The Guilty River | Page 6

aroused.
Following the new track, I found that it led to a little glade which I at
once recognized. The place was changed in one respect only. A
neglected water-spring had been cleared of brambles and stones, and
had been provided with a drinking cup, a rustic seat, and a Latin motto
on a marble slab. The spring at once reminded me of a greater body of
water--a river, at some little distance farther on, which ran between the
trees on one side, and the desolate open country on the other.
Ascending from the glade, I found myself in one of the narrow
woodland paths, familiar to me in the by-gone time.
Unless my memory was at fault, this was the way which led to an old
water-mill on the river-bank. The image of the great turning wheel,
which half-frightened half-fascinated me when I was a child, now
presented itself to my memory for the first time after an interval of
many years. In my present frame of mind, the old scene appealed to me
with the irresistible influence of an old friend. I said to myself: "Shall I
walk on, and try if I can find the river and the mill again?" This
perfectly trifling question to decide presented to me, nevertheless,
fantastic difficulties so absurd that they might have been difficulties

encountered in a dream. To my own astonishment, I hesitated--walked
back again along the path by which I had advanced--reconsidered my
decision, without knowing why--and turning in the opposite direction,
set my face towards the river once more. I wonder how my life would
have ended, if I had gone the other way?
CHAPTER II
THE RIVER INTRODUCES US
I stood alone on the bank of the ugliest stream in England.
The moonlight, pouring its unclouded radiance over open space, failed
to throw a beauty not their own on those sluggish waters. Broad and
muddy, their stealthy current flowed onward to the sea, without a rock
to diversify, without a bubble to break, the sullen surface. On the side
from which I was looking at the river, the neglected trees grew so close
together that they were undermining their own lives, and poisoning
each other. On the opposite bank, a rank growth of gigantic bulrushes
hid the ground beyond, except where it rose in hillocks, and showed its
surface of desert sand spotted here and there by mean patches of health.
A repellent river in itself, a repellent river in its surroundings, a
repellent river even in its name. It was called The Loke. Neither
popular tradition nor antiquarian research could explain what the name
meant, or could tell when the name had been given. "We call it The
Loke; they do say no fish can live in it; and it dirties the clean salt
water when it runs into the sea." Such was the character of the river in
the estimation of the people who knew it best. But I was pleased to see
The Loke again. The ugly river, like the woodland glade, looked at me
with the face of an old friend.
On my right hand side rose the venerable timbers of the water-mill.
The wheel was motionless, at that time of night; and the whole
structure looked--as remembered objects will look, when we see them
again after a long interval--smaller than I had supposed it to be.
Otherwise, I could discover no change in the mill. But the wooden
cottage attached to it had felt the devastating march of time. A portion

of the decrepit building still stood revealed in its wretched old age;
propped, partly by beams which reached from the thatched roof to the
ground, and partly by the wall of a new cottage attached, presenting in
yellow brick-work a hideous modern contrast to all that was left of its
ancient neighbor.
Had the miller whom I remembered, died; and were these changes the
work of his successor? I thought of asking the question, and tried the
door: it was fastened. The windows were all dark excepting one, which
I discovered in the upper storey, at the farther side of the new building.
Here, there was a dim light burning. It was impossible to disturb a
person, who, for all I knew to the contrary, might be going to bed. I
turned back to The Loke, proposing to extend my walk, by a mile or a
little more, to a village that I remembered on the bank of the river.
I had not advanced far, when the stillness around me was disturbed by
an intermittent sound of splashing in the water. Pausing to listen, I
heard next the working of oars in their rowlocks. After another interval
a boat appeared, turning a projection in the bank, and rowed by a
woman pulling steadily