“SUNSET AND EVENING STAR”
The moon had mounted into the heavens, and now cast a path of silver
light across the sea.
They stood together looking down upon it.
“I came that way,” he said. “The waters called me from the cliff top at
sunset. I walked along the shore for half a mile or so, then found some
handy rocks, stripped in their shelter, and swam out, far and fast,
until the sun rose again, for me, behind the pine woods. As I swam back
to shore I saw this house, for the first time. Later I found the zigzag
path, climbed it, and stood upon the lawn. Twilight had fallen suddenly;
a chill was in the air. I saw the fitful glow of firelight through the
windows. The darkness came so quickly, I did not fear detection. I
crossed the lawn and stood on the veranda. I watched the three at play
by the log fire. The room grew darker. I turned to go. Then you came in,
and flashed all into light. I stayed—you bid me stay. And here I am. But
I came to you, in the sunset, from the sea.”
“I thought as much,” she said. “‘Sunset and evening star, and one clear
call for me.’ Do you know Tennyson’s great crowning poem? Will you
repeat it as we stand here? It was so strongly in my mind as I watched
the sunset. I think that was why I was so sure you would come to-night.”
“Yes, I know the lines,” he answered. “They have always held for me an
extraordinary appeal. But how came you to be expecting me—to-night, or
any night?”
“Repeat them. We have all the night for questions; but this moment will
not come again.”
She slipped her hand within his arm. He laid his own upon it and did as
she asked. And, as he repeated Tennyson’s noble lines, the tumult within
his spirit ceased.
The stillness, all about them, was complete; broken only by the music of
his voice.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me.
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark;
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face,
When I have crost the bar.
A long silence. Then: “I have no pilot,” he said. “I drift rudderless. I
am bound to make shipwreck on the bar.”
She did not seem to hear his words. Her mind was far away. Her eyes were
on the sea, gazing upon that path of shimmering light.
“Nigel,” she said, “there _was_ no farewell—no farewell, belovèd; but
oh, the dark—the dark—the dark!”
He wondered to whom she spoke. He tightened his hold upon her hand and
stood silent.
“‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.’ Each evening I stood here
and said those words. If I could have added: ‘Blessed be the Name of the
Lord,’ the darkness might have lightened. But I could not; and it still
was dark.”
He asked himself what awful memory of sorrow brought that horror of
anguish to her face. But the moment kept him silent. He could not speak.
“Oh, cruel sea!” she moaned. “You took my All—my All.”
She shivered, and he folded her wrap more closely around her.
Then she turned to him, and the look of anguish passed. There was
gladness in her eyes.
“Come in,” she said. “Let us come in; and shut the door.”