The mystery of the old mill

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Chapter I. Lisita

Almost a hundred years ago on the western bank of a creek that flowed into a larger stream of water about a mile below, stood a grist mill. In front of the mill, close by the roadside lay a round, flat stone, known as the mill rock. Forty years had come and gone and upon this stone many a weary traveller had sat to rest. Yet there were those who sat there in later years, that could not rest, for away in the distance a phantom like fig¬ ure in the form of a man, seemed to be ap¬ proaching. The muscles that had relaxed to rest on the mill-stone were now tense, as if ready for any emergency, as the strange fig¬ ure appeared in the bright moonlight. As¬ suredly growing smaller, changing its form

to that of a child, clothed in a robe of mid- 1 night black, gliding along noiselessly, stop¬ ping here and there to utter a low, sad cry, then pass on to the fence on the bank by the mill, and gaze into the smiling waters of the mill pond below.

In the year of 1845 in a humble log cabin, in a remote district of what is now West Vir¬ ginia, and far from what the modern world would call civilization, Lisita, our heroine was born, and destined to become a child of the mill or its vicinity. At the eary age of twelve years she could cook, sew, knit and spin, and could really go through with the whole rou¬ tine of daily household duties unassisted, in the home of her maiden aunt, with whom she lived after her mother’s death. Lisita was very beautiful in form and features. Her eyes, in whose liquid depths there was much mean¬ ing, were a dark brown, as was also her hair. Her countenance was open and frank. Her face was fair to see, and as she sat at the spinning wheel, her deft fingers plying the thread, she was beautiful indeed, and a queen might have envied her for the natural beauty and comeliness she possessed.

It was not the outward beauty alone that prompted the few playmates that Lisita had, to love her and seek her, but the beautiful life within, as well, which was always longing for something better than she had known, and the great soul in that small habitation of clay was struggling at its bands to break forth and swell and grow, and fill the place that God had intended it to fill in this world. And, dear readers, permit me to say as I stand with my face toward life’s sunset, the saddest death I know of is the death of an inspiration, a good intent, a noble thought or the dying out of a talent.

Lisita, in the home of her precise and ex¬ acting Aunt Nancy Lake, which was sur¬ rounded with vines, roses and shrubbery, be¬ yond which one could see much wooded land, a meadow and some cleared fields, felt a long¬ ing for a higher life than she had known. In that sparsely settled neighborhood, with its homes so far apart, and the closest school three miles away, they seemed to be entirely alone, except when some neighbor came to spend the day, or a traveller stopped to eat a meal with them. Her aunt had a collection of old books from which she read and learned much. She also read the Bible and could find each text the preacher used in his monthly sermons, at the little meeting house about three miles away where she and her aunt would go the first Sunday in each month, to hear him explain the Scriptures and talk of the heavenly home, exhort his hearers to fol¬ low the Golden Rule, and tell them of a “crown of righteousness that is laid up for all who diligently serve Him here.”

Lisita and her aunt would drive through the lanes and shady woodland, in their one horse buggy, till they came to the little church where the country folks were wont to meet each month. This trip to church with an occasional day at a neighboring farmhouse, her books, a chance traveller from whom she gained new ideas, the song of the birds, the pure air, the warm sunshine and daily household duties, went to make up the song of life for Lisita.

Chapter II. Coehern

About one hundred and fifty miles from the home of Lisita and her Aunt Nancy Lake, was a beautiful farm of about four hundred acres. One hundred acres of this land was cleared and under a high state of cultivation. On a litle elevation, back from the river, standing out as the best homestead in the country, was Cohern, the home of the Coewells. In later years it is known to some peo¬ ple as Coehern and I will call it this through¬ out my story.

