Poemas de Pablo Neruda para jovens

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Título original: Pablo Neruda para niños

© PABLO NERUDA and FUNDACIÓN PABLO, 2010

© 2021 das ilustrações by Odilon Moraes

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Editora Nova Fronteira Participações S.A. Todos os direitos reservados.

Nenhuma parte desta obra pode ser apropriada e estocada em sistema de

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Dados Internacionais de Catalogação na Publicação (CIP)

(Câmara Brasileira do Livro, SP, Brasil)

Neruda, Pablo, 1904-1973

Poemas de Pablo Neruda para jovens / prólogo José Morán ; ilustrações

Odilon Moraes ; tradução Marília Garcia . -- 1. ed. -- Rio de Janeiro : Nova

Fronteira, 2021.

72 p.

Título original: Pablo Neruda para niños

ISBN 978-65-56402-32-1

1. Neruda, Pablo, 1904-1973 - Poesia para jovens 2. Poesia chilena I.

Morán, José II. Moraes, Odilon. III. Título.

21-56230 CDD-861

Índices para catálogo sistemático:

1. Poesia : Literatura chilena 861

Maria Alice Ferreira - Bibliotecária - CRB-8/7964

Sumário
Prólogo

E cada ferida tem a forma da sua boca, por José Morán

O amor

Esta noite posso escrever os versos mais tristes

Sua casa ecoa como um trem ao meio-dia

Pequena América

Também perdemos este crepúsculo,

Debruçado na tarde, lanço minhas tristes redes

Sua risada

As perguntas

Perguntas

A matéria

Ode ao mar

Ode à terra

Ode ao tomate

As coisas

Ode à colher

Ode às tesouras

Ode ao piano

Ode às meias

O povo

Explico algumas coisas

A grande alegria

Nas alturas de Machu Picchu (XII)

O poeta

A poesia
Ode à tristeza

Que desperte o lenhador (VI)

Índice de procedência dos poemas

Sobre o autor

Sobre a tradutora

Sobre o ilustrador
E cada ferida tem a forma da sua boca

Neftalí Reyes (Chile, 1904-1973), conhecido como Pablo

Neruda, provavelmente a voz poética mais importante do século

XX, perdeu a mãe no momento de seu parto. Talvez por isso

tenha levado uma vida errante, de constante busca, sobretudo em

sua juventude, e se sentido sempre muito próximo da Mãe Terra

e da Matéria, ao mesmo tempo que necessitava do amor da

Mulher — quer se chamasse Terusa, Rosaura, Jossie, Antonieta,

Delia, quer fosse Matilde. Para ele, a Mulher era a essência da

natureza e o inspirou a escrever versos românticos imortais,

presentes em todas as suas antologias com poemas de amor,

amor entendido por ele como sendo o terremoto que o salvou

dos demais terremotos.

Pablo Neruda assumiu diversos cargos diplomáticos e, por

isso, não parou de viajar. De Mianmar ao Sri Lanka, Indonésia,

Argentina, Espanha, México, Índia, Rússia... A passagem pela

Espanha — onde conviveu com García Lorca, Rafael Alberti,

Vicente Aleixandre, Miguel Hernández e outros importantes

poetas — transformou radicalmente sua vida e sua poesia. Ter

morado em Madri durante a Guerra Civil Espanhola produziu

nele uma enorme comoção e despertou-lhe uma consciência

política através do contato com o comunismo, bandeira que não

abandonou até o fim dos seus dias. Neruda levou uma vida

comprometida e intensa. Foi cônsul, senador, logo perdeu o foro

privilegiado e foi perseguido, precisou viver clandestinamente e,

em seguida, fugir para o exílio, que durou quatro anos. Após a

vitória socialista no Chile, foi embaixador em Paris e ali adoeceu.

Voltou para morrer em sua pátria, onde faleceu poucos dias

depois do dramático golpe militar que destituiu seu amigo

Salvador Allende.

Contudo, o grande poeta chileno é muito mais do que um

poeta político, engajado ou de denúncia. Também nos deixou a

simplicidade otimista das odes, homenagens cheias de amor às

coisas concretas — um tomate, a madeira, um sino, o trem, um

prato, o mar —, nas quais lança um olhar afetuoso e esperançado

sobre a vida comum da gente comum, sobre o povo,

especialmente o povo latino-americano e chileno, os habitantes

da América que ele tanto amou. Além disso, deixou-nos versos

inspiradíssimos, primitivos, obscuros, deslocados, minerais,

difíceis, não exatamente infantis, que constituem, talvez, o

melhor de sua muito extensa e desigual produção, escrita sempre

em primeira pessoa.

O percurso poético deste criador explosivo e inesgotável bebe

das principais tendências estéticas de vanguarda do tempo que

lhe coube viver. Modernismo, Surrealismo, Expressionismo,

Poesia das Coisas, poesia realista… Nesta antologia, buscamos

seguir um itinerário fiel ao sentido nerudiano da poesia e da vida,

aprofundado em algumas das palavras-chaves que expressam

suas convicções poéticas e humanas: amor, matéria, povo, coisas,

memória…

Em 1971, quando lhe foi concedido o Prêmio Nobel de

Literatura, pronunciou as célebres palavras que seguem sendo

atuais e resumem também, tão bem, o nosso propósito:

Assim a poesia não terá cantado em vão.

José Morán
O amor
Esta noite posso escrever os versos mais tristes
Esta noite posso escrever os versos mais tristes

Por exemplo, “A noite está estrelada

E, lá longe, tremulam os astros azuis!”

O vento da noite rodopia no céu e canta.

Esta noite posso escrever os versos mais tristes

Eu amei essa mulher, e às vezes ela também me amava.

Em noites como esta, ficávamos enlaçados.

Tantas vezes beijei seus lábios debaixo do céu infinito.

Ela me amou, e às vezes eu também a amava.

