ENOCH ARDEN
(Continued).
So Enoch died, as he had lived so long.
Alone—alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd
To an adjoining chamber; but she heard
Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail!
I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him;
But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw
Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings
Towards the Ocean of Eternity.
"Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone;
God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven
Than he had found on earth,—at least of late:
I thought he had not long to linger here,
The sea made such a moaning all the night:
It sounded like his death-wail; and methought
I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen.
Now will I tell the neighbours who he was:
They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth,
But kept it close, because she loved her friend
Enoch:—they cannot call me gossip now."
It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill
Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,—
That season of the year so closely link'd
To Philip's destiny;—it seem'd to stir
His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill
Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins.
He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on
That he might keep the promised holiday
With all the children—his, and hers, and theirs—
All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph,
That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee.
And all were ready with their nutting crooks;
And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,—
His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft.
But as he left his mill, the passing-bell,
With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear.
It is a sound that enters at the brain,
A saddening augury of woe, and strikes
The inmost chord of sympathising hearts
That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain.
Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost,
Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood.
Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side,
"Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck?
Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll."
"Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's;
I heard that he was dying yester-e'en.
The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out;
Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore
Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away."
Then came they to a little knot of men
(Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests)
Hard by "the idle corner,"—so 'twas called,—
The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers,
As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices.
Could he have read their looks, he might have known
Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand,
More nigh than he could think for, and more hard.
Then passed a woman from the ale-house door,
And, all unwitting Philip was so near,
Cried, "Have you heard who died just now?
'Twas Enoch Arden,—lost, but late returned;
And Miriam Lane has known it all along!"
As if some hand had struck a sudden blow,
Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek,
The big cold drops stood out upon his brow,
As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack.
His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm,
And uttering no word (what could he say?)
Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step,
Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray,
Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return;
He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms:
God help me,—kiss me darling,—wife look up!
"My wife—his wife—I know not what I say:
If we did sin it was unwittingly;
O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace,
E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong."
Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face,
And twined her loving arms around, he told,—
Yes, told her all—how Enoch had returned.
Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near,
Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door:
There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair:
But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers,
She led the children to the house of death;
And took a key from off the wooden peg,
Beside the settle, where she used to hang
The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets:
Then gently led them up the narrow stair,
That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread.
Sacred the silence that we ever keep,
When death is in the house! we speak, we walk,
With muffled tone and step, as if the dead
Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep.
Then Miriam turn'd the key;—that jarring click!
How harsh it grated on the children's ear!
As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel.
Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze:
There stood the bed—and on the sacking lay,
Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form—
The feet so prominent, the arms close down!—
The children clung together, half afraid,
While Miriam turned the coverlid aside.
They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face;
But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room.
Once they had seen their brother, as he lay
Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd
So beautiful asleep, you might have thought
Death's angel had but gently turned him round,
To rest more quietly: the tiny hands
Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down,
As resting on the pillow—not like this,—
So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone.
Now, as the twilight fell the second day,
Another mourner came: she spoke no word:
Miriam had put the key within her hand,
Turning aside, to dash away her tears:
The widowed woman went up-stairs alone.
One moment gazing on her Enoch's face,
She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair,
As she had done in life: then kneeling down
She pray'd,—"forgive me,—pity me,—Oh God."
She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers,
That bore e'en then the double wedding rings.
She laid her aching head upon his breast,—
When from her lips came forth a cry,—a shriek,
Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came,
And bore her senseless from the room of death.
'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught
Each little circumstance of the chamber,
And noted in her loving memory,—
How on the table lay his Bible—closed:
No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ,
No need of Gospel Message; for he stood
In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his GOD.
But had she open'd where the much-worn page
Told of the frequent reading, she had seen
The marks of blistering tears upon that text,
"Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry
Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels."
There was a fly upon the window pane
Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard,
And that unconscious; but in after years
The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd,
E'en in her happiest hours, that day,
That lonely visit to the bed of death;
And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart.
More keenly she remarked the remnant store
Of lulling anodynes: ah! bootless all
To soothe the fever of his aching brain:
The Wise Physician healed him with a touch,
(E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass
To still the sound that careless fingers make),
And sent a loving angel as his guide
Through the dark valley to the realms of joy.
There lay his watch, his big round silver watch,
Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home"
In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed:
No need of Time for him: he had Eternity.
* * * *
Then Philip left the village for awhile:
And when once more the nutting-season came,
And yellow "rust-spots" on the autumn leaves,
He and his Annie were again at home!
They'd learnt the lesson God had set them, "Wait:"
And now the time of their reward was come:
In Faith's strong soil Patience had taken root,
And brought forth Hope and Joy, as bloom and fruit.