She, when the day, that Enoch mention’d, came, Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 240 She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 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 245 She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him; Then, tho’ she mourned 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 250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 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 255 Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She failed 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. 260
Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it With all a mother’s care: nevertheless, Whether her business often called her from it, Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 265 Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 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. 270
In that same week when Annie buried it, 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, 275 May be some little comfort;’ therefore went, 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, 280 Fresh from the burial of her little one, 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 come to ask a favour of you.’ 285
He spoke; the passion in her moan’d reply ‘Favour from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!’ half abashed him; yet unask’d, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her: 290 ‘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 fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro’. 295 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. 300 And if he come again, vext 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 colts about the waste. So, Annie, now— 305 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, 310 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.’