It was a day of sober brightness. A white mist had risen above the western slopes, and the setting sun shone through it. Brown furrows had begun to take a rich auburn tinge; tree-shadows crept farther and farther across the green sod; crows flew heavily homewards. From the wet thickets came the old fresh ferny scents, sweetening the calm air. The mallet blows ceased; the farmer had ended his task, and turned towards his daughter.
“You are not sorry to get back to our fields, Rhoda?” he said. “You’ll see the primroses showing their pretty faces by-and-by. Ah, it seems but yesterday that you and Helen were filling your pinafores with them!”
“Helen’s winter has come before its time, father,” answered Miss Farren, gravely. “Her wicked husband has made her life desolate.”
“And his own too,” added the farmer, in a pitying tone.
“That is as it should be,” returned Rhoda, quickly. “He has escaped the punishment he merited; but there’s satisfaction in knowing that God’s justice will surely reach him.”
“Ay,” murmured the farmer softly, “God’s mercy will surely reach him.”
“God’s favour is for those who walk uprightly,” said Rhoda.
“Ah, Rhoda, the mercy is granted before they learn to walk uprightly,” replied her father. “It comes to those who have fallen and are ready to perish. There are few of us who can see ourselves in every criminal, as old Baxter did. And there are fewer still who can believe that a man may come out of the Slough of Despond cleaner than he went in.”
They turned towards the house, walking silently down the green slopes. Rhoda was angry and perplexed; what was the use of living a respectable life if sinners were to be highly esteemed? When she spoke again it was in a harsh tone.
“Robert Clarris has found defenders, it seems! A man who has committed such a crime as his should scarcely be so lightly forgiven!”