 1. Long lines of cliff-breaking have left a chasm, and in the chasm are foam and yellow sands, beyond red roofs about a narrow wharf in cluster than a mouldered church, and higher along street climbs to one tall towered mill, and high in heaven behind it a grey down with Danish barrels, and a hazel wood by autumn nutters haunted flourishes green in a cup-like hollow of the down. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, three children of three houses, Annie Lee, the prettiest little damsel in the port, and Philip Ray, the miller's only son, and Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad made orphan by a winter shipwreck, played among the waste and lumber of the shore. Hard coils of cordage swore the fishing nets, anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn, and built their castles of dissolving sand to watch them overflowed, or following up and flying the white-breaker, daily left the little footprint daily washed away. A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff, in this the children played at keeping-house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 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 quarreled, Enoch, stronger maid, 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 too quarrel for her sake, and say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood passed, and the new warmth of life's ascending sun was felt by either, either fixed his heart on that one girl, and Enoch spoke his love. But Philip loved in silence, and the girl seemed kinder unto Philip than to him, but she loved Enoch, though she knew it not, and would, if asked, deny it. Enoch set a purpose ever more before his eyes to hoard all savings to the uttermost, to purchase his own boat, and make a home for Annie, and so prospered that at last a luckier or a bolder fisherman, a carefuler in peril, did not breathe for leaks along that breaker beaten coast than Enoch. Likewise he had served a year on board a merchantman, and made himself full sailor, and he thrice had plucked a life from the dread sweep of the downstreaming seas, and all men looked upon him favorably, and ere he touched his one and twentieth May, he purchased his own boat, and made a home for Annie, neat and nest-like, halfway up the narrow street that clumbered toward the mill. 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 stayed, his father lying sick and needing him, an hour behind, but as he climbed the hill, just where the pro-nedge 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 all kindled by a still and sacred fire that burnt as on an altar. Philip looked, and in their eyes and faces read his doom. Then as their faces drew together, groaned, and slipped aside, and like a wounded life crept down into the hollows of the wood. There, while the rest were loud in merry-making, had his dark hour unseen, and rose and passed bearing a life-long hunger in his heart. The bells 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 babes first cry, the noble wish to save all earnings to the uttermost, and give his child a better bringing up than his had been, or hers, a wish renewed when two years after came a boy to be the rosy idol of her solitudes, while Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas or often journeying landward, for in truth Enoch's white horse and Enoch's ocean spoil an ocean-smelling osher, and his face rough-reddened with a thousand winter gales, not only to the market-cross were known, but in the leafy lanes behind the down, far as a port-awarding lion-welp, and peacock-yutry of the lonely hall, whose Friday fair was Enoch's ministering. Then came a change, as all things human change, ten miles to northward of the narrow port opened a larger haven. Sither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea, and once when there, and clambering on a mast in harbour, by mischance he slipped 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 two across his trade, taking her bread and theirs, and on him fell, although a grave and staid, God-fearing man, yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seemed, as in a nightmare of the night, to see his children leading evermore low miserable lives of hand to mouth, and her, he loved, a beggar. Then he prayed, save them from this, whatever comes to me, and while he prayed the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, came, for he knew the man and valued him, reporting of his vessel, China-bound, and wanting yet a bosom. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sailed, sailed from this port, would Enoch have the place, and Enoch all at once assented to it, rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. So now the shadow of mischance appeared no graver than as when some little cloud cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, and aisles 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 weathered in her. He knew her as a horseman knows his horse, and yet to sell her, then with what she brought by goods and stores, set any forth in trade with all that seamen needed or their wives. So might she keep the house while he was gone. 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, 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 Pail, nursing the sickly babe, her latest born. 