Como não amar os seus grandes olhos fixos.

Esta noite posso escrever os versos mais tristes.

Pensar que eu não a tenho. Sentir que eu a perdi.

Ouvir a noite imensa, mais imensa sem ela.

O verso cai na alma como o orvalho na grama.

O que me importa se meu amor não pôde guardá-la.

A noite está estrelada e ela não está comigo.

É só o que eu tenho. Alguém cantando ao longe. Longe.

Minha alma não se conforma por tê-la perdido.

Meus olhos saem em busca dela, tentando se aproximar.

Meu coração busca por ela, mas ela não está comigo.

A mesma noite empalidece as mesmas árvores.

Mas nós dois, os de outro tempo, não somos mais os mesmos.

Já não desejo estar com ela, é verdade, mas como eu desejei.

Minha voz ia atrás do vento só para tocar o ouvido dela.

De outro. Ela será de outro. Como antes dos meus beijos,

a voz dela, o corpo claro. Os olhos infinitos.

Já não desejo estar com ela, é verdade, mas talvez eu deseje.

O amar é tão curto, e o esquecer tão comprido.

Porque ficamos enlaçados em noites como esta,

minha alma não se conforma por tê-la perdido.

Mesmo que esta seja a última dor que ela me causa

e, estes aqui, os últimos versos que para ela deixo escrito.

Sua casa ecoa como um trem ao meio-dia
Sua casa ecoa como um trem ao meio-dia,

as vespas zumbem, as panelas cantam,

a cachoeira conta dos feitos do orvalho,

e seu riso exibe a música das palmeiras.

A luz azul do muro conversa com a pedra,

chega como um pastor assoviando um telegrama

e, entre as duas figueiras de voz verde,

Homero sobe com os pés de lã.

Só aqui a cidade não tem voz nem pranto,

nem infinitos, nem sonatas, nem lábios, nem buzina,

mas um discurso de cachoeira e de leões,

e você que sobe, canta, corre, caminha, desce,

planta, costura, cozinha, prega, escreve, volta

ou vai embora e então eu sei que começou o inverno.

Pequena América
Quando vejo a forma

da América no mapa,

vejo você, amor:

o cobre bem no alto da sua cabeça,

seus peitos, trigo e neve,

sua cintura fina,

rios velozes que palpitam, doces

colinas e campos abertos,

e, no frio do sul, seus pés dão conta

desta geografia de ouro duplicado.

Quando toco em você, meu amor,

minhas mãos adentram

não só suas delícias,

mas os galhos e a terra, as frutas e a água,

a primavera que tanto amo

a lua do deserto, o peito

da pomba selvagem,

a delicadeza das pedras gastas

pela água do mar ou dos rios

e o vermelho denso

dos matagais onde

a sede e a fome ficam a espreitar.

Assim, pequena América,

minha extensa pátria

me recebe em seu corpo.

E mais: quando você está deitada,

vejo em sua pele, em sua cor de aveia,

a nacionalidade do meu carinho.

Porque, de seus ombros,

o cortador de cana
da escaldante Cuba me olha,

encharcado de um escuro suor,

e, de sua garganta,

os pescadores, tremendo de frio

nas úmidas casas do litoral,

me revelam os seus segredos.

E, assim, ao percorrer seu corpo,

pequena América adorada,

terras e povos

interrompem meus beijos,

e nessa hora sua beleza

não só acende o fogo

que arde ininterrupto entre nós,

mas, cheia de amor, ela me chama

e me dá com sua vida

a vida que me falta

juntando, ao sabor do amor, o barro,

beijo de terra que um dia me espera.

Também perdemos este crepúsculo
Também perdemos este crepúsculo

Ninguém viu a gente à tardinha de mãos dadas

enquanto a noite azul caía sobre o mundo.

Da minha janela, vi a festança

do sol se pondo nas encostas distantes.

Às vezes, como uma moeda,

um pedacinho de sol acendia em minhas mãos.

Eu pensava em você com um nó no peito

por essa minha tristeza que você conhece bem.

Onde você estava?

Com quem?

Quais palavras dizia?

Por que me invade todo esse amor de repente

justo quando estou triste, e você, distante?

O livro que sempre lemos à hora do crepúsculo tombou,

E minha manta caiu entre meus pés, como um cachorro ferido.

Você vai sempre, sempre se afastando à tardinha,

seguindo na direção das estátuas que o crepúsculo apaga.

Debruçado na tarde, lanço minhas tristes redes
Debruçado na tarde, lanço minhas tristes redes

em seus olhos oceânicos.

Nela, minha solidão se estica e queima na mais alta fogueira

mexendo os braços como um náufrago.

Faço sinais vermelhos em busca de seus olhos ausentes

que produzem ondas como o mar à beira de um farol.

Você guarda apenas a escuridão, minha amada distante,

às vezes, do seu olhar, surge a extensão do espanto.

Debruçado na tarde, atiro minhas tristes redes

nesse mar que sacode seus olhos oceânicos.

Os pássaros noturnos bicam as primeiras estrelas

que cintilam como minha alma quando estou amando você.

A noite cavalga em sua égua sombria

espalhando espigas azuis sobre o campo.

Sua risada
Me tire o pão, se quiser,

me tire o ar, mas

não me tire a sua risada.

Não me tire a rosa,

a lança que você solta,

a água que de repente

explode em sua alegria,

a súbita onda de prata

que traz você aqui.

Minha luta é árdua e volto

com os olhos cansados

por ter visto algumas vezes

o mundo caduco,

mas, quando você dá sua risada,

ela me busca em toda parte

e me abre todas

as portas da vida.

Meu amor, na hora

mais sombria dê

sua risada, e se de repente

você notar meu sangue manchando

as pedras da rua, ria

porque a sua risada

será nessa hora uma

espada novinha em folha.

