VI

AWHILE ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road. Jem

the waggoner hailed me as he passed--he was going to the mill--would I

ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks?

[Illustration: The sun stretched the long shadows in slanting bars

across the white highway]

I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white and

fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on the empty

flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long vista of my road

with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark, caressed by the

fresh breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the strong monotonous

tramp of the great grey team and the music of the jangling harness.

Jem walked at the leaders' heads; it is his rule when the waggon is

empty, a rule no "company" will make him break. At first I regretted

it, but soon discovered I learnt to know him better so, as he plodded

along, his thickset figure slightly bent, his hands in his pockets,

his whip under one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a low minor, while the

great horses answered to his voice without touch of lash or guiding

rein.

I lay as in a blissful dream and watched my road unfold. The sun set

the pine-boles aflare where the hedge is sparse, and stretched the long

shadows of the besom poplars in slanting bars across the white highway;

the roadside gardens smiled friendly with their trim-cut laurels and

rows of stately sunflowers--a seemly proximity this, Daphne and Clytie,

sisters in experience, wrapped in the warm caress of the god whose

wooing they need no longer fear. Here and there we passed little groups

of women and children off to work in the early cornfields, and Jem

paused in his fond repetition of "The Lord my pasture shall prepare" to

give them good-day.

It is like Life, this travelling backwards--that which has been, alone

visible--like Life, which is after all, retrospective with a steady

moving on into the Unknown, Unseen, until Faith is lost in Sight and

experience is no longer the touchstone of humanity. The face of the son

of Adam is set on the road his brothers have travelled, marking their

landmarks, tracing their journeyings; but with the eyes of a child of

God he looks forward, straining to catch a glimpse of the jewelled

walls of his future home, the city "Eternal in the Heavens."

Presently we left my road for the deep shade of a narrow country way

where the great oaks and beeches meet overhead and no hedge-clipper

sets his hand to stay nature's profusion; and so by pleasant lanes

scarce the waggon's width across, now shady, now sunny, here bordered

by thickset coverts, there giving on fruitful fields, we came at length

to the mill.

[Illustration: The great wheel was at rest]

I left Jem to his business with the miller and wandered down the

flowery meadow to listen to the merry clack of the stream and the voice

of the waters on the weir. The great wheel was at rest, as I love best

to see it in the later afternoon; the splash and churn of the water

belong rather to the morning hours. It is the chief mistake we make in

portioning out our day that we banish rest to the night-time, which is

for sleep and recreating, instead of setting apart the later afternoon

and quiet twilight hours for the stretching of weary limbs and repose

of tired mind after a day's toil that should begin and end at five.

The little stone bridge over the mill-stream is almost on a level

with the clear running water, and I lay there and gazed at the huge

wheel which, under multitudinous forms and uses, is one of the world's

wonders, because one of the few things we imitative children have not

learnt from nature. Is it perchance a memory out of that past when Adam

walked clear-eyed in Paradise and talked with the Lord in the cool of

the day? Did he see then the flaming wheels instinct with service,

wondrous messengers of the Most High vouchsafed in vision to the later

prophets?

Maybe he did, and going forth from before the avenging sword of his

own forging to the bitterness of an accursed earth, took with him this

bright memory of perfect, ceaseless service, and so fashioned our

labouring wheel--pathetic link with the time of his innocency. It is

one of many unanswered questions, good to ask because it has no answer,

only the suggestion of a train of thought: perhaps we are never so

receptive as when with folded hands we say simply, "This is a great

mystery." I watched and wondered until Jem called, and I had to leave

the rippling weir and the water's side, and the wheel with its untold

secret.

The miller's wife gave me tea and a crust of homemade bread, and the

miller's little maid sat on my knee while I told the sad tale of a

little pink cloud separated from its parents and teazed and hunted

by mischievous little airs. To-morrow, if I mistake not, her garden

will be wet with its tears, and, let us hope, point a moral; for the

tale had its origin in a frenzied chicken driven from the side of an

anxious mother, and pursued by a sturdy, relentless figure in a white

sun-bonnet.