It was supposed that Cornelius Coewell’s grandfather settled there soon after “Mad” Anthony Waynes’ victory at Fallen Timbers and the treaty of 1795, after securing a grant or title for the land from the Virginia land office. He with his wife and two sons had crossed the mountains carrying their earthly belongings on horseback and driving a cow and five head of sheep, reached this vast track of timber land early in the Spring, cut away the trees and erected a small cabin where they reared their family, after which Cornel¬ ius Coewell finally fell heir to the “home-place” and Victor Coewell, the son of Cornel¬ ius, the only living child, would in time be¬ come heir to the farm, with its ample build¬ ings, fertile fields, orchards and valuable timber lands. A well had been dug close by the house, which afforded a never-failing supply of pure, cold water, and when the old wooden bucket, drawn up by a windlass, reached the top, one might drink to his satisfaction of the refreshing draught.

A walk had been laid with large, flat rocks found on the land. The hollyhock, the bleed¬ ing-heart, the touch-me-not, the bachelorbutton, white lily and hundred-leaf rose, wafted a fragrance on the breeze that min¬ gled with that of the crab-apple, the ground rose and the wild flowers of the hillside. And were you ever to gaze on such varieties of nat¬ ural beauty, as we look backward across the years into the dim past and see at Coehern, it will linger long in memory.

Cornelius Coewell, a grandson of the first settler, owned Coehern at that time. A man who was much liked and admired by all the people in the neighborhood for miles around, for his honesty, his kindly attitude toward his neighbors, his integrity, benevolent Christian spirit and his uprightness in his every day life. Also for his well kept grounds, orchards, gardens, well tilled fields of wheat, oats, corn, potatoes and vegetables of all kinds. On this beautiful evening in June, Cornelius Coewell and his comely wife, Roanne, stood by the well and drank of its clear, sparkling waters, talking of the Well of whose waters we may drink and never thirst again, as it is spoken of in the Bible, A well of water springing up into everlasting life.” Uncle Sambo and Aunt Rachel, slaves or trusted servants of the Coewells, were milking the cows in the lot, just as Victor came riding up on his favorite mare, holding a letter in his hand, bearing a foreign post¬ mark. This letter caused some excitement among the Coewells, for they had no rela¬ tives or acquaintances in England, though their grandfather had come from Wales years ago, settled in Eastern Virginia and later crossed the mountains, to build a cabin home, and all trace of his relatives had been lost years ago. They were much concerned to know who had written it and how the writer had secured their name and address, so Roanne tore it open and read it aloud to the rest. While she was reading it, the cabin home of Nancy Lake one hundred and fifty miles away, was wrapped in a mantle of dark¬ ness and mystery, for the beautiful maiden who was wont to sit within and spin, and do a thousand other things in the daily routine, had been stolen and hidden away.

Twilight is falling over Coehern and on the deep, dense woods, miles away, a girl sees the twilight shadows fall deeper and darker as she is carried far, far away from her early home, with a dark-eyed stranger as her only guide and companion.

THE OLD MILL

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Chapter III. The Old Mill

Water or grist mills are a thing of the past in this state, so far as I know, except in remote mountain districts, and most of them have been torn down or left on the banks of the various streams of water, to decay. Many years ago most all creeks and smaller streams of water were dotted here and there with these mills. The people came from miles around, to the mill to have their grinding done, swap opinions or “hosses” and jackknives and return to their various homes with heavy grists and light hearts. About two miles from Coehern, on the bank of a creek that empties into the clear, winding willow-hemmed banks of the river that flows in the north and east of the vine-clad hills and productive river bottom-lands of he Coewells, was a grist mill. The old mill stood on the western bank of the creek, at the very edge of the water, and the mill wheel stood out so that the pent-up waters, pouring through the open gate, might turn it and grind the golden grain from the rich harvests of the farmers, who would bring enough each grinding day for the following week’s supply of bread-stuff and some who lived a long dis¬ tance from the mill, brought wagon loads so they would not have to come so often.

The jolly, dusty old miller joked and laughed with boys and girls, men and women, as he numbered each “grist” that was brought in. And nothing pleased him better than a good “ turn-out ” on “ grinding days,” for •well he knew that from each sack of grain he could collect so much toll.