Perto do mar no outono,

sua risada vai levantar

uma cascata de espuma,

e na primavera, amor,

quero a sua risada como

a flor tão aguardada,

a flor azul, a rosa

da minha pátria sonora.

Ria da noite,

do dia, da lua,

ria das ruas

encurvadas da ilha,

ria deste moço tão

sem jeito que ama você,

mas quando eu abrir

os olhos e tornar a fechá-los,

quando meus passos se forem,

e quando voltarem,

você pode me negar o pão, o ar,

a luz, a primavera,

mas nunca esta sua risada,

porque assim eu morreria.

As perguntas
Perguntas
Onde foi que a lua cheia deixou

o seu saco noturno de farinha?

Se acabar o amarelo,

como vamos fazer pão?

Me diga, a rosa está sem roupa

ou este é seu único vestido?

O que você tem aí debaixo da corcunda?

disse o camelo à tartaruga.

Por que se suicidam as folhas

quando se sentem amarelas?

Como faz o chapéu da noite

para voar com tantos buracos?

O que acontece com as andorinhas

que se atrasam para a escola?

O que tanto irrita o vulcão

para ele cuspir fogo, frio e fúria?

De onde vem essa nuvem pesada

com seus sacos negros de pranto?

O que o outono precisa pagar

com tantas notas amarelas?

Para quem o arroz está sorrindo

com estes infinitos dentes brancos?

Por que a primavera chega sempre

com um vestido verde?

Por que a agricultura ri

do choro pálido do céu?

Do que será que a melancia ri

quando leva uma facada?

Como se chama uma flor

que voa de pássaro em pássaro?

Por que será que, para esperar a neve,

o bosque tirou a roupa?

Qual a distância, em metros redondos,

entre o sol e as laranjas?

Quem acorda o sol quando ele dorme

em sua cama ardente?

Por que sempre marcam em Londres

os congressos dos guarda-chuvas?

Você também não sente o perigo

de quando o mar está gargalhando?

Quem foi aquela que amou você

em sonho, enquanto estava dormindo?

Para onde vão as coisas do sonho?

Para o sonho dos outros?

Another random document with
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that very night. She felt that she could not meet the eyes of the
baronet, his fiancée, or Jack Rotherfield again.
The evening seemed a long one; she had to go to bed, to avoid
exciting suspicion as to her intention, which was to steal out of the
house when everybody else was asleep. But before retiring she
witnessed a sight that set her thinking. For after dinner Sir Robert
walked with Lady Sarah up and down the terrace close under
Rhoda’s window, and the girl fancied, both by the affectionate
manner in which they smiled at each other, and by the defiant half-
glances which the baronet cast stealthily up towards her window,
that he had told his fiancée of the doubts expressed as to her
sincerity, and that Lady Sarah had set him quite at rest upon that
score.
Rhoda did not sleep. At one o’clock, when all was silent in the
house, she rose, dressed herself hastily, and glided softly out of her
room and down the stairs. She had written a letter, directed to Sir
Robert, and left it in her room. She had said in it that, having had the
misfortune to offend him, she could not meet him again, but that she
begged his pardon with all her heart, and hoped that he would
forgive her, as she felt sure he would do, if he could only understand
the pain she felt at having given a moment’s displeasure to one to
whom she owed so much. She added that she would never forget
his goodness to her as long as she lived.
She had reached the hall, with the intention of leaving the house
by the front-door, and had withdrawn the bolts, when she was
startled by the sound of some one rapidly descending the stairs. She
thought she was discovered, and hastily hid herself in the dark
corner beside the tall grandfather’s clock that stood near the door.
But she had scarcely done so when she caught sight of something
which she could dimly discern to be a man, disappearing into the
drawing-room, and the next moment she heard sounds within the
room as of a scuffle and stifled cries.
Trembling and horror-struck, Rhoda was unable to decide whether
she ought to go upstairs and call for help, when, panting and drawing
deep breaths the figure stole out of the room again, shutting the door
softly.
 The man was in such deep darkness and Rhoda was so far
entrenched in her corner that she could see but little of him, and that
little very dimly, until he was half-way up the stairs, when, dragging
his way up by the stair-rails, he laid his hand for a moment upon that
spot of the banisters where a single ray of moonlight fell upon them
from between the heavy velvet curtains that draped the staircase
window.
And Rhoda saw, with a shudder, that across the hand was the red
line of a cut which was still bleeding.
Before she could even be sure whether the figure was that of Sir
Robert, as she believed, it had disappeared.
Confused, trembling, wondering what it was that had happened,
Rhoda opened the front-door and slipped out, closing it softly behind
her.
She thought that she must have made enough noise for the
shutting of the door to have attracted attention, and she hoped, as
she went slowly down the narrow slip of garden which was all that
lay between the front of the house and the road, that the baronet
would come out after her, waylay her, and perhaps insist upon her
return.
But nobody came out, nobody followed her; and so, mystified, sick
with terror, and asking herself as she went whether she ought to
have come out without an effort to find out what had happened, she
went down the road towards the harbour.
She put up, for the rest of the night, at an hotel where she had
stayed before with her parents, and where travellers from off the
boats came at all times of the night, so that her late arrival attracted
no particular attention.
On the following morning she took the first train to Deal, and
reached the lodgings where her parents were in such a condition of
exhaustion that she was promptly put to bed. She insisted, however,
upon being allowed to tell her mother the singular circumstances that
had occurred at the moment of her departure from Mill-house, and
begged that they would let her know at once if it should come to her
parents’ ears that anything serious had happened that night at Sir
Robert’s residence.
 For four days she was kept in bed, and assured that nothing had
happened as far as any one knew.
But when she was well enough to get up again, the truth was
gradually broken to her. The dead body of the butler, Langton, had
been found in the drawing-room, where it was evident that some sort
of a scuffle had taken place. The drawing-room window had been
found open, and it was supposed that a burglar had got in, and that
the butler, hearing a noise, had gone down and had been murdered
by the intruder.
The inquest had been held, and the verdict brought in: “Wilful
murder by some person or persons unknown.”
But the rumour about the neighbourhood was that there had been
a serious quarrel between Langford and his master, that he was
known to have been under notice to leave his situation, and that it
was in a scuffle between master and man that Langford came by his
death.
Rhoda sprang up with a cry.
“It’s not true!” she cried. “Sir Robert is incapable of such a thing!
Besides, I know! I can prove—Oh let me go and tell what I know!”
But the next moment the light faded out of her eyes and she sank
back, trembling.
What did she know? What could she prove? Nothing, nothing.
 CHAPTER III.
TEN YEARS AFTER

