University of Virginia Library

THE MIDNIGHT GUEST

The blackening wind to fury drove the wave
On the wild Breton coast: a man and wife,
Both old, sat crouching o'er a dying fire
In a decaying inn hard by the sea.
No food was left, no purse to pay the rent;
Tomorrow, with the first gleam of the sun,
Will they be cast forth in the public road,
Ragged and piteous, there to starve and die.
And still with louder fury howled the storm,
And by the cries and lights upon the shore
It seemed some barque was thrown upon the rocks.
Suddenly came a knocking at the door;
The old man faltering out returned to say
That with tomorrow's light they two must go,
Too long had patience been upon them spent.
Again for the last time above the faint
And fading faggot-gleam they crouched and wept.
And “Ah,” said she, “if only our dear son,
Jean, had returned from over-sea: at least
He might have aided, or if not, consoled
His parents in this dark extremity.”
And low another knock rang on the door,
Old Pierre again slow faltered to the latch,
And a young seaman bearded, well-equipped,
Asked for the shelter of that house to-night.
The barque where he had voyaged had been cast
Upon the Breton coast; some did he fear
Had perished; others swimming touched on land.
Old Pierre made answer that no food or wine
Had they within; the one room was unkempt;
“No matter for a night,” the sailor then
Replied, “I have enough within my pouch,
Spite of the furious salt and bursting foam,
To purchase meat and wine and a warm fire,
Whereat we three will sit, and laugh to scorn
The thundering wave and deluge of the sky.
Here then, and hence, and quickly! For I pine
For food and drink and for the glowing coal.
And I perhaps will tell of other shores,
Adventure foreign, conflict desperate,
Which shall beguile the darkness until dawn.”
So saying he drew some pieces from his pouch,
And aged Pierre set forth to purchase now
Such food and wine as might that night be had.
Soon he returned o'erloaded; and with glee
They sent the fire aroar and with bright flame
Upward: the roasted supper sweetly smelt,
And the wine ran through all the veins apace.
The seaman now as though at home, and glad
Of this warm welcome after plunging seas,
Stretched himself out, and sat before the blaze.
Still raged the storm; but yet within the fire
Was stirred, and burned; and such fare as they had
They relished more for all the storm without.
The wine threw back the blood upon their hearts.
At last the stranger, laughing in himself,
Asked for the bed, and how to climb the stairs,
And then what turn to take. In speaking he
Undid a satchel hanging from his neck,
And unsuspecting all his hoard of gold
Revealed; for, thought he: “they to-morrow shall
Share in what wealth I have; but for to-night
I will the jest maintain—but for to-night.”
But as the gold out from the satchel shone,
And blood-red in the blaze a ruddy flame
Sent through the room, so as from fire to fire
The sudden thought from wife to husband flashed,
From husband back to wife. Weary he seemed,
A shipwrecked sailor for a pillow longing.
No sooner shall his head that pillow touch,
Than plunged into a deep unconsciousness,
Wrought of much wandering and the warring sea,
He will sleep on till the first streak of day.
No more than this the thought was rife as yet.
Then rose the old man beckoned by his wife,
And slowly shading with his hand the light,
Led upward o'er the creaking stairs his son.
After some faint excuse he left the man,
Who utter-weary threw his satchel by,
And as he was lay down upon the bed,
And without word or motion deeply slept.
Then said the wife, “Ah, Pierre, you saw the gold,
A quarter of that sum will make us safe,
Who is he that we should respect his life?
Some wanderer of the seas, and has perhaps
Himself this money gotten but by guile.
He has been sent to us in the dark hour,
For dawn to-morrow is too late; canst thou
Not steal up to him, making ne'er a sound,
And if he wake, thou hast but come to see
If more he may require. But if he sleep,
Old sweetheart, think upon thy fate and mine,
Let us not now be thrown out on the world,
Who scarce can walk or totter a few yards.
There hangs the old knife of thy younger days,
Rusted, but rust can slay deep-sleeping men.
Here take it—go thou silent up the stairs,
Hear if he breathes as one that slumbers deep,
'Tis but a moment, and our life to be
Prosperous, safe; no trembling at the knock,
No fear of cold ejection in the night.