The mill-dam caused the water to raise far up the creek, so that skating on the mill-pond in winter, and boating, and sometimes swim¬ ming, in the summer, made good sport for the young folks, and many of them were sorry to hear their names called when grist was ready for they knew it would be another week before they could meet again at the mill. Above the noise of the mill grinding grain, you could hear the splash, splash of the water against the mill wheel, and the wheel in turning would throw the water into the air, as it rattled and splashed, on and on, singing to those who were in gay moods, of moon¬ light nights, strolls through the woodland, husking-bees, log-rollings, quilting parties, love, mirth and gladness. To those in sadder moods, who were older in years, it sang of the west, where the sun was setting when the day was about over, of the night drawing near and of home, Heaven and rest.

And, as the story goes, on moonlight nights a phantom maiden walked alone, near the old mill, and lingered by the pond, uttering a weird cry, so melancholy in its notes, as it died away on the night winds, that those who heard it never forgot it. Yes, those who saw and heard it, remember yet, and as the vague shadows of a dream return, so the memories linger, of a dark-robed maiden, standing by the old mill, uttering a low, sad cry.

CHAPTER IY.

HIDDEN AWAY.

Lisita, as usual, arose at six o’clock on this bright and never-to-be-forgotten day in June, hastily dressed herself, washed her face and combed her hair, so that she might assist her aunt with the morning work. She swept the porch and steps, stopping before she went in, to arrange a lovely bouquet of roses and violets for their breakfast table, which was covered with a home-spun linen cloth. The napkins too, were of home-spun linen and the plain wooden-handled knives and forks, as well as the pewter spoons, glowed from the effects of a good scouring with wood ashes, by the same slender hands that threw the shuttle of the spinning wheel. Lisita brought the fresh roll of butter from the milk house, and that, with eggs, dried raspberries, coffee, milk and wheat biscuits, made up their morn¬ ing meal. After breakfast she busied herself putting the dishes away. Then with mop, brush and broom, wielded by her skillful hand, everything in the little cottage put on that shiny appearance that those wayside farmerettes of fifty years ago, were so artful in producing. She looked out and saw her aunt coming across the lot with a pail of milk, so foamy and white that it made her think of the crested billows and the foam on the waves, of which she had learned in her old reader.

Lisita and her aunt lived a very quiet and peaceful life, known only by the country folk and a chance traveller who stopped to eat a meal from their table that was always spread with clean and wholesome food, or to get a fresh drink from the well, whose bucket was moss-grown, or to rest in the quiet shade where nature abounds and fills the soul with a longing to understand God and his great works.

Lisita, who was now in her fourteenth year, seemed to see beauty in everything. The song of the birds was music for her. She loved to be out in the open fields, the warm sunshine and balmy air. The grassy meadows, covered with dew each morning, meant a new day for her. The exercise made her strong in body and mind but as she roamed through the fields with life’s sustaining, unseen ocean of air, forever floating around her, she seemed to know it was there, but was unmindful of its value to her. She did not know that it was deep breathing that helped to make her eyes so bright, her cheeks so rosy and steps so nimble. The great oak, in whose quiet shade she sat, seemed to talk to her of its sturdy growth from year to year until it was king of the forest, and she compared her life to it, as she wanted to grow in body, mind and soul so that she might be a queen among women in her own right, in the doing of things as her better nature told her.

A stranger stopped at the little farmhouse for dinner that day, who was old and gray and bent with years, and Lisita and her aunt tried in every way to make him comfortable but he did not talk much and left them ab¬ ruptly, saying “ I must be on my way for I am on a long journey.” They did not see him as he ran swiftly across the fields to the clump of trees near the woods, and quickly removed his wig and gray beard.

After the dinner work was done up, Lisita, with bucket in hand, walked across the field and to the top of the hill near the woods, to gather the berries that grew in clusters there. She had almost filled her bucket and the ber¬ ries never were so nice, large and juicy as now, but hark! what was that noise in the bushes? Not the sleek gliding rattler who warns before he strikes; but a hidden foe in the form of a man sprang lithely from behind some bushes, threw a shawl over Lisita’s head and shoulders, took her in his arms and ran swiftly toward the deep woods beyond the pasture field. And in spite of her cries, and efforts to get loose, he bore her swiftly through the woods where his pony was tied in waiting.