Ten years passed before Rhoda Pembury saw Sir Robert Hadlow or
the old Mill-house again, and during those ten years all that she
heard of him or of his doings was through an announcement in the
newspapers, some six months after her stay there, of his marriage
with Sarah, third daughter of the Marquis of Eridge.
After that, although Rhoda did, from time to time, see brief
paragraphs in the papers concerning the doings of Lady Sarah
Hadlow, and incidental mention in connection with her, of her
husband, Sir Robert, she held no communication with them, or with
any of the household at the Dourville Mill-house, and she believed,
during the whole of that period, that the baronet who had saved her
life and who had been kind to her, had passed out of her life for ever.
In the meantime, having developed into a beautiful and
accomplished woman from the half-fledged girl she had been then,
Rhoda received a good deal of attention and more than one offer of
marriage.
But she cared little for admiration, and her heart was never
touched. Greatly to the annoyance of her parents, who had a large
family, and who were both eager to settle their handsome daughter
in marriage and a home of her own, Rhoda made light of all the
attentions paid to her, refused her lovers without compunction, and
announced, when reproached with her coldness and obstinacy, that
she intended to remain single through life, and that, as her parents
would never be able to get her off their hands in the way they
desired, she would meet their wishes by earning her own living.
This was not at all what they wanted, and her mother prevailed
upon Rhoda to give way on this point for a time. But the thought was
ever in the girl’s mind, and Mrs. Pembury was not surprised when,
ten years after the episode at the Mill-house, Rhoda came to her
with a newspaper in her hand, and, pointing to an advertisement in
one of the columns, said briefly:
 “Mother, I’m going to answer this.”
The announcement to which she pointed ran like this:

“A lady wanted, as nurse-companion to an invalid boy.

Apply personally, if possible, at the Old Mill-house, Dourville.”

