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 kept235 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 grew260 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 tell265 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 be300 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'd320 "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