VICTOR COEWELL

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Chapter V. Victor Coewell

Victor Coewell, a youthful looking lad, in his eighteenth year, alighted from the hand¬ some sorrel mare on which he was riding, after giving his mother the strange looking letter—the very mare his father had given him on his last birthday and no wonder he felt proud as he gazed at the arched neck, long, slender-bodied, clean limbed animal that would carry him over the highroads, through the lanes and by-ways, whose paths were in¬ tricate and some times narrow and steep, with trees and cliffs of rocks on either side. Yet, Bess, as she was named, had always man¬ aged to carry him to safety. Victor was strong and muscular, and were he living in the twen¬ tieth century, he would be termed a very great athlete. He had fair complexion, light brown hair and blue eyes. He was six feet tall and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, a good specimen of manhood indeed.

He attended the three months school that had been taught for a few years at Millgrove, a distance of three miles from Coehern. He also received some instruction from private teach¬ ers in the home.

Victor was kindly disposed toward every one and was congenial in the home, as well as among the slaves or servants, unless some of them had not taken the proper care of his dog and horse. If he found this to be true, he would get very angry. His father, a man who was fond of the chase, kept a kennel for his hounds, and his son who also liked the chase, was never happier than when monted on his favorite mare, with his attendants following, and the hounds, Leader and Dan, Trooper and Truboy, at their heels. Truboy, his favorite, was a deerhound of the Scotch breed of large hounds. He resembled a greyhound in build, but was stronger and heavier, with a rough, tawny coat. He was about twenty-eight inches high and weighed almost a hundred pounds. At that time, in this neighborhood, there were bear, deer, and wild turkeys in the woods, and a great many deer were killed by settlers who concealed themselves close by a deerlick. In the chase, after the dogs got a deer or fox started, the hunters would gallop to the low-gap and somtimes shoot the deer, as it came into view, with the hounds in hot pur¬ suit. If it was a fox, they would build a fire of logs and pine knots, at night, and listen to the baying of the hounds, which was music to the huntsman’s ear, especially when they could hear their favorite hound in the lead! “ But how on airth dey cuold stinguish de yelpin of one houn’ from de odder,” always puzzled Un¬ cle Sambo, and he often said, “ Wid de houn’s to be fed up and de hosses to be rubbed down watah to draw, made li’l Eph resemble an ober-wuked nigger.”

It was on one of these hunting trips that Victor lingered behind the rest, for he want¬ ed to be alone in the home of the trees. His trained ear would catch every sound which was music to him, and he often paused by the brookside to hear its deep gurgling sound, as it talked to him of its journey to the far-away sea. How it danced, laughed and talked of its wild, long glide through green meadows, mossy dells and wooded vales. The trees too, were his friends and seemed to speak to him of the great place he was to fill in the hearts of many, and most especially of one. Of the gleam he was to follow on and on, whose glimpses can only be caught by those who fol¬ low its bright rays up, up and ever onward to its heights, where one can pause and hear naught but the echo of his own pulsation. The rays of this gleam which Victor seemed to see, which we cannot find on land or sea, as a “pillow of fire in the night and a cloud by day,” hovered over him now and filled his soul with a longing to reach the heights, where loving hearts, pure minds and great souls may speak to each other; not in words, but in thought and understanding; the height that pure manhood and womanhood may reach. He was startled by the yelping of a hound in the distance and he now realized that he had meditated long, in the forest, for under shadow of the thick trees it was almost dark and the night-birds were calling to their mates. The rattler was lurking in the path¬ way of the rabbit, and the night-hawk, perched aloft, uttering a low, weird cry, while nature was spreading a curtain of shadow over hill and vale.

