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. I feel 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? The good folks were told to have everything ready, and they can hardly lock up before ten.”
She was so glad to see him take an interest in anything, and so greatly relieved by his recovery of strength and spirits, that she gladly fell in with the plan, and before long they set off in one of the wagonettes belonging to the Shrub Inn.
Firdale wound its long street of red-roofed houses along a sheltered valley in between fir-crowned heights; beyond the town lay rich, fertile-looking meadows, and a winding river bordered by pollard willows. Looking across these meadows, one could see the massive tower of the church, its white pinnacles standing out sharp and clear in the moonlight. As Raeburn and Erica crossed the bridge leading out of the town, the clock in the tower struck nine, and the old chimes began to play the tune which every three hours fell on the ears of the inhabitants of Firdale.
“'Life let us cherish,'” said Raeburn with a smile. “A good omen for us, little one.”
And whether it was the mere fact that he looked so much more cheerful already, or whether the dear old tune, with its resolute good humor and determination to make the best of things, acted upon Erica's sensitive nature, it would be hard to say, but she somehow shook off all her cares and enjoyed the novelty of the moonlight drive like a child. Before long they were among the fir trees, driving along the sandy road, the sweet night laden with the delicious scent of pine needles, and to the overworked Londoners in itself the most delicious refreshment. All at once Raeburn ordered the driver to stop and, getting out, stooped down by the roadside.
“What is it?” asked Erica.
“Heather!” he exclaimed, tearing it up by handfuls and returning to the carriage laden. “There! Shut your eyes and bury your face in that, and you can almost fancy you're on a Scottish mountain. Brian deserves anything for sending us to the land of heather; it makes me feel like a boy again.”
The three miles were all too short to please them, but at last they reached the little village of Milford and were set down at a compact-looking white house known as Under the Oak.
“That direction is charming,” said Raeburn, laughing; “imagine your business letters sent from the 'Daily Review' office to 'Miss Raeburn, Under the Oak, Milford!' They'll think we're living in a tent. You'll be nicknamed Deborah!”
It was not until the next morning that they fully understood the appropriateness of the direction. The little white house had been built close to the grand old oak which was the pride of Milford. It was indeed a giant of its kind; there was something wonderfully fine about its vigorous spread of branches and its enormous girth. Close by was a peaceful-looking river, flowing between green banks fringed with willow and marestail and pink river-herb. The house itself had a nice little garden, gay with geraniums and gladiolus, and bounded by a hedge of sunflowers which would have gladdened the heart of an aesthete. All was pure, fresh, cleanly, and perfectly quiet.
From the windows nothing was to be seen except the village green with its flocks of geese and its tall sign post; the river describing a sort of horseshoe curve round it, and spanned by two picturesque bridges. In the distance was a small church and a little cluster of houses, the “village” being completed by a blacksmith's forge and a post office. To this latter place they had to pay a speedy visit for, much to Raeburn's amusement, Erica had forgotten to bring any ink.
“To think that a writer in the 'Daily Review' should forget such a necessary of life!” he said, smiling. “One would think you were your little 'Cartesian-well' cousin instead of a journalist!”
However, the post office was capable of supplying almost anything likely to be needed in the depths of the country; you could purchase there bread, cakes, groceries, hob-nailed boots, paper, ink, and most delectable toffee!
The relief of the country quiet was unlike anything which Erica had known before. There was, indeed, at first a good deal of anxiety about her father. His acquiescence in idleness, his perfect readiness to spend whole days without even opening a book, proved the seriousness of his condition. For the first week he was more completely prostrated than she had ever known him to be. He would spend whole days on the river, too tired even to speak, or would drag himself as far as the neighboring wood and stretch himself at full length under the trees while she sat by sketching or writing. Bur Brian was satisfied with his improvement when he came down on one of his periodical visits, and set Erica's mind at rest about him.
“You father has such a wonderful constitution,” he said as they paced to and fro in the little garden. “I should not be surprised if, in a couple of months, he is as strong as ever; though most men would probably feel such an overstrain to the end of their days.”
