The Church with an Overshot-Wheel Page #3

"The Church with an Overshot-Wheel" is a short story by O. Henry that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and redemption. Set in a small town, the narrative centers around the character of a young woman who faces a moral dilemma regarding her family and her own desires. As the story unfolds, O. Henry's trademark twist reveals the complexities of human relationships and the impact of choices made in the name of love. Through his signature wit and keen observations, the author captures the essence of small-town life and the struggles of its inhabitants, ultimately delivering a poignant message about the nature of true devotion.

• Short story

								

she spoke.

“No,” she said at length, with a long sigh, “I can’t remember anything
at all about a mill. I don’t think that I ever saw a flour mill in my
life until I saw your funny little church. And if I were your little
girl I would remember it, wouldn’t I? I’m so sorry, Father Abram.”

“So am I,” said Father Abram, humouring her. “But if you cannot
remember that you are my little girl, Miss Rose, surely you can
recollect being some one else’s. You remember your own parents, of
course.”

“Oh, yes; I remember them very well—especially my father. He wasn’t a
bit 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
can see the trout playing, this afternoon. I never saw a trout.”

Late one afternoon Father Abram set out for the old mill alone. He
often went to sit and think of the old days when he lived in the
cottage across the road. Time had smoothed away the sharpness of his
grief until he no longer found the memory of those times painful. But
whenever Abram Strong sat in the melancholy September afternoons on the
spot where “Dums” used to run in every day with her yellow curls
flying, the smile that Lakelands always saw upon his face was not
there.

The miller made his way slowly up the winding, steep road. The trees
crowded so close to the edge of it that he walked in their shade, with
his hat in his hand. Squirrels ran playfully upon the old rail fence at
his right. 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 the west. Early September!—it was within a few days only of
the anniversary of Aglaia’s disappearance.

The old overshot-wheel, half covered with mountain ivy, caught patches
of the warm sunlight filtering through the trees. The cottage across
the road was still standing, but it would doubtless go down before the
next winter’s mountain blasts. It was overrun with morning glory and
wild gourd vines, and the door hung by one hinge.

Father Abram pushed open the mill door, and entered softly. And then he
stood still, wondering. He heard the sound of some one within, weeping
inconsolably. He looked, and saw Miss Chester sitting in a dim pew,
with her head bowed upon an open letter that her hands held.

Father Abram went to her, and laid one of his strong hands firmly upon
hers. 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
are feeling blue.”

It seemed that the old miller, who had known so much sorrow himself,
was a magician in driving it away from others. Miss Chester’s sobs grew
easier. Presently she took her little plain-bordered handkerchief and
wiped away a drop or two that had fallen from her eyes upon Father
Abram’s big hand. Then she looked up and smiled through her tears. Miss
Chester could always smile before her tears had dried, just as Father
Abram could smile 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 to
tell 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
all goodness and the graces, who had discovered that Miss Chester also
possessed these qualities above all other people in Atlanta or anywhere
else from Greenland to Patagonia. She showed Father Abram the letter
over which she had been weeping. It was a manly, tender letter, a
little superlative and urgent, after the style of love letters written
by young men full of goodness and the graces. He proposed for Miss
Chester’s hand in marriage at once. Life, he said, since her departure
for a three-weeks’ visit, was not to be endured. He begged for an
immediate answer; and if it were favourable he promised to fly,
ignoring the narrow-gauge railroad, at once to Lakelands.

“And now where does the trouble come in?” asked the miller when he had
read 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 she
sobbed again.

“Come, Miss Rose,” said the miller; “you can give me your confidence. I
do not question you, but I think you can trust me.”

“I do trust you,” said the girl. “I will tell you why I must refuse
Ralph. I am nobody; I haven’t even a name; the name I call myself is a
lie. Ralph is a noble man. I love him with all my heart, but I can
never be his.”

“What talk is this?” said Father Abram. “You said that you remember
your parents. Why do you say you have no name? I do not understand.”

“I do remember them,” said Miss Chester. “I remember them too well. My
first recollections are of our life somewhere in the far South. We
moved many times to different towns and states. I have picked cotton,
and worked in factories, and have often gone without enough food and
clothes. My mother was sometimes good to me; my father was always
cruel, and beat me. I think they were both idle and unsettled.

“One night when we were living in a little town on a river near Atlanta
they had a great quarrel. It was while they were abusing and taunting
each other that I learned—oh, Father Abram, I learned that I didn’t
even have the right to be—don’t you understand? I had no right even to
a name; I was nobody.

“I ran away that night. I walked to Atlanta and found work. I gave
myself the name of Rose Chester, and have earned my own living ever
since. Now you know why I cannot marry Ralph—and, oh, I can never tell
him why.”

Better than any sympathy, more helpful than pity, was Father Abram’s
depreciation of her woes.

“Why, dear, dear! is that all?” he said. “Fie, fie! I thought something
was in the way. If this perfect young man is a man at all he will not
care a pinch of bran for your family tree. Dear Miss Rose, take my word
for it, it is yourself he cares for. Tell him frankly, just as you have
told me, and I’ll warrant that he will laugh at your story, and think
all the more of you for it.”

“I shall never tell him,” said Miss Chester, sadly. “And I shall never
marry him nor any one else. I have not the right.”

But they saw a long shadow come bobbing up the sunlit road. And then
came a shorter one bobbing by its side; and presently two strange
figures approached the church. The long shadow was made by Miss Phœbe
Summers, the organist, come to practise. Tommy Teague, aged twelve, was
responsible for the shorter shadow. It was Tommy’s day to pump the
organ for Miss Phœbe, and his bare toes proudly spurned the dust of the
road.

Miss Phœbe, in her lilac-spray chintz dress, with her accurate little
curls hanging over each ear, courtesied low to Father Abram, and shook
her curls ceremoniously at Miss Chester. Then she and her assistant
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