But hark! the yelping of a hound, maybe Truboy on the hunt of him, so he went in that direction and when he was very near he thought he heard a gruff voice in the distance, calling to the dog. He hurried on, just in time to see the largest hound he ever saw, running swiftly into the depths of the forest. He re¬ sembled Truboy in build, and must have been of the same breed of dogs, but was gray in color and much larger.

“What on airth kep’ yo so long and no game eider?,” asked Sambo. “ Oh, I was day¬ dreaming,” said Victor. “ Day dreamin’? De night dreamin’, wid de night hoss and oder pesterin’ tings am enuf fo’ me, let alone sottin down in de woods whar all dem beastses and creepin’ tings am,” said Sambo. “ Yes, but I was musing,” said Victor. “ Wall, music am moughty fine when played on de banjo and fiddle, but de squall ob de wild-cat, de rattle ob de rattler and de scream ob de painter, am too much fo’ me; besides yo’ was not fur frum de ole mill whar its too spookiastical fo’ me. Yas, sah, an’ I doan parade aroun’ dar where¬ abouts,” said Sambo. “ She is liable to come here some night,” said Victor. Uncle Sambo now trembled with fear, and said “ 0, Lawd, don’ let her cum any closter dan de ole mill, and if she hab to sing dat low filutin’ deathbell music, let her sing it to de pon’.” This amused Victor, and he ray away with Sambo at his heels. He went upstairs to bed and was sure he heard a woman scream some¬ where. It sounded near the top of the hill over in the nearest woods. He went out in the yard and listened for some time but could hear no sound, and retired for the night.

Chapter VI. The Letter

Roanne Coewell gazed long and in wonder at the strange looking letter, bearing a for¬ eign postmark. It was directed to Cornelius Coewell, written in a plain and delicate hand. She tore open the letter and was very much surprised to see an emblem or insignia of a Coat of Arms stamped on the letterhead which was the heredity ensign armorial of his ancestors, and consisted of figures borne on a shield, signifying descendants of royalty, or as marks of distinguished or dignified per¬ sons. The letter read as follows:

Edinburg, Scotland,

My dear Mr. Coewell:

I have heard through correspondence with some very prominent families of America, of your unbounded hospitality. My wife and I hope we are not asking too much when we ask if we may partake of that kind hospital¬ ity, while we sojourn in your picturesque country. We have reason to believe that some of our relatives (in whom we are greatly in¬ terested), live, or have lived, in western Vir¬ ginia. We have been directed to you as one who could give some information, or aid us in the search. We will sail for America in the early Autumn and write you immediately on date of our arrival on your shores.

Respectfully,

CECIL COX.

Roanne Coewell, who was comely and fair, returned the ardent gaze of her husband, and said “Cornelius, this is the last day of June, and if they sail in early Autumn we may ex¬ pect them in November, and maybe not be¬ fore Thanksgiving, when most of our work will be ‘laid by’.” “Yes, Ma, we will have things in readiness for our guests. And that makes me think, Roanne—I must rob the bees tomorrow.” “It seems like we will have so much to be thankful for this year, Cornelius.” “ Yes, we have great need to be thankful to God for our great harvests that have never seemed so bountiful so far before, and also we must not forget to be thankful to Him each day for His goodness and mercy toward us, always having thankful hearts.”

With their ample house-room, wide, old fireplaces and plenty of wood stored up to burn, their rich harvests of grain, fruit and vegetables of all kinds, it looked like they could amply share their hospitality with many more. Aunt Rachel, whose voice could be heard from the milk-house, was saying “I spose sum of dem roil, white trash’ll be stampedin’ all round’ here ’fore long, an’ I’se gwine to tell yo’ dat dis cullud lady am a leetle mite shy of strangers. An’ wid’ de screamin’ in de woods dat Sambo an’ Marse Vic dun hearn, an’ de maiden rampagin’ roun’ de ole mill, singin’ like a dyin’ swan and de big gray houn’ on de hill, hit makes us tink of hants. An’ I dun tell yo’ Chloe White am ponderin’ on it ebery minnit.”