Come drink and let the blood in thee that lies
Flow once again, and ere it fainter grows,
Steal noiseless up and strike and bring the gold.”
With silent feet and rusty blade he crept
Up the old stairway, fretted by the moon,
And paused now here, now there, and held his breath.
She at the bottom stair listened and watched.
But when at last he entered in the room,
The perfect sleeping stranger he espied
Who seemed already dead, for without sigh,
Or motion in the moon he slept and smiled,
He drew his breath hard in and struck the heart.
The sleeper sighed but once, and deeply sighed,
The blood came from him crimson, but no cry.
Then the old man the bag of gold up caught,
In his left hand, and in his right the blade,
And swiftly down he slid into the room.
She paling at the blood, no longer rust,
Seized on the treasure-box and they two brake
Open the lid, and on the stones amazed
Stared for a time; but not alone were stones
Close-packed, but many a golden coin was there,
So that they need not starve for ever more.
Counting the gold they found that now their days
Might pass in comfort and in peace till death.
“Now when they come to-morrow,” murmured she,
“Astonished will they be to take the rent,
For now no wild nights on the open moor,
No midnight bleakness have we two to face
But by the warm fireside to sit and chat,
And who, and who shall e'er suspect us two?
None saw the stranger enter, in the storm,
A hundred others on the beach were thrown,
Nor was he from these parts, where all are known.
If we have sinned to sin we were hard-driven.
The golden opportunity so well
Presented to these famine-hunted eyes.
If we have sinned who being placed as we
Had sinned not? I repent no golden piece
That lifts not me alone but also you
Above the grinding wheel of penury.
Any who seized not on the chance were fools.”
So saying, in the gold she laved her hands,
And rung the red coins sounding on the board.
Never a sweeter music had she heard
Of harp or moonlit sea or distant oar.
For this was music that the future held,
Melodious of warmth, rest and content.
But the old man still trembled like a hound
That is aware of presences about him
Invisible to men, and will not stir.
Still glanced he up the stair, and still he feared
The stranger yet might wake and was not dead.
But once again he climbed unto the room,
And found the sleeper colder than in sleep,
Stiff, silent, motionless, haggard and white.
Dawn broke in orange over lulling seas
And bright-subsiding waters. Chill it was;
She in the glimmer an attraction felt
To see the traveller dead in upper room.
Upward she creeps and disappears; the man,
Still trembling from the blood that he had shed,
Cowered o'er the fire or at the stairway foot
Stood waiting. Sudden rang a thrilling cry,
And his wife stumbled heavily and slow
Holding with trembling hand an ancient chain.
“Pierre,” said she, “look on this ancient chain,
I twined it round his neck the morn he went
Seaward, and O my God what means it now?
We have killed our son! Bearded he is, and changed,
And none might recognise our beardless boy.
But to this chain I swear for evermore.
Lightly I hung it round his neck at dawn,
Lightly a moment since I took it off,
But, ah! our hands are dabbled in his blood.
I have slain my babe, my sailor and my man.”
Whereat into a fury did she pass
Like one insane and cried and beat her head
Against the wall and wailed that she might die.
The man slow-bringing her to this world's sense
Reminded her with patting of her hands,
And smoothing of her brow, that none might know
Who was the stranger, whence, and why he knocked;
And if their only son so different
Appeared within the doorway, none could dream
That he was who he was. Small use to wail
But gather up the coins and wait the event.
Even as he spoke a knock came at the door,
He outward shambled, paying easily
The threatened rent; so still the day went on.
With night he dug a deep hole in the back
Of the small garden rounding on the inn.
And solitary with a lantern he,
For she would have no hand in it, the corse
Closed o'er, forever listening for a step.
So without other trouble or distress
From tax or rate or rent they three abode.
He silent under earth, yet still at times
Washed by the sea he loved so well. Those two,
Father and mother, silent till the grave.
Though dead he gave to them remission
Of many a care and many a carking ill;
He the old rusted knife whirled far away
Out from the window to a windy sea,
Which cleansed it of that blood for evermore.