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, fatherlike, but had no heart to break his purposes 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, many a sad kiss by day, by night renewed. Sure that all evil would come out of it. Be sought him, supplicating, if he cared for her or his dear children, not to go. He, not for his own self-caring but her, her and her children, let her plead in vain. So grieving held his will and bore it through. For Enoch, parted with his old sea-friend, bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand to fit their little streetward sitting-room 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 seemed to hear her own death-scaffold raising. Shrilled and rang, till this was ended, and his careful hand, the space was narrow, having ordered 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, 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 has a brave God-fearing man, bowed himself down, and in that mystery where God in man is one with man in God, prayed for a blessing on his wife and babes, whatever came to him. And then he said, Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 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, 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. Him, running on thus hopefully, she heard, and almost hoped herself. But when he turned the current of his talk to graver things, in sailor fashion, roughly sermonizing on providence and trust in heaven, she heard, heard, and not heard him. As the village girl who sets her picture 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, and yet for all your wisdom well know why that I shall look upon your face no more. Well then, said Enoch, I shall look on yours. Annie, the ship I sail in passes here. He named the day. Get you a seaman's glass, 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 ship shape, for I must go. 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. The sea is his. He made it. Enoch rose, cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, and kissed his wonder-stricken little ones. But for the third, the sickly one, who slept after a night of feverous wakefulness, when Annie would have raised him, Enoch said, Wake him not, let him sleep. How should the child remember this? And kissed him in his cot. But Annie, from her baby's forehead, clipped a tiny curl, and gave it. This he kept through all his future. But now, hastily caught his bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. End of Section II. Section III of Enoch Hardin by Alfred Lord Tennyson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. She, when the day that Enoch mentioned came, borrowed a glass, but all in vain. Perhaps she could not fix the glass to suit her eye. Perhaps her eye was dim, and tremulous. She saw him not, and while he stood on deck waving, the moment and the vessel passed. Even to the last dip of the vanishing sail she watched it, and departed weeping for him. Then, though she mourned his absence as his grave, set her sad will no less to chime with his. But throw not in her trade, not being bred to barter, nor compensating the want by shrewdness, neither capable of lies, nor asking over much, and taking less, and still foreboding, what would Enoch say? For more than once in days of difficulty and pressure, and she sold her wares for less than what she gave in buying what she sold. She failed, and saddened, knowing it. And thus expectant of that news which never came, gained for her own nascanti sustenance, and lived a life of silent melancholy. Now the third child was sickly-born and grew yet sicklier, though the mother cared for it with all a mother's care. Nevertheless, whether her business often called her from it, or through the want of what it needed most, or means to pay the voice who best could tell what most it needed, how so where it was after a lingering air she was aware, like the caged bird escaping suddenly, the little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart which hungered for her peace, since Enoch left he had not looked 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, passed through the solitary room in front, paused for a moment at an inner door, then struck at thrice, and no one opening, entered. But Annie, seated with her grief, fresh from the burial of her little one, cared not to look on any human face, but turned her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip, standing up, said falteringly, Annie, I came to ask a favour of you. He spoke, the passion in her moaned reply, favour from one so sad and so forlorn as I am, half abashed him, yet unasked, his bashfulness and tenderness at war. He set himself beside her, saying to her, I came to speak to you of what he wished, Enoch, your husband. I have ever said you chose the best among us, a strong man, for where he fixed his heart he set his hand to do the thing he willed, and bore it through. And wherefore did he go this weary way 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, vexed will he be 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 cults about the waste. So Annie, now, have we not known each other all our lives? 