Slavery was not so popular west of the mountains, but Aunt Rachel, who was really a slave, was a very trusty negro, as was Uncle Sam, and they were allowed many privileges which most slaves of that time did not have. One of these privileges was to always have their say about things, and when a few years later the slaves were freed, many of them wanted to stay with their masters. Such was the case at Coewells, and his slaves or serv¬ ants remained with him after the Emancipa¬ tion Proclamation was issued by Abraham Lincoln, Jaunary first, 1863.

Chapter VII. A Perilous Ride

Lisita, in spite of her pleadings and cries to be loosened, was swiftly borne on and on through the forest. After they had travelled a long way, she noticed they were going at a much slower gait, and she guessed it must be dark. Oh, how terrible it all was, and why did he not talk or tell her where he was taking her. She struggled again to loose herself, and in the struggle raised the shawl over her face. She could see that it was dark but they were near the top of a hill and after they descended on the other side they came out into the open. It was lighter now and on and on they went at a good pace. She begged him once more to take her back and asked why he was taking her away. He answered “No harm will come to you, fair one. If you keep quiet on this pony I’ll carry you safely to your new home, where you’ll like it, I’m sure.” “ I’ll run away from you too, for I don’t have to stay with anyone I don’t like and don’t know.” “Then you’ll learn to like me, won’t you?” “No, I won’t, and the farther I go, the more I hate you.” “Well, then, you will hate me much, for we are going farther and farther and you are now full fifty miles from home.”

As soon as they began to see signs of light in the east, he shunned the roads and open fields and followed the wooded paths. They were coming into a beautiful grove of trees now, overlooking a winding valley through which flowed a stream of water. It was hard¬ ly light enough to see it good yet. He said “We will rest here and eat.” And were you ever out in the early morning to see the dawn¬ ing of the day? Lisita was, and she looked far to the east where the faint streaks were growing lighter. The mists from the lower lands were rising and the songs of feathered warblers seemed to blend with the voice of na¬ ture in caroling a song of gladness, at the dawning of another day. A new song, as it were, and she wondered if God, who had at¬ tuned their voices, did not direct their glad song. She knew he did, and all fear left her. He spoke of eating and she wondered what they would eat, when behind a clump of bushes she saw another pony tied in waiting. He untied the pony from the tree, brought it around near her and removed the saddle pockets. He opened them and handed her a bottle of milk, some meat and bread. She first thought she would not eat, but after he assured her no harm would come to her while in his care, and that another day’s and night’s ride would bring them to his people, she ate and drank for she knew that would strengthen her, and she intended to get away from him at the first opportunity. He said “Your chance in life will be much better than it would have been if I had never known you, and besides you will learn many things you never knew, and I think can aid us in securing a great for¬ tune.”

She shuddered as she thought how terrible it all was; and her poor aunt. What would become of her now? She seemed to resign herself to the surroundings at present but fully resolved to run away the first chance she got. She knew it was no use to try it now for his dark eyes were ever watching her, and if she did not make good her escape he might treat her cruelly. When daylight came she looked her abductor over and over. He had dark hair and eyes, was tall and slender with rather broad shoulders.. He seemed to be ac¬ tive and quick in his movements. His long slender fingers fumbled with a gold watch chain that hung from a watch he looked at often, as he paced restlessly to and fro. Lisita looked very beautiful in the early morning, with the brown shawl around her shoulders, and the grove of trees as a background. Though she was tired she was glad to move on when the ponies were ready, but in her bright brown eyes there was a far-away look as of a foreboding of evil. He asked her if she would not ride the other pony and assured her it was safe and sure-footed. She readily assented to this for two distinct reasons: one, that she would not have to be so near him, and the other, she might run a good race for escape if a chance presented itself. The pony she mounted was a bright dun in color, with spots of a darker brown, or black—what some of the old settlers termed a Rattlesnake pony. It had an even, easy gait—and how she wished she could be back with her aunt and have this pony to use for her very own.