Robert Williams Buchanan (Роберт Уильямс Бьюкенен)
Nell
She gazes not at her who hears,
But, while the gathering darkness cries,
Stares at the vacancy through tears,
That burn upon her glistening eyes,
Yet do not fall. Her hair falls free
Around a face grown deathly thin;
Her elbow rests upon her knee,
And in her palms she props her chin;
Her voice sounds hollow on the air
And often, ere her tale is told,
A groan disturbs her blank despair,
And leaves a sense of bitter cold.
I.
YOU’RE a kind woman, Nan! ay, kind and true!
God will be good to faithful folk like you!
The neighbours all look black, and snap me short—
Well, I shall soon be gone from Camden Court.
You knew my Ned?
A better, kinder lad never drew breath—
We loved each other true, though never wed
In church, like some who took him to his death:
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
His senses when he took a drop too much—
Drink did it all—drink made him mad when cross’d—
He was a poor man, and they’re hard on such.
So kind! so true! that life should come to this!
Gentle and good!—the very week before
The fit came on him, and he went amiss,
He brought me home, and gave me, with a kiss,
That muslin gown as hangs behind the door.
II.
O Nan! that night! that night!
When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turn’d, and saw him standing yonder, white
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and call’d, in fright,
He push’d me, swore, and pass’d
Back to the door, and lock’d and barr’d it fast!
Then dropp’d down heavy as a lump of lead,
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
And—Nan!—just then the candle-light grew brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all red!
What could I do but scream? He groan’d to hear,
Jump’d to his feet, and gripp’d me by the wrist;
“Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hiss’d.
And I was still for fear.
“They’re after me—I’ve knifed a man!” he said.
“Be still!—the drink—drink did it—he is dead! ”
And as he said the word, the wind went by
With a whistle and cry—
The room swam round—the babe unborn seem’d to scream out, and die!
III.
Then we grew still, so still. I couldn’t weep—
All I could do was cling to him and hark—
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep;
The candle flicker’d out—the room grew dark—
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried,—
When all grew cold and dim,
I shudder’d—not for fear of them outside,
But just afraid to be alone with him:
And he was hard, he was—the wind it cried—
A foot went hollow down the court and died—
What could I do but clasp his knees and cling?
And call his name beneath my breath in pain?
Until he raised his head a-listening,
And gave a groan, and hid his face again;
“Ned! Ned!” I whisper’d—and he moan’d and shook—
But did not heed or look!
“Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!”
At that he raised his head and look’d so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
His arms around me, sobbing like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken—
While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him—
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken—
But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d him!
IV.
Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
With sound o’ falling rain,—
When I could see his face, and it look’d old,
Like the pinch’d face of one as dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet.
And Ned leap’d up, and knew that they had come.
“Run, Ned!” I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!
“Hide, Ned!” I scream’d, and held him—“hide thee, man!”
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken’d, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
The room was empty,—and my head went round!
The neighbours talk’d and stirr’d about the lane,
And Seven Dials made a moaning sound;
And as I listen’d, lass, it seem’d to me
Just like the murmur of a great dark sea,
And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown’d!
V.
God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!
It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong;
So kind! so good!—and I am useless here,
Now he is lost as loved me true and long.
Why, just before the last of it, we parted,
And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted;
And ah, my heart was broke! and ah, I cried
And kiss’d him,—till they took me from his side;
And though he died that way, (God bless him!) Ned
Went through it bravely, calm as any there:
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head,
And—there’s the hat and clothes he used to wear!
VI.
. . . That night before he died,
I didn’t cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went “one,” I took my shawl
To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walk’d along the moonlight streets, where all
Look’d cold and still and gray,—
Only the lamps o’ London here and there
Scatter’d a dismal gleaming;
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
Just like a woman dreaming:
But just as “three” was sounded close at hand,
I started and turn’d east, before I knew,—
Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand,
And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo.
How I remember all I saw, although
’Twas only like a dream!—
The long still lines o’ lights, the chilly gleam
Of moonshine on the deep black stream below;
While far, far, far away, along the sky
Streaks soft as silver ran,
And the pale Moon look’d paler up on high,
And little sounds in far-off streets began!
Well, while I stood, and waited, and look’d down,
And thought how sweet ’twould be to drop and drown,
Some men and lads went by,
And I turn’d round, and gazed, and watch’d ’em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
And drew my shawl more tight, and follow’d slow.
How clear I feel it still!
The streets grew light, but rain began to fall;
I stopp’d and had some coffee at a stall,
Because I felt so chill;
A cock crew somewhere, and it seem’d a call
To wake the folk who kill!
The man who sold the coffee stared at me!
I must have been a sorry sight to see!
More people pass’d—a country cart with hay
Stopp’d close beside the stall,—and two or three
Talk’d about it! I moan’d, and crept away!
VII.
Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place,
All in the falling rain,
I went, and kept my shawl upon my face,
And felt no grief or pain—
Only the wet that soak’d me through and through
Seem’d cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch—
It made the streets more drear and silent, too,
And kept away the light I fear’d so much.
Slow, slow the wet streets fill’d, and all were going,
Laughing and chatting, the same way,
And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing,
Though still the rain fell fast and darken’d day!
Nan!—every pulse was burning—I could feel
My heart was made o’ steel—
As, crossing Ludgate Hill, where many stirr’d,
I saw Saint Paul’s great clock and heard it chime,
And hadn’t power to count the strokes I heard,
But strain’d my eyes and saw it was not time;
Ah! then I felt I dared not creep more near,
But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill,
And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear
The people gathering still!
And still the rain was falling, falling,
And deadening the hum I heard from there;
And wet and stiff, I heard the people calling,
And watch’d the rain-drops glistening down my hair,
My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead,—
My shawl thrown off, now none could see,—my head
Dripping and wild and bare.
I heard the murmur of a crowd of men,
And next, a hammering sound I knew full well,
For something gripp’d me round the heart!—and then
There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O Lord! O Lord! how could I sit close by
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
But listening, listening, listening, still and dumb,
While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell toll’d,
And the day brighten’d, and his time had come. . .
. . . Till—Nan!—all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn’t tell,—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
Saint Paul’s struck “eight”—
I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire, and fell!
VIII.
God bless him, live or dead!
He never meant no wrong, was kind and true—
They’ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head—
Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And here’s a lock o’ hair!
And they’re more precious far than gold galore,
Than all the wealth and gold in London town!
He’ll never wear the hat and clothes no more,
And I shall never wear the muslin gown!
And Ned! my Ned!
Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call;—
God bless you, Nan, for all you’ve done and said,
But don’t mind me! My heart is broke—that’s all!
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