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. Now let me put the boy and girl to school. This is the favour that I came to ask. Then Annie, with her brows against the wall, answered, I cannot look you in the face. I seem so foolish and so broken down. When you came in, my sorrow broke me down, and now I think your kindness breaks me down, but Enoch lives, that is born in on me. He will repay you. Money can be repaid, not kindness such as yours. And Philip asked, Then you will let me, Annie? There she turned, she rose and fixed 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, and passed into the little garth 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, made himself theirs. And though for Annie's sake, fearing the lazy gossip of the port, he oft denied his heart his dearest wish, and seldom crossed her threshold, yet he sent gifts by the children, garden herbs and fruit, the late and early roses from his wall, or conies from the down, and now and then with some pretext of fineness in the meal to save the offence of charitable, flower from his tall mill that whistled on the waist. But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind. Scares 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. From distant corners of the street they ran to greet his heart he welcomed heartily. Lords of his house and of his mill were they. Worried his passivere with petty wrongs or pleasures, hung upon him, played with him, and called him Father Philip. Philip gained as Enoch lost, for Enoch seemed 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, 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 longed to go with others, nutting to the wood, and Annie would go with them. Then they begged for Father Philip, as they called him, too. Him, like the working bee in blossom dust, blanched with his mill, they found, and saying to him, Come with us, Father Philip, he denied. But when the children plucked at him to go, he laughed, 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 pro-nedge of the wood began to feather toward the hollow, all her force failed 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 down through the whitening hazels made a plunge to the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke the lithe-reluctant bows to tear away their tawny clusters, crying to each other, and calling here and there about the wood. But Philip, sitting at her side, forgot her presence, and remembered 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, how merry they are down yonder in the wood! Tired, Annie? For she did not speak a word. Tired? But her face had fallen upon her hands. At which, as with the kind of anger in him, the ship was lost, he said. The ship was lost. 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, Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, and it has been upon my mind so long that though I know not when it first came there, I know that it well out at last. Oh, Annie, it is beyond all hope against all chance 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. 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 my own. And I believe if you were fast my wife that after all these sad uncertain years we might still be as happy as God grants to any of his creatures. Think upon it, for I am well to do, no kin, no care, no birthing, 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 answered Annie, tenderly she spoke, you have been as God's good angel in our house. 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 answered, to be loved 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. 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? And Philip answered, I will bide my year. Here both remute, till Philip, glancing up, beheld the dead flame of the fallen day, passed from the Danish Barrow overhead, then fearing night and chill for Annie rose and sent his voice beneath him through 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, 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, even as she dwelt upon his latest words that he had loved her longer than she knew. That autumn into autumn flashed again, and there he stood once more before her face, claiming her promise. Is it a year? she asked. 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 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, with many a scarce believable excuse, trying his truth and his long sufferance, till half another year had slipped away. By this the lazy gossips of the port, abhorrent of a calculation crossed, began to chafe as had a personal wrong. Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her, some that she but held off to draw him on, and others laughed at her and Philip too, as simple folk that knew not their own minds, and one in whom all evil fancies clung, like serpent eggs together, laughingly would hint at worse in either. Her own son was silent, though he often looked his wish, but evermore the daughter pressed upon her to wed the man so dear to all of them, and lift the household out of poverty. And Philip's rosy face, contracting, grew care-worn and won, and all these things fell on her sharp as reproach. At last one night had chanced that Annie could not sleep, but earnestly prayed for a sign. My Enoch, is he gone? Then compassed round by the blind wall of night, broke not the expectant terror of her heart, started from bed and struck herself alight, then desperately seized the holy book, suddenly set it wide to find a sign, suddenly put her finger on the text under a palm tree. That was nothing to her, no meaning there. She closed the book and slept, when low, her Enoch, sitting on a height under a palm tree, over him the son. He is gone, she thought, he is happy, he is singing Hosanna in the highest. He undershines the son of righteousness, and these be palms whereof the happy people stroing cried Hosanna in the highest. Here she woke, resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, there is no reason why we should not wed. Then for God's sake, he answered, both our sakes, so you will wed me, let it be at once. Merrily rang the bells and they were wed, but never merrily beat Annie's heart. A footstep seemed to fall beside her path, she knew not whence, a whisper on her ear, she knew not what. Nor loved she to be left alone at home, nor ventured out alone. What ailed her then, that ere she entered, often her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, fearing to enter. Philip thought he knew. Such doubts and