There is a sweetness in autumnal days, Which many a lip doth praise;When the earth, tired a little, and grown mute Of song, and having borne its fruit, Rests for a little ere the winter come.
It is not sad to turn the face toward home, Even though it show the journey nearly done;It is not sad to mark the westering sun, Even though we know the night doth come, Silence there is, indeed, for song, Twilight for noon, But for the steadfast soul and strong Life's autumn is as June.From the "Ode of Life""Anything in the papers this evening?" asked a young clergyman, who was in one of the carriages of the Metropolitan Railway late in the afternoon of an August day.
"Nothing of much interest," replied his wife, handing him the newspaper she had been glancing through."I see that wretched Raeburn is ill.I wish he'd die.""Oh! Broken down at last, has he?" said the other."Where is it?
Oh, yes, I see.Ordered to take immediate and entire rest.Will be paralyzed in a week if he doesn't.Pleasant alternative that!
Result of excessive overwork.Fancy calling this blasphemous teaching work! I could hang that man with my own hands!"Erica had had a long and harassing day.She was returning from the city where she had gone to obtain leave of absence from Mr.
Bircham; for her father was to go into the quietest country place that could be found, and she of course was to accompany him.At the "Daily Review" office she had met with the greatest kindness, and she might have gone home cheered and comforted had it not been her lot to overhear this conversation.Tom was with her.She saw him hastily transcribing the uncharitable remarks, and knew that the incident would figure in next week's "Idol-Breaker." It was only a traceable instance of the harm done by all such words.
"Will you change carriages?" asked Tom.
"Yes," she said; and as she rose to go she quietly handed her card to the lady, who, it is to be hoped, learned a lesson thereby.
But it would be unjust to show only the dark side of the picture.
Great sympathy and kindness was shown them at that time by many earnest and orthodox Christians, and though Raeburn used to accept this sympathy with the remark: "You see, humanity overcomes the baleful influences of religion in the long run," yet he was always touched and pleased by the smallest signs of friendliness; while to Erica such considerateness was an inestimable help.The haste and confusion of those days, added to the anxiety, told severely on her strength; but there is this amount of good in a trying bit of "hurrying life," the rest, when it comes, is doubly restful.
It was about six o'clock on an August evening when Raeburn and Erica reached the little country town of Firdale.They were to take up their abode for the next six weeks at a village about three miles off, one of the few remaining places in England which maintained its primitive simplicity, its peaceful quiet having never been disturbed by shriek of whistle or snort of engine.
The journey from town had been short and easy, but Raeburn was terribly exhausted by it; he complained of such severe headache that they made up their minds to stay that night at Firdale, and were soon comfortably established in the most charming old inn, which in coaching days had been a place of note.Here they dined, and afterward Raeburn fell asleep on a big old-fashioned sofa, while Erica sat by the open window, able in spite of her anxiety to take a sort of restful interest in watching the traffic in the street below.Such a quiet, easy-going life these Firdale people seemed to lead.They moved in such a leisurely way; bustle and hurry seemed an unknown thing.And yet this was market day, as was evident by the country women with their baskets, and by occasional processions of sheep or cattle.One man went slowly by driving a huge pig; he was in sight for quite five minutes, dawdling along, and allowing the pig to have his own sweet will as far as speed was concerned, but occasionally giving him a gentle poke with a stick when he paused to burrow his nose in the mud.Small groups of men stood talking at the corner of the market place; a big family went by, evidently returning from a country walk; presently the lamps were lighted, and then immense excitement reigned in the little place for at the corner where the two main streets crossed each other at right angles a cheap-jack had set up his stall and, with flaring naptha lamps to show his goods, was selling by auction the most wonderful clocks at the very lowest prices in fact, the most superior glass, china, clothing, and furniture that the people of Firdale had ever had the privilege of seeing.Erica listened with no little amusement to his fervid appeals to the people not to lose this golden opportunity, and to the shy responses of the small crowd which had been attracted and which lingered on, tempted yet cautious, until the cheap-jack had worked himself up into a white heat of energetic oratory, and the selling became brisk and lively.
By and by the silvery moonlight began to flood the street, contrasting strangely with the orange glare of the lamps.Erica still leaned her head against the window frame, still looked out dreamily at the Firdale life, while the soft night wind lightly lifted the hair from her forehead and seemed to lull the pain at her heart.
It was only in accordance with the general peacefulness when by and by her father crossed the room, looking more like himself than he had done for some days.
"I am better, Eric," he said cheerfully "better already.It is just the consciousness that there is nothing that need be done.Ifeel as if I should sleep tonight." He looked out at the moonlit street."What a perfect night it is! He exclaimed."What do you say, little one; shall we drive over to this rural retreat now?