After that, the time at Milford was pure happiness. Erica learned to love every inch of that lovely neighborhood, from the hill of Rocksbury with its fir-clad heights, to Trencharn Lake nestled down among the surrounding heath hills. In after years she liked to recall all those peaceful days, days when time had ceased to exist at any rate, as an element of friction in life. There was no hurrying here, and the recollection of it afterward was a perpetual happiness. The quiet river where they had one day seen an otter, a marked event in their uneventful days; the farm with its red gables and its crowd of gobbling turkeys; the sweet-smelling fir groves with their sandy paths; and their own particular wood where beeches, oaks, and silvery birch trees were intermingled, with here and there a tall pine sometimes stately and erect, sometimes blown aslant by the wind.
Here the winding paths were bordered with golden moss, and sheltered by a tangled growth of bracken and bramble with now and then a little clump of heather or a patch of blue harebells. Every nook of that place grew familiar to them and had its special associations. There was the shady part under the beeches where they spent the hot days, and this was always associated with fragments of “Macbeth” and “Julius Caesar.” There was the cozy nook on the fir hill where in cool September they had read volume after volume of Walter Scott, Raeburn not being allowed to have anything but light literature, and caring too little for “society” novels to listen to them even now. There was the prettiest part of all down below, the bit of sandy cliff riddled with nest holes by the sand martins; here they discovered a little spring, the natural basin scooped out in the rock, festooned with ivy and thickly coated with the pretty green liverwort. Never surely was water so cold and clear as that which flowed into the basin with its ground of white sand, and overflowed into a little trickling stream; while in the distance was heard the roar of the river as it fell into a small waterfall. There was the ford from which the place was named and which Erica associated with a long happy day when Brian had come down to see her father. She remembered how they had watched the carts and horses splashing though the clear water, going in muddy on one side and coming out clean on the other. She had just listened in silence to the talk between Brian and her father which happened to turn on Donovan Farrant.
They discussed the effect of early education and surroundings upon the generality of men, and Raeburn, while prophesying great things for Donovan's future and hoping that he might live to see his first Budget, rather surprised them both by what he said about his tolerable well-known early life. He was a man who found it very difficult to make allowances for temptations he had never felt, he was convinced that under Donovan's circumstances he should have acted very differently, and he made the common mistake of judging others by himself. His ruggedly honest nature and stern sense of justice could not get over those past failings. However, this opinion about the past did not interfere with his present liking of the man. He liked him much; and when, toward the end of their six weeks' stay at Milford, Donovan invited them to Oakdene, he was really pleased to accept the invitation. He hoped to be well enough to speak at an important political meeting at Ashborough about the middle of October, and as Ashborough was not far from Oakdene, Donovan wrote to propose a visit there en route.
At length the last evening came. Raeburn and Erica climbed Rocksbury for the last time, and in the cool of the evening walked slowly home.
“I have always dreaded old age,” he said. “But I shall dread it no more. This has been a foretaste of the autumn of life, and it has been very peaceful. I don't see why the winter should not be the same if I have you with me, little one.”
“You shall have me as long as I am alive,” she said, giving his strong hand a little loving squeeze.
“Truth to tell,” said Raeburn, “I thought a few weeks ago that it would be a case of 'Here lies Luke Raeburn, who died of litigation!' But, after all, to be able to work to the last is the happiest lot. Tis an enviable thing to die in harness.”
They were walking up a hill, a sort of ravine with steep high banks on either side, and stately pines stretching their blue-green foliage up against the evening sky. A red glow of sunset made the dark stems look like fiery pillars, and presently as they reached the brow of the hill the great crimson globe was revealed to them. They both stood in perfect silence watching till it sunk below the horizon.
And a great peace filled Erica's heart though at one time her father's wish would have made her sad and apprehensive. In former times she had set her whole heart on his learning before death that he was teaching error. Now she had learned to add to “Thy will be done,” the clause which it takes some of us a life time to say, “Not my will.”
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