fears were common to her state being with child, but when her child was born, then her new child was as herself renewed. Then the new mother came about her heart, then her good Philip was her all in all, and that mysterious instinct wholly died. And where was Enoch? Prosperously sailed the ship good fortune, though at setting forth the bisque roughly ridging eastward, Shur can almost overwhelm her, yet unvext she slipped across the summer of the world. Then after a long tumble about the cape and frequent interchange of foul and fair, she passing through the summer world again, the breath of heaven came continually and sent her sweetly by the golden aisles, till silent in her oriental haven. There Enoch traded for himself and bought quaint monsters for the market of those times, a gilded dragon also for the babes. Less lucky her home voyage. At first indeed through many a fair sea-circle, day by day, scarce rocking, her full-busted figure-head stared or the ripple, feathering from her boughs. Then followed combs, and then winds variable, then baffling, a long course of them, and last storm such as drove her under moonless heavens till hard upon the cry of breakers came the crash of ruin and the loss of all but Enoch and two others. Half the night, void upon floating tackle and broken spars these drifted, stranding on an isle at morn, rich but the loneliest in a lonely sea. No want was there of human sustenance, soft frutage, mighty nuts and nourishing roots, nor say for pity was it hard to take the helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain gorge they built and satched with leaves of palm a hut, half-hut, half-native cavern. So the three, set in the seeding of all plenteousness, dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than a boy, hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, lay lingering out a three-years death in life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, the two remaining found a fallen stem, and Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, far hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning, wait. The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns and winding glades high up like ways to heaven, the slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, the lightning flash of insect and of bird, the luster of the long convolvuluses, that coiled around the stately stems, and ran even to the limit of the land, the glows and glories of the broad belt of the world, all these he saw. But what he feign had seen, he could not see, the kindly human face, nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard the myriad shriek of wheeling oceanfowl, the leak-long roller-thundering on the reef, the moving whisper of huge trees that branched and blossomed in the zenith, or the sweep of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, as down the shore he ranged, or all day long sat often in the seaward gazing gorge, a shipwrecked sailor waiting for a sail. No sail from day to day, but every day the sunrise broken into scarlet shafts among the palms and ferns and precipices, the blaze upon the waters to the east, the blaze upon his island overhead, the blaze upon the waters to the west, then the great stars that globed themselves in heaven, the hollower bellowing ocean, and again the scarlet shafts of sunrise, but no sail. There, often as he watched or seemed to watch, so still, the golden lizard on him paused. A phantom made of many phantoms moved before him, haunting him, or he himself moved, haunting people, things, and places, known far in a darker isle beyond the line. The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, the climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, the peacock hutry, and the lonely hall, the horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dons and dewy glooming downs, the gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, and the low moan of leaden colored seas. Once likewise in the ringing of his ears, though faintly merrily far and far away, he heard the peeling of his parish bells. Then, though he knew not wherefore, started up shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle returned upon him, had not his poor heart spoken with that, which being everywhere lets non, who speaks with him, seem all alone. Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch's early silvering head the sunny and rainy seasons came and went, year after year. His hopes to see his own and pace the sacred old familiar fields not yet had perished when his lonely doom came suddenly to an end. Another ship, she wanted water, blown by baffling winds, like the good fortune from her destined course, stayed by this isle, not knowing where she lay. For since the mate had seen at early dawn across a break on the mist wreath and isle, the silent water slipping from the hills, they sent a crew that landing burst away in search of stream or fount, and filled the shores with clamour. Downward from his mountain gorge stepped the long-haired, long-bearded solitary, brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seemed, with inarticulate rage and making signs they knew not what. And yet he led the way to where the rivulets of sweet water ran, and ever as he mingled with the crew and heard them talking, his long-bounded tongue was loosened till he made them understand, whom, when their casks were filled, they took aboard, and there the tale he uttered brokenly, scarce credited at first, but more and more amazed and melted all who listened to it. And clothes they gave him and free passage home, but oft he worked among the rest and shook his isolation from him. None