Mrs. Pembury having put on her glasses, read the advertisement,

and laid down the paper with an exclamation of something like
dismay.
“Why, it’s Sir Robert Hadlow’s, where the murder was committed!
Surely you wouldn’t go back there!”
Rhoda, who was very pale, asked briefly:
“Why not?”
But Mrs. Pembury was too much disturbed to reply. Hastily leaving
the room with some excuse, she went straight to her husband, who
was in his surgery, and laid the paper before him.
“What do you think of that?” she asked in consternation. “I’d
always had an idea it was something that happened while she was
there that prevented Rhoda’s marrying, and now I’m sure of it. I
believe she fell in love with Sir Robert’s ward, Mr. Rotherfield.”
But Dr. Pembury thought this idea high-flown and far-fetched, and
said he could not see any likelihood of such a thing. Rhoda would
have betrayed herself before this if she had nourished a passion for
so long, and in any case, it did not matter, as it was more than likely
that Sir Robert had left the Mill-house by this time, since his wife
appeared to be always in London, or, if not, that Mr. Rotherfield had
settled down somewhere else with a wife of his own.
Mrs. Pembury was troubled, but she always submitted, even
against her better judgment, to her husband’s wishes, and in this
case it was not even her judgment, but only a sort of feminine
instinct, which told her that Rhoda had strong sentimental reasons
for wishing to take this step.
On the following day, therefore, Rhoda, who was now twenty-
seven, and better capable of looking after herself than she had been
at seventeen, started alone for Dourville, and presented herself,
early in the afternoon, at the house she remembered so well.
 Emotion made her eyes fill and her limbs tremble as she
approached the house, and recognised that it had undergone such
changes, since she first knew it, that she could scarcely be sure she
had not made a mistake and come to the wrong gate, when she
found herself standing before a long, white house, with wings
extending far in each direction, and with the modern big, wide
windows replacing the little narrow old ones.
Many of the trees that had surrounded the old house so closely
had been cut down, with considerable advantage as regards light,
but at a great loss of picturesqueness. Gone was the cosy, old-
fashioned look, together with the dark red curtains, the heavy square
portico, the homely look that she had loved.
It was into a stately, handsome hall that she was shown, a room
having been sacrificed to enlarge the entrance; and when she found
herself following a footman across a wide expanse of parquetted
floor to a new part of the building, and ushered into a lofty, light
library, Rhoda was almost ready to believe that she had made a
mistake, and that the Sir Robert, who would, so the footman said,
see her at once, could not be the man who had saved her life, the
memory of whose kindness she had treasured in secret for so long,
the man whose image had, almost unknown to herself, so effectually
shut out that of every other man from her heart during these ten
years.
But there he was, not indeed the Sir Robert she remembered, but
perfectly recognisable to her, although the dark hair had become
thickly streaked with grey, and the face more deeply lined than that
of a man of forty-five ought to be.
She had felt her heart beating very fast as she was led towards
the library, but she was totally unprepared for the reception she met.
She was duly announced as “Miss Pembury,” but she perceived at
once that the name awoke no memories in Sir Robert.
He had forgotten her.
In part, perhaps, the fact that he was very short-sighted, and that
he was not wearing his glasses, was answerable for his lack of
recognition, but however that might be, Rhoda felt cut to the heart
when he rose, bowed formally, and offered her a chair.
 “I am sorry that my wife is away, as she would have been better
capable than I of arranging these matters with you, Miss Pembury,”
he said. “Ladies can get to the point over such things more quickly
than a mere man can hope to do. But I’ll tell you all I can, and you
will perhaps be able to judge whether you would care to come to
take charge of my boy. But perhaps you would like to see him first?
He is an invalid, as I suppose you know.”
“I should like to see him,” said Rhoda, in a low and gentle voice.
But the voice recalled no memories, and Sir Robert, ringing the
bell, told the servant to have Master Caryl’s carriage brought along
the terrace.
Rhoda was still so much under the influence of the strong
emotions called up by this meeting that she was glad there was no
need for her to say much.
On learning that she lived in London, and that she had come all
the way from the great city that morning, Sir Robert seemed
surprised, and ringing the bell again, told the footman to have some
luncheon prepared for Miss Pembury.
Rhoda protested, and thanked the baronet, who seemed already
to take it for granted that she would stay. The fact being that her
refined manner, sweet voice and sympathetic appearance had at
once predisposed the rather absent-minded gentleman in the
visitor’s favour.
A few minutes later there was a slight sound of footsteps upon the
terrace, and Rhoda, looking out, saw, with tears in her eyes, a boy
lying on a long, spinal chair, looking in at her through the window
with big, soft, dark eyes that, while they recalled in colour and
brilliancy those of his mother, had something of the far-away
expression of his father in them too.
She hastened across the floor, and bending over the boy kissed
him on the forehead.
He flushed a little, put out his hand and laid it upon hers.
“Are you coming to stay with me?” he asked simply.
“It is for you to say, dear,” said Rhoda.
He moved his head slowly and looked at her with great intentness.
“I should like it very much,” he said. “What am I to call you?”
 Rhoda threw a hasty glance at Sir Robert, who was standing by
them, so intent in watching his son’s face that he took but little heed
of the visitor. So she thought she might venture to give her name
without fear of discovery. Since he had begun by non-recognition, it
was better to go on without undeceiving him, she thought.
“Call me Rhoda,” she said softly.
He smiled at her. Though he was scarcely more than eight years
old, his condition had made him older in many ways than his age,
and his manner was almost that of a grown person as he said:
“Rhoda. Yes, I like that.”
“You will stay with him then?” asked Sir Robert, evidently pleased
at the fancy the child had taken to the lady.
Rhoda hesitated. There were details to be settled, of which the
man took no cognizance. Perceiving her hesitation, he smiled, and
waving his hand, said:
“You will want to know a great many things, about hours and
holidays and—and other things. We can leave all those until Lady
Sarah comes back next week, can’t we? My housekeeper will assign
you rooms, any you care for, and you can do just as you please, as
long as you make my boy happy. He is left too much alone. His
mother doesn’t like Dourville; it doesn’t agree with her very well. I
hope it will please you, however.”
“Thank you. I shall like it, I know,” said Rhoda.
“Come and talk to me,” said Caryl, “and let me show you my
monkey, and my rabbits. I’ve got three, and some budgerigars. I
hope you like birds. And I’ve got a dog. Would you like to see him? I
want you to see him do his tricks.”
Off they went together, the lady and the child, and Sir Robert,
standing blinking in the sunshine, seemed to have, Rhoda thought, a
vague impression of having seen or heard something which the
lady’s presence recalled.
But to her regret, it was evident that the recollection was fraught
with pain.
She and the boy made the tour of the garden together, for he had
dismissed the servant, asking Rhoda if she would draw him along.
By the time they had been an hour together, moving slowly along
the shady walks, and visiting the boy’s numerous pets in rabbit-hutch
and aviary, they were already firm friends; and when they returned to
the terrace, Rhoda had the satisfaction of seeing Sir Robert standing
at the library window, with a faint smile upon his face. He was
pleased by the pleasure of his boy.
“It’s good of you to humour him by walking about so long when
you must be tired, Miss Pembury,” he said. “I have sent for Mrs.
Hawkes, the housekeeper, and directed her to have some tea for
you, and to show you your rooms.”
“Thank you very much,” said Rhoda.
She had a transient fancy that Sir Robert recalled something in her
name or in her person, for he looked at her suddenly with a slight
frown and with vague curiosity. He did not, however, ask her any
questions, and a few minutes later Rhoda was going upstairs,
escorted by the footman, towards the rooms where the housekeeper
was busy preparing for her reception.
The man threw open a door and announced:
“Miss Pembury, Mrs. Hawkes,” and Rhoda entered.
The man went away, and Rhoda heard an exclamation from the
grey-haired woman in spectacles who was drawing a cover over a
little table in the pretty sitting-room.
“Why, it’s Miss Rhoda!” cried the grey-haired woman.
The visitor exclaimed in her turn.
“Bessie!” cried she.
Neither woman could restrain her tears.
“I’m housekeeper here now,” said Bessie, wiping her eyes. “But,
oh, Miss Pembury, to think Sir Robert shouldn’t know you! And to
think of your turning up here, after all this time, and us wanting you
so bad ten years ago!”
“What do you mean?” asked Rhoda, trembling.
“Let me get your rooms ready, and get rid of the maid, who is in
the next room and who will be in here in a minute, and then I’ll tell
you everything,” said Mrs. Hawkes.
And within five minutes, the two rooms having been got ready, and
the maid dismissed in search of tea and sandwiches for Miss
Pembury, the two old friends sat down in the window-seat together,
and the housekeeper began her story.
 CHAPTER IV.
RHODA RETURNS TO MILL-HOUSE