The little maid trotted off, greatly sobered, to look somewhat

prematurely for the cloud's tears; and I climbed to my place at the top

of the piled-up sacks, and thence watched twilight pass to starlight

through my narrow peep, and, so watching, slept until Jem's voice

hailed me from Dreamland, and I went, only half awake, across the dark

fields home.

* * * * *

Autumn is here and it is already late. He has painted the hedges russet

and gold, scarlet and black, and a tangle of grey; now he has damp

brown leaves in his hair and frost in his finger-tips.

It is a season of contrasts; at first all is stir and bustle, the

ingathering of man and beast; barn and rickyard stand filled with

golden treasure; at the farm the sound of threshing; in wood and copse

the squirrels busied 'twixt tree and storehouse, while the ripe nuts

fall with thud of thunder rain. When the harvesting is over, the fruit

gathered, the last rick thatched, there comes a pause. Earth strips

off her bright colours and shows a bare and furrowed face; the dead

leaves fall gently and sadly through the calm, sweet air; grey mists

drape the fields and hedges. The migratory birds have left, save a few

late swallows; and as I sit at work in the soft, still rain, I can hear

the blackbird's melancholy trill and the thin pipe of the redbreast's

winter song--the air is full of the sound of farewell.

Forethought and preparation for the Future which shall be; farewell,

because of the Future which may never be--for us; "Man, thou hast

goods laid up for many years, and it is well; but, remember, this

night _thy_ soul may be required"; is the unvoiced lesson of autumn.

There is growing up among us a great fear; it stares at us white,

wide-eyed, from the faces of men and women alike--the fear of pain,

mental and bodily pain. For the last twenty years we have waged war

with suffering--a noble war when fought in the interest of the many,

but fraught with great danger to each individual man. It is the fear

which should not be, rather than the 'hope which is in us,' that leads

men in these days to drape Death in a flowery mantle, to lay stress

on the shortness of parting, the speedy reunion, to postpone their

good-byes until the last moment, or avoid saying them altogether; and

this fear is a poor, ignoble thing, unworthy of those who are as gods,

knowing good and evil. We are still paying the price of that knowledge;

suffering in both kinds is a substantial part of it, and brings its

own healing. Let us pay like men, our face to the open heaven, neither

whimpering like children in the dark, nor lulled to unnecessary

oblivion by some lethal drug; for it is manly, not morbid, to dare to

taste the pungent savour of pain, the lingering sadness of farewell

which emphasises the aftermath of life; it should have its place in

all our preparation as a part of our inheritance we dare not be without.

There is an old couple in our village who are past work. The married

daughter has made shift to take her mother and the parish half-crown,

but there is neither room nor food for the father, and he must go to

N----. If husband and wife went together, they would be separated at

the workhouse door. The parting had to come; it came yesterday. I saw

them stumbling lamely down the road on their last journey together,

walking side by side without touch or speech, seeing and heeding

nothing but a blank future. As they passed me the old man said gruffly,

"'Tis far eno'; better be gettin' back"; but the woman shook her head,

and they breasted the hill together. At the top they paused, shook

hands, and separated; one went on, the other turned back; and as the

old woman limped blindly by I turned away, for there are sights a man

dare not look upon. She passed; and I heard a child's shrill voice say,

"I come to look for you, gran"; and I thanked God that there need be no

utter loneliness in the world while it holds a little child.

Now it is my turn, and I must leave the wayside to serve in the

sheepfolds during the winter months. It is scarcely a farewell, for

my road is ubiquitous, eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and

golden streets in the beautiful City of God. Nevertheless, my heart

is heavy; for, viewed by the light of the waning year, roadmending

seems a great and wonderful work which I have poorly conceived of and

meanly performed: yet I have learnt to understand dimly the truths of

three great paradoxes--the blessing of a curse, the voice of silence,

the companionship of solitude--and so take my leave of this stretch of

road, and of you who have fared along the white highway through the

medium of a printed page.

Farewell! It is a roadmender's word; I cry you Godspeed to the next

milestone--and beyond.