of these came from his county, or could answer him, if questioned, ought of what he cared to know. And all the voyage was with long delays, the vessel scarce sea-worthy. But evermore his fancy fled before the lazy wind returning, till beneath a clouded moon he, like a lover down through all his blood, drew in the dewy, medowy morning breath of England, blown across her ghostly wall. And that same morning officers and men levied a kindly tax upon themselves, pitying the lonely man, and gave him it. Then moving up the coast, they landed him, even in that harbor whence he sailed before. There Enoch spoke no word to any one. But homeward, home, what home? Had he a home? His home, he walked. Bright was that afternoon, sunny but chill, till drawn through either chasm, where either haven opened on the deeps, rolled a sea-haze, and whelmed the world in grey. Cut off the length of highway on before, and left but narrow breath to left and right of withered halt, or tilth, or pastureage. On the nine-naked tree the robin piped, discontolate, and through the dripping haze the dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down. Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom. Last as it seemed a great mist-blooded light flared on him, and he came upon the place. Then down the long street having slowly stolen, his heart foreshadowing all calamity, his eyes upon the stones, he reached the home where any lived, and loved him, and his babes in those far-off, seven happy years were born. But finding neither light nor murmur there, a bill of sail gleamed through the drizzle, crept still downward, thinking dead or dead to me. Down to the pool, a narrow wharf he went, seeking a tavern which of old he knew. A front of timber-crossed antiquity, so propped, were-meaten, ruinously old, he thought it must have gone. But he was gone, who kept it, and his widow Miriam Lane, with daily dwindling profits, held the house, a haunt of brawling seamen once, but now stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested, silent, many days. But Miriam Lane was good and garulous, nor let him be, but often breaking in told him with other annals of the port, not knowing Enoch was so brown, so bold, so broken, all the story of his house. His baby's death, her growing poverty, how Philip put her little ones to school and kept them in it, his long wooing her, her slow consent and marriage, and the birth of Philip's child. And or his countenance no shadow passed, nor motion, any one regarding well had deemed he felt the tale less than the teller. Only when she closed, Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost. He, shaking his gray head pathetically, repeated muttering, cast away and lost, again in deeper inward whispers, lost. But Enoch yearned to see her face again, if I might look on her sweet face again, and know that she is happy. So the thought haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth. At evening, when the dull November day was growing duller twilight, to the hill, there he sat down, gazing on all below. There did a thousand memories roll upon him, unspeakable for sadness. By and by, the ruddy square of comfortable light, far blazing from the rear of Philip's house, allured him, as the beacon blaze allures the bird of passage till he madly strikes against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street the latest house to landward, but behind, with one small gate that opened on the waist, flourished a little garden square and walled, and in it throwed an ancient evergreen, a yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk of shingle, and a walk divided it. But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole up by the wall, behind the yew, and thence, that which he better might have shunned if griefs like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnished board sparkled and shone, so genial was the hearth, and on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, stout, rosy with his babe across his knees, and o'er her second father stooped a girl, a later but a loftier Annie Lee, fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand dangled a length of ribbon and a ring to tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed, and on the left hand of the hearth he saw the mother, glancing often toward her babe, but turning now and then to speak with him, her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, and saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. of Enoch Harden, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Now when the dead man come to life, beheld his wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe, hers yet not his, upon the father's knee, and all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, and his own children tall and beautiful, and him, that other, reigning in his place, lord of his rights, and of his children's love, then he, though Miriam Lane had taught him all, because things seen are mightier than things heard, staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared to send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, which in one moment, like the blast of doom, would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, and feeling all along the garden wall lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, as lightly as a sick man's chamber door, behind him, and came out upon the waist, and there he would have knelt, but that his knees were feeble, so that falling prone he dug his fingers into the wet earth, and prayed, Too hard to bear, why did they take me thence? Oh God Almighty, blessed Savior, thou that didst uphold me on my lonely isle, uphold