“Ah, Miss Pembury, there’s been a many changes since the night
when you ran away from here!” she said, as she sighed and folded
her hands in her lap. “But why did you go so quick and so quiet? And
why didn’t you come forward when the inquest was held?”
“I—I went away because I’d displeased Sir Robert,” said Rhoda.
“So that I couldn’t bear to meet him again. And as for the inquest, if
you mean that on the poor butler, I never heard anything about it till
long after it was over. I fell ill, you know, and they wouldn’t let me
know anything.”
Mrs. Hawkes nodded.
“I know that was what they said, but we all thought that it was only
an excuse, and that the truth was you didn’t want to come forward,
because you knew too much.”
“Too much!” faltered Rhoda.
“Yes. By the time you were missed, and by what we heard of your
arriving at the hotel where you stayed the night, we thought as how
you couldn’t but have heard or seen something of the murderer of
poor Langton.”
Rhoda trembled at the recollection.
“Who was the murderer?” she asked in a whisper.
The housekeeper shook her head.
“Nobody knows from that day to this,” she answered. “The inquest
was held, after being put off, and they brought it in ‘by some person
unknown.’ But people talked, and it was very unpleasant for us all.”
“What did they say?” asked Rhoda hoarsely.
The housekeeper closed the window, and went to the door, looked
out and came back again.
“These aren’t things one likes to talk about, even now,” she said.
“Of course the thing was really clear enough. It was a thief tried to
rob the house, did get in a little way, and poor Langford went down
and struggled with him and got killed.”
 “How was he killed?” asked Rhoda.
“He must have been flung down into the fireplace with so much
force that it killed him, they said. He was found with his head in the
stone fireplace, covered with blood and dead. Fractured skull, the
doctors said he died of. But his hands were gashed as if he’d been
struggling with some one for a knife.”
Rhoda was listening, in a state of stupefaction with horror. But she
would not betray herself. Sitting very still, with her head bent, she
listened.
The housekeeper went on:
“No knife was found, and though they saw some footsteps coming
to the house, they found none going away again. That was odd and
mysterious. Especially,” the housekeeper looked round her again,
and dropped her voice, “as Sir Robert had been out in the grounds
very late.”
“Sir Robert!” echoed Rhoda, appalled.
Mrs. Hawkes nodded.
“That was the part of it that made us all uncomfortable,” she said,
below her breath. “And that was why they wanted you to come
forward. And you would have had to come, only your father said you
knew nothing about it at all, and that it would have endangered your
life to have had to come.”
“Oh!” gasped Rhoda.
“For everybody thought even more than they said. Everybody
wanted to know if you had seen anybody.”
She paused, and tried to look into Rhoda’s face. But the girl kept
her head obstinately bent. Not for the world would she have had the
nurse see the look of horror which she felt there must be in her own
eyes.
It was not that she thought that Sir Robert had killed his servant:
not for one moment would she have admitted such a possibility. But
she could herself have borne witness to the fact that some one did
go upstairs after the struggle in the drawing room.
Who could it have been?
“There was lots of talk and idle gossip,” went on Mrs. Hawkes.
“And even after the verdict was given, the talk went on just the same.
You see it was known that nobody had any quarrel with Langford
except the master, and it was known that Langford had had his
notice, though why he got it was not rightly known.”
There was a pause, but still Rhoda refrained from asking any
questions.
“And it never has been known,” added the housekeeper solemnly,
“from that day to this.”
“I couldn’t have said anything to help,” said Rhoda at last in a
stifled voice.
“Didn’t you see anything, or hear anything then?”
“Yes. I heard a noise in the drawing-room,” admitted Rhoda, “and I
went out by the front door.”
“Yes, we knew that, for some one heard it shut. And that was one
reason why we thought you must have known something.”
Rhoda suddenly sat up.
“Surely,” she said sharply, “nobody was so foolish and wicked as
to think that Sir Robert, the best man in the world, had anything to do
with it?”
The housekeeper answered quickly:—
“Of course we, who knew him, didn’t think so. But there were
plenty of unkind things said outside, you may be sure, miss.”
“How shocking!”
“And folks thought as the marriage would be broken off, for the
Marquis was a good deal cut up about the gossip. But then Lady
Sarah she stood up like a high-minded lady, and she said as how
she didn’t allow such foolishness to disturb her for one moment. And
she married him, and even married him the sooner for the talk.
Which was handsome of her, and which Sir Robert he thought the
world of in her, you may be sure.”
Rhoda nodded. From what she had seen of the flippant and
vivacious flirt she wondered whether high-mindedness was really the
quality to which Sir Robert owed her steadfastness.
There was a pause, and Mrs. Hawkes gave a deep sigh, which
made Rhoda look at her, and perceive that an expression of the
deepest disappointment was on the good woman’s features.
“I was in hopes as you would be able to tell something, something
that would have cleared things up, miss,” she said.
 Rhoda’s eyes filled with tears, while a hot blush rose to her
cheeks. It was quite true that she did know something, just a little
more than anybody else appeared to know, about the doings of that
fatal night. But as it was nothing definite enough to absolve anybody
or to convict anybody, she felt that wisdom lay in keeping that little to
herself, for the present, at any rate.
“And so Lady Sarah was staunch, and earned Sir Robert’s
gratitude?” she said, her constraint making her words sound rather
stiff.
Mrs. Hawkes looked enigmatic for a moment, and then came a
little closer.
“Seeing you know so much about them, I may tell you, in
confidence, that it’s not been as happy a marriage as, from such a
beginning, one might have hoped,” she said. “You see it was a
disappointment there being only the one child, this poor boy that
never was strong. And then, well, Lady Sarah’s tastes and Sir
Robert’s they don’t seem to go well together. So my lady’s most
often away, either in town or abroad for her health, and Sir Robert,
he don’t seem to care to leave his house and his boy that he loves
so much.”
“And doesn’t Lady Sarah care for her boy too?”
The housekeeper’s face altered a little in expression.
