble and a jar and many a hoarse groan the old mill wheel started on its revolution, the frame of the building shook and creaked and groaned in all its joints, as if in protest at this unseemly disturbance of its rest.

It was a quaint scene. The lamp illuminated only a narrow circle immediately surrounding it, and threw the shadows of the joists and beams athwart the darkness beyond in bars of deeper blackness, and cast a disk of light on the roof overhead which seemed like a sun looking down through a thick mist of clouds. Full in the circle of light was the figure of the aged miller and further off, where the light was dim (where indistinctly seen), was the stranger, still closely muffled in his cloak, and the vague figure of the horse: and in the background was the darkness quilted with the weird shadows of the revolving machinery, while glints of fire glittered from the eyes of startled rats as they peeped cautiously out of their holes at the intruders.

Suddenly, it seemed to Peter Fane, as if there came from the old house sounds of merry laughter; and somehow, though he was in the mill, he knew that his cottage was filled with jolly revellers.

"You seem to have a gay company yonder," said the stranger, nodding his head in the direction whence came the merry sounds.

"So it seems," replied the miller. "and yet I know not who they are nor what those sounds mean, nor can I leave my grist to go and see."

But even as he spoke the door between the cottage and the mill flew open, and a crowd of figures trooped in. Old Peter Fane placed his hand upon his head in wondering thought.

"Can I be asleep?" he said. "Am I dreaming that here to-night have come the friends of my past years, boys whom I played with in childhood, girls that I loved, wife and children, parents and brothers and sisters, those whom I thought were dead--have you in truth come to me again, or are you but the fancies of my dreams?"

And he stood erect and gazed at them as if waiting for an answer.

Late in the afternoon of the following day a party of the country folk, returning homeward, passed the old mill. There was no sign of human life about the premises, no smoke from the chimney, no footsteps in the snow: and yet through the silence of the gathering twilight came the clatter of the mill and the sad howling of a dog.

"Old Peter Fane is at work in the mill," these country folk said as they stopped. "Whose grist can he be grinding that he works upon Thanksgiving day?"

Prompted by curiosity they plunged through the drifts, and knocked at the cottage door. There was no answer.

They knocked again; still no reply.

They tried the door, but it was fastened.

"The clatter of the machinery prevents his hearing," said one; "let us try at the door of the mill itself."

Once, twice, thrice they knocked, still there was no response--only the loud whining of the dog inside, as he scratched against the boards of the door.

"Strange!" remarked a farmer. "Has Peter Fane grown suddenly deaf that he cannot hear us? Or has he gone away and left the old mill to run itself?"

Their curiosity was piqued and they pulled at the boards of the old door until the rusty latch gave way and the door swung open.

As they stood in the doorway the flood of gray twilight poured into the old mill and through the clouds of dust which the opening door had raised they saw Peter Fane, leaning against a post, with averted face as if watching the revolving millstones.

"Hey! Peter Fane!" they shouted. "are you deaf that you did not heed all the racket that we made?"

But Peter Fane never stirred nor answered their inquiry. A feeling of awe began slowly to creep over them as they advanced, and one, bolder than the rest, stretched out his hand to put it on the old man's shoulder and attract his attention. But suddenly he paused, and the outstretched arm dropped to his side, for he saw that in truth Peter Fane would hear no more earthly voices--for Peter Fane was dead.

no There in the bin, but yet the mill clacked on, grinding the air, and Peter Fane's cold and rigid body stood as if watching it.

Who was the stranger? Who were the guests that had visited the old man the night before? Peter Fane never awoke to tell.