I forgot to record quite an unlooked-for little pleasure which befell me
on my way home this afternoon; one of those little incidents which are
nothing in themselves, yet which mean much to us, and never more so than
when life is going ill.
I had got as far as the grassy entrance to our copse when a sudden
dazzling gleam of sunlight shot across it, sweeping over the fields
beyond, and away up to the top of the downs. Though the day had been
fairly fine for the time of year, the expectation of so dramatic a
finale to it had never for a moment crossed my mind, and I stood gazing
about me almost as if something had happened; feeling in fact as if
something desirable and unlooked for _had_ happened.
The yellow oak scrub--withered but not leafless--glowed with a sudden
russet splendour. Upon the little garden wall the terra-cotta pots shone
with a momentary reminiscence of that Italy where they were born and
baked. The air seemed to tingle; the tall birches glistened, one sheen
of feathery silver up to their tiniest towering twigs. It was a kindly
thought of whichever divinity sent that most unexpected and satisfactory
beam to cheer this particular day. It did not last long of course, and
the gloom of a winter’s night has followed quickly. For all that
Christmas 1899 will never seem quite so dark, never so absolutely
despairing in the retrospect, as it would have done without that last
benevolent gleam at eventide.