“Of course she does,” she replied diplomatically. “But there’s
different ways of caring, and the sight of him with his little couch and
his spinal chair, well, it hurts my lady, who would have liked to have a
boy handsome and tall and strong.”
Rhoda felt chilled.
“It’s a pity she ever married Sir Robert,” she cried impulsively.
The housekeeper looked rather shocked.
“Well, miss, he wouldn’t let her be till she’d promised him, he was
so much in love,” she said quickly. “And anyhow, he’s pleased his
fancy. He married the lady he liked best.”
“Yes.”
Another question was on Rhoda’s tongue, but it was one she was
shy of uttering.
It took a different form from the one at first in her mind when at last
she said, timidly:
 “Is Mr. Rotherfield married?”
Mrs. Hawkes looked at her quickly.
“No, he’s not married,” she said slowly. “I think he’s in love too
often to fix upon any one lady.”
There was something in her face that prevented Rhoda from
asking any more questions on that subject. Indeed, Mrs. Hawkes
was not prepared to answer any more, for she changed the subject
and said: “Do you remember the two children who were here at the
time of your accident, miss?”
“Why, yes, of course I do. George and Minnie. What has become
of them? The Terrors you used to call them.”
“And the Terrors they are still,” said Mrs. Hawkes emphatically.
“They’re away now; Master George he’s at Sandhurst, and Miss
Minnie she’s staying in Normandy with friends for the summer
holidays. But they live here still, and I don’t say I’d be without them,
though their battles with my lady don’t give one much peace.”
“Battles?”
“Yes, they’re just what they always were, and the plague of all our
lives.”
“I wonder whether they’ll recognise me!” said Rhoda.
“Trust them for it!”
“But Sir Robert doesn’t.”
Mrs. Hawkes looked at her.
“Well, there’s no need to be astonished, for he’s so short-sighted,
and he lives so much shut up with his books and his collections, that
he hasn’t much memory for anything else. He’s taken to collecting
since you were here, miss, and he’s got a gallery of pictures that
people come for miles to see. That’s what the north wing was built
for, to put them in. And the south wing, that was for my lady’s
dances. Not that she gives many of them now.”
There was a little constraint on both sides now that Rhoda had
confessed that Sir Robert had failed to recognise her. Mrs. Hawkes
looked disturbed. At last she said:
“I was wondering, if I may make so bold as say so, miss, whether
Sir Robert would let you stay here again, if he was to remember
you.”
Rhoda looked startled and uneasy.
 “Why should he mind?” she asked quickly.
“Oh, only that he doesn’t in general like to be reminded of that
time. And if he had recognised you, he couldn’t but have thought of
it, could he?”
“N-no,” said Rhoda, beginning to feel nervous.
There was another silence, and then Mrs. Hawkes ventured:
“Would it be taking too great a liberty, miss, to ask how you came
to want to come back here, after all these years? For you must have
remembered too, what happened, and have felt uncomfortable about
it, I should think?”
Rhoda blushed hotly.
“Of course I knew what happened, through the newspapers and
what I was told,” she said. “But I didn’t think it could matter. How
should it? I didn’t know anything.”
“No, miss.”
Mrs. Hawkes looked down again.
“May I venture to ask whether you found the master altered,
miss?”
Rhoda’s lips trembled a little as she replied:
“Yes, I did. He doesn’t look so young, of course, as he did then.”
“Nor so happy,” suggested the housekeeper almost under her
breath. “And do you still think him as handsome as you did?”
Rhoda tried to laugh.
“You want to know, I suppose, whether I still feel the infatuation I
felt then about him?” she said. “Of course I don’t. It was a young
girl’s childish fancy. But I do think he is a most sympathetic, kindly
natured man, and I should be very glad, considering what my
obligations are to him, if I could be of any use in taking care of his
child.”
She was wondering, as she spoke, what Lady Sarah would say
when she found her installed at the Mill-house. Until that moment,
strange to tell, she had felt no curiosity on this point; it was only now,
when she saw the view the housekeeper took of her coming, that
this question suggested itself to her. However, there were some days
to pass before Lady Sarah would return from abroad, and in the
meantime Rhoda might pass her time very happily with the child, she
thought.
 And so it fell out. Within a few minutes her tête-à-tête with the
housekeeper was interrupted by a message to the effect that Master
Caryl wanted to see her, wanted to know whether she would have
tea with him, and Rhoda, hastily divesting herself of her hat, went
downstairs to the boy’s room, where she found him, flushed and
eager, awaiting her coming and welcoming her with a cry of delight.
The next few days were among the happiest she had ever passed.
Caryl was a charming companion, affectionate, docile on the whole,
though somewhat spoilt. He had taken a great fancy to Rhoda, and
would not leave her much time to herself, while Sir Robert, delighted
at his son’s finding an interest in life, overwhelmed her with signs of
his appreciation.
Rhoda wondered sometimes whether he did not begin to
remember her; for she would find him regarding her as it were by
stealth, with a frown of pain upon his face, and although he asked no
questions, she felt sure that he must already be wondering whether
he had not met her before.
To Rhoda the sadness in his quiet face was infinitely touching, and
little by little she found ways of making herself useful to him, by
copying the notes he had made concerning his curios, as well as by
letting him talk to her concerning them.
“It’s very good of you to let yourself be bored, Miss Pembury,” he
would say to her with a shy laugh when he had been expatiating
upon the beauties of his enamels or of his old Sèvres china. “When
Lady Sarah comes back, she will say that you have spoilt me. I’m not
used to having my dull dissertations listened to with so much
appearance of interest. And I’m quite sure,” he added archly, “that it
can’t be more than an appearance.”
“Indeed I wouldn’t pretend to be interested if I were not, Sir
Robert,” Rhoda assured him humbly and earnestly.
And she told the truth. She would not, indeed, have found the
pictures and curios so intensely interesting as she did, if they had not
belonged to the man who had once saved her life. But for his sake
she liked them, and her sympathy delighted the grave and rather
lonely gentleman.
He was profusely grateful to her for the pains she took in collecting