me, Father, in my loneliness a little longer. Aide me, give me strength not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children, too, must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never. No father's kiss for me. The girl so like her mother, and the boy, my son. There speech and thought and nature failed a little, and he lay tranced, but when he rose and paced back toward his solitary home again, all down the long and narrow street he went, beating it in upon his weary brain, as though it were the birthing of a song, not to tell her, never to let her know. He was not all unhappy. His resolve up bore him, and firm faith, and evermore prayer from a living source within the will, and beating up through all the bitter world like fountains of sweet water in the sea, kept him a living soul. This miller's wife, he said to Miriam, that you told me of, has she no fear that her first husband lives? I, I, poor soul, said Miriam, fairy now, if you could tell her you had seen him dead, why that would be her comfort. And he thought, after the Lord has called me, she shall know. I wait his time, and Enoch set himself scarning an arms to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand, coofer he was, and carpenter, and wrought to make the boatmen fishing nets, or helped at lading and unlading the tall barks that brought the stinted commerce of those days. Thus earned a scanty living for himself. Yet since he did but labour for himself, work without hope, there was not life in it whereby the man could live. And as the year rolled itself round again to meet the day when Enoch had returned, a langer came upon him, gentle sickness, gradually weakening the man till he could do no more, but kept the house, his chair, and last his bed, and Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck see through the gray skirts of a lifting squall the boat that bears the hope of life approach to save the life despaired of, than he saw death dawning on him, and the clothes of all. For through that dawning gleamed a kindlier hope on Enoch thinking, after I am gone then may she learn I loved her to the last. He called aloud for Miriam Lane, and said, Woman, I have a secret, only swear before I tell you swear upon the book, not to reveal it, till you see me dead. Dead, clam heard the good woman, hear him talk, I warrant man that we shall bring you round. Swear, added Enoch sternly, on the book, and on the book half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her. Did you know Enoch Arden of this town? Know him? she said. I knew him far away. I, I mined him coming down the street, held his head high, and cared for no man he. Slowly and sadly Enoch answered her. His head is low, and no man cares for him. I think I have not three days more to live. I am the man at which the woman gave a half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. You, Arden? You? Nay. Sure he was a foot higher than you be. Enoch said again, My God has bowed me down to what I am. My grief and solitude have broken me. Nevertheless know you that I am he who married, but that name has twice been changed. I married her who married Philip Ray. Sit, listen. Then he told her of his voyage, his wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, his gazing in on Annie, his resolve, and how he kept it. As the woman heard, fast flowed the current of her easy tears, while in her heart she yearned incessantly to rush abroad all round the little haven, proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes. But odd and promise-bounden she forebore, saying only, See your barons before you go. Hey, let me fetch him, Arden, and a rose eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung a moment on her words, but then replied. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Enoch Arden by Alfred Lord Tennyson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Woman disturb me not now at the last, but let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again, mark me and understand, while I have power to speak. I charge you now when you shall see her, tell her that I died blessing her, praying for her, loving her, save for the bar between us, loving her as when she laid her head beside my own, and tell my daughter, Annie, whom I saw so like her mother, that my latest breath was spent in blessing her and praying for her, and tell my son that I died blessing him, and say to Philip that I blessed him too, he never meant us anything but good. But if my children care to see me dead, who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father, but she must not come, for my dead face would vex her after life. And now there is but one of all my blood who will embrace me in the world to be. This hair is his. She cut it off and gave it, and I have borne it with me all these years and thought to bear it with me to my grave. But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, my babe, in bliss, wherefore when I am gone, take, give her this, for it may comfort her. It will moreover be a token to her that I am he. He ceased, and Miriam Lane made such a voluble answer, promising all, that once again he rolled his eyes upon her, repeating all he wished, and once again she promised. Then the third night after this, while Enoch slumbered motionless and pale, and Miriam watched and dozed at intervals, there came so loud a calling of the sea, that all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, crying with a loud voice, a sail, a sail, I am saved. And so fell back and spoke no more. So passed the strong heroic soul away, and when they buried him the little port had seldom seen a costlier funeral.