Part 10

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff; In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week: "This is my house and this my little wife." "Mine too," said Philip, "turn and turn about:" When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made 30 Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 And say she would be little wife to both.[205]

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not, And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: 55 And all men look'd upon him favorably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 60

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) 65 An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70 All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, And in their eyes and faces read his doom; Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75 Crept down into the hollows of the wood; There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 80 And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honorable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 85 To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90 While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier,[206] and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 95 Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp[207] And peacock-yewtree[208] of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 100

Then came a change, as all things human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven: thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast 105 In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken when they lifted him; And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one: Another hand crept too across his trade 110 Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore 115 Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd "Save them from this, whatever comes to me." And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120 Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 125 And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife-- When he was gone--the children--what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat--and yet he loved her well-- How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! 135 He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse-- And yet to sell her--then with what she brought Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade With all that seamen needed or their wives-- So might she keep the house while he was gone. 140 Should he not trade himself out yonder? go This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice-- As oft as needed--last, returning rich, Become the master of a larger craft, With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145 Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pass his days in peace among his own.

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 150 Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, But had no heart to break his purposes 155 To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160 Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, 165 Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'.

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170 With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 175 Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-- The space was narrow,--having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 180 Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185 Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes, Whatever came to him: and then he said "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 190 Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-- 195 Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 200

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things, In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205 Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; 210 And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more."

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours.[209] Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day), get you a seaman's glass, 215 Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears."

But when the last of those last moments came, "Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till I come again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220 And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from him? and the sea is His, 225 The sea is His: He made it."

Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, 230 When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, "Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 235 Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.

She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 240 Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; 245 Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 250 Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?" For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: 255 She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 260 Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 265 What most it needed--howsoe'er it was, After a lingering,--ere she was aware,-- Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away.

In that same week when Annie buried it, 270 Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, May be some little comfort;" therefore went, 275 Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, 280 Cared not to look on any human face, But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly, "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."

He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, 285 "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her:

"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 290 Enoch, your husband: I have ever said You chose the best among us--a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, 295 And leave you lonely? not to see the world-- For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be 300 To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave, If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now-- Have we not known each other all our lives?-- 305 I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay-- For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, Why then he shall repay me--if you will, Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do. 310 Now let me put the boy and girl to school: This is the favor that I came to ask."

Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face; I seem so foolish and so broken down. 315 When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; He will repay you: money can be repaid; Not kindness such as yours." And Philip ask'd 320 "Then you will let me, Annie?" There she turn'd, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, Then calling down a blessing on his head Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 325 And past into the little garth[210] beyond. So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, Like one who does his duty by his own, 330 Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 335 The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies[211] from the down, and now and then, With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offence of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 340

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with. But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 345 From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily; Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 350 And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them Uncertain as a vision or a dream, Faint as a figure seen in early dawn Down at the far end of an avenue, 355 Going we know not where: and so ten years, Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd To go with others nutting to the wood, 360 And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, "Come with us, Father Philip," he denied; 365 But when the children pluck'd at him to go, He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down, Just where the prone edge of the wood began[212] 370 To feather toward the hollow, all her force Fail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said: So Philip rested with her well-content; While all the younger ones with jubilant cries Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 375 Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood. 380

But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said, Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, 385 How merry they are down yonder in the wood. Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. "Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; At which, as with a kind of anger in him, "The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! 390 No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said "I thought not of it: but--I know not why-- Their voices make me feel so solitary."

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 395 "Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, And it has been upon my mind so long, That tho' I know not when it first came there, I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 400 That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living; well then--let me speak: I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: I cannot help you as I wish to do Unless--they say that women are so quick-- 405 Perhaps you know what I would have you know-- I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove A father to your children: I do think They love me as a father: I am sure That I love them as if they were mine own; 410 And I believe, if you were fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as God grants To any of His creatures. Think upon it: For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care, 415 No burthen, save my care for you and yours: And we have known each other all our lives, And I have loved you longer than you know."

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: "You have been as God's good angel in our house. 420 God bless you for it, God reward you for it, Philip, with something happier than myself. Can one love twice? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" "I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved 425 A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried, Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes--but Enoch will not come-- Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 430 Oh, wait a little!" Philip sadly said, "Annie, as I have waited all my life I well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried, "I am bound: you have my promise--in a year; Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?" 435 And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year."

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 440 And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. Up came the children laden with their spoil; Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you, 445 That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. I am always bound to you, but you are free." Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound."

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways, 450 Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, That he had loved her longer than she knew, That autumn into autumn flash'd again, And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd. 455 "Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: Come out and see." But she--she put him off-- So much to look to--such a change--a month-- Give her a month--she knew that she was bound-- A month--no more. Then Philip with his eyes 460 Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, "Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." And Annie could have wept for pity of him; And yet she held him on delayingly 465 With many a scarce-believable excuse, Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, Till half another year had slipped away.