and copying his notes, and in sorting his papers for him. And he said
to her with intense appreciation, one day when she had succeeded
in deciphering some of his notes which he himself could not read:
“Miss Pembury, if you hadn’t come here as companion to my boy, I
should have had to keep you here as my secretary.”
He could not guess the pleasure the simple words gave to the
sensitive and grateful Rhoda. She had to pause a moment before
she could reply with calmness:
“I wonder you have never before thought of having a secretary, Sir
Robert.”
He shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have one for worlds,” he answered with decision,
“unless I could get one to undertake the duties of free will. What! To
have a professional secretary fingering my papers, and handling my
treasures coldly, because it was his or her duty to do it!” And with a
little playful assumption of horror, he added: “Do you know, I really
think it would injure the pictures and the china too, to be subjected to
the perfunctory care of some one specially engaged to look after
them? No. I’m fanciful about my treasures. Whatever work is done in
connection with them, must be done for love.”
The ingenuous words struck a responsive chord within the breast
of Rhoda, and she did not say a word.
But the implied compliment to her thoughtful help was treasured
up in her heart, and it made her happy for the day.
Lady Sarah’s return was delayed for a week, so that, when at last
Mrs. Hawkes received word that she was to prepare her rooms,
Rhoda had been a fortnight at the Mill-house, and was already
feeling quite at home.
She spent the day between Caryl and Sir Robert; very often now,
indeed, Caryl would insist upon her taking him into his father’s study,
where he would lie in a corner watching Rhoda while she deciphered
notes and copied inscriptions.
Sir Robert began to entrust more and more of his work to her,
always prefacing any request with a humble apology for taking up so
much of her time, and always receiving the quiet assurance that
what he asked her to do was just what she had been wishing herself
that she might do.
Caryl, his father said, was happier than he had ever been before.
 “You fill just that place to him,” said Sir Robert enthusiastically, one
evening, “that I had always hoped would be filled by my niece
Minnie. But of course you don’t know her, so you don’t understand.”
Rhoda remained silent. She did know Minnie, and she knew, too,
how hopeless it would have been to expect quiet sympathy from that
young lady, if she had fulfilled her childish promise and grown up the
mischievous torment she seemed to be inclined to develop into.
It seemed almost tragic to Rhoda that, while speaking thus of his
niece, he left out all mention of his wife, who would have seemed to
be the boy’s natural companion.
“You’ll be very, very glad to see mama again, won’t you, Caryl?”
Rhoda asked that evening, when he had been put to bed and she
was bending over him to bid him good-night.
“It doesn’t make so much difference to me whether she’s here or
not,” replied the child, in the quaint, old-fashioned way children have
who see few playfellows or companions of their own age.
Perhaps Rhoda looked rather shocked. So the boy added:
“Mama is not like you. She likes to be out in her motor-car all day,
or playing tennis or dancing. She isn’t quiet, like you.”
“She will have brought you something pretty, I expect,” suggested
Rhoda.
“Oh, yes, but she never brings the things that I like,” complained
Caryl. “What I want is a book full of pictures of hunting. I know she
won’t bring me that.”
Rhoda was struck with the pathos of this wish. For poor little Caryl,
condemned to lie on his back and unable to run about and play like
other children, had a passion for sport of all kinds, and was never
happier than when watching a cricket or a football match; and even
now, in early September, he was talking eagerly about the fox-
hunting season, and asking Rhoda if she would take him to a meet
of foxhounds when cub-hunting began.
She had begun by this time to dread Lady Sarah’s return, to
wonder whether her presence at the Mill-house would be resented
by the flighty beauty, who would certainly remember her, and who
might perhaps look upon her as an interloper, and be jealous of the
help she gave to Sir Robert and of the love which little Caryl had
already bestowed upon her.
 It was the next day that the mistress of the house was to arrive
and Rhoda was now on thorns. In the old days, indeed, Lady Sarah
had scarcely spoken to her, but she might not look upon her with the
same indifference now.
For Rhoda was conscious that there were whispers abroad
concerning herself; and she guessed that, although the whole of the
household, with the single exception of Mrs. Hawkes, was changed
since she was there last, the housekeeper must have told some of
the servants about the bicycle accident and the flight of Miss
Pembury on the night of the tragedy at the Mill-house, and that there
was a certain curiosity abroad concerning her.
It was late in the day when Lady Sarah arrived, and coming up to
the bedroom of her little son when he had retired for the night, found
Rhoda in the room.
Rhoda, however, regretting that she should have been found
there, and fearing that Lady Sarah would think she was trying to take
the mother’s place already with the boy, kept in the background, and
witnessed, unremarked by Lady Sarah, the meeting between mother
and son.
“Well, Caryl, and how are you?” cried she, as she bent over him
and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. “They tell me you’ve been
getting on famously and that you’ve got an awfully nice companion
now.”
“Yes. I love Rhoda, and so will you, mama. Rhoda, come here.
You shall see her, mama,” cried the boy in excitement.
Lady Sarah stood up and Rhoda had a good view of her. She saw
that the ten years which had passed since she met her first had only
served to ripen her beauty. Lady Sarah, though not quite so slim and
slender, so like a fairy as she had been in the days of her girlhood,
was lovelier than ever. Her dark eyes were just as bright, her
complexion was as brilliant, while a little dignity of manner now
added to her charms.
She held out her hand graciously, and Rhoda came forward.
But the moment she came within the range of light thrown by the
shaded electric lamp on the table at the foot of the bed, Lady Sarah’s
face changed. A look of intense horror appeared in her face, and her
hand dropped, as she met Rhoda’s eyes with a startled look, and,
recognising her at once, said hoarsely, under her breath:
“Miss Pembury!”