AmyLowell:PickthornManor

I

How fresh the Dartles little waves that day! A

steely silver, underlined with blue,

And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, Let drop the

yellow sunshine to gleam through

And tip the edges of the waves with shifts And spots of whitest

fire, hard like gems

Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp As

wind through leafless stems.

The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts

Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts

Of clouds drawn through the rivers azure warp.

II

Her little feet tapped softly down the path. Her

soul was listless; even the morning breeze

Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath Of fallen petals

on the grass, could please

Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside With a

swift move, and a half-angry frown.

She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, And

held them to her gown

To test the colours; put them at her side,

Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried

Some new arrangement, but it would not do.

III

A lady in a Manor-house, alone, Whose husband

is in Flanders with the Duke

Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, shes grown Too apathetic

even to rebuke

Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? No woman

surely, since she neither can

Be wed nor single, must not let her mind Build

thoughts upon a man

Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth

Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,

And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.

IV

Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. Too

unaccustomed as a bride to feel

Other than strange delight at her wifes doing. Even at the

thought a gentle blush would steal

Over her face, and then her lips would frame Some little word

of loving, and her eyes

Would brim and spill their tears, when all they

saw Was the bright sun, slantwise

Through burgeoning trees, and all the mornings flame

Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame

She shut her heart and bent before the law.

V

He was a soldier, she was proud of that. This

was his house and she would keep it well.

His honour was in fighting, hers in what Hed left her here

in charge of. Then a spell

Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying Upon the

gardeners. Were their tools about?

Were any branches broken? Had the

weeds Been duly taken out

Under the spaliered pears, and were these lying

Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying

Their leaves and satisfying all their needs?

VI

She picked a stone up with a little pout, Stones

looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders.

Where should she put it? All the paths about Were

strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.

No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So She

hurried to the river. At the edge

She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue Beyond

the river sedge.

She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow

Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, Hullo,

My Beauty, gently, or youll wriggle through.

VII

The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray To save

herself from tumbling in the shallows

Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away She

peered down stream among the budding sallows.

A youth in leather breeches and a shirt Of finest broidered

lawn lay out upon

An overhanging bole and deftly swayed A

well-hooked fish which shone

In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt

Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt

With crimson spots and moons which waned and

played.

VIII

The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed And

bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade

Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged With chipped

and sparkled sunshine. And the shade

Broke up and splintered into shafts of light Wheeling about

the fish, who churned the air

And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod Almost

to snapping. Care

The young man took against the twigs, with slight,

Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight

Obedience to his will with every prod.

IX

He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. He

seemed uncertain what more he should do.

He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, Tossed it and caught

it; every time he threw,

He caught it nearer to the point. At last The fish

was near enough to touch. He paused.

Eunice knew well the craft -- Whats

got the thing! She cried. What can have caused

--

Where is his net? The moment will be past.

The fish will wriggle free. She stopped aghast.

He turned and bowed. One arm was in

a sling.

X

The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basket Must

hang from, held instead a useless arm.

I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it. He smiled, for she

had spoke aloud. The charm

Of trout fishing is in my eyes enhanced When you must play

your fish on land as well.

How will you take him? Eunice asked. In

truth I really cannot tell.

Twas stupid of me, but it simply chanced

I never thought of that until he glanced

Into the branches. Tis a bit uncouth.

XI

He watched the fish against the blowing sky, Writhing

and glittering, pulling at the line.

The hook is fast, I might just let him die, He mused. But

that would jar against your fine

Sense of true sportsmanship, I know it would, Cried Eunice. Let

me do it. Swift and light

She ran towards him. It is so long

now Since I have felt a bite,

I lost all heart for everything. She stood,

Supple and strong, beside him, and her blood

Tingled her lissom body to a glow.

XII

She quickly seized the fish and with a stone Ended

its flurry, then removed the hook,

Untied the fly with well-poised fingers. Done, She

asked him where he kept his fishing-book.

He pointed to a coat flung on the ground. She searched the

pockets, found a shagreen case,

Replaced the fly, noticed a golden stamp Filling

the middle space.

Two letters half rubbed out were there, and round

About them gay rococo flowers wound

And tossed a spray of roses to the clamp.

XIII

The Lady Eunice puzzled over these. G. D.

the young man gravely said. My name

Is Gervase Deane. Your servant, if you please. Oh,

Sir, indeed I know you, for your fame

For exploits in the field has reached my ears. I did not know

you wounded and returned.

But just come back, Madam. A silly

prick To gain me such unearned

Holiday making. And you, it appears,

Must be Sir Everards lady. And my fears

At being caught a-trespassing were quick.

XIV

He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud. You

are forgiven, Mr. Deane. Even more,

I offer you the fishing, and am proud That you should find

it pleasant from this shore.

Nobody fishes now, my husband used To angle daily, and I too

with him.

He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace. He

even had a whim

That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused

The greater fish. And he must be excused,

Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place.

XV

She sighed because it seemed so long ago, Those

days with Everard; unthinking took

The path back to the orchard. Strolling so She walked,

and he beside her. In a nook

Where a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs, Full-blossomed,

hummed with bees, they sat them down.

She questioned him about the war, the share Her

husband had, and grown

Eager by his clear answers, straight allows

Her hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouse

Her numbed love, which had slumbered unaware.

XVI

Under the orchard trees daffodils danced And

jostled, turning sideways to the wind.

A dropping cherry petal softly glanced Over her hair, and slid

away behind.

At the far end through twisted cherry-trees The old house glowed,

geranium-hued, with bricks

Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, Gabled,

and with quaint tricks

Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these

Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze

Tossed into nothing. Then a thrushs

song

XVII

Needled its way through sound of bees and river. The

notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves,

Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. The Lady Eunice

listens and believes.

Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, His bravery, his knowledge,

his charmed life.

She quite forgets whos speaking in the gladness Of

being this mans wife.

Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word

Is kindly said, but to a softer chord

She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,

XVIII

And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I

fain Would know the truth. Quite well, dear Lady,

quite.

She smiled in her content. So many slain, You must

forgive me for a little fright.

And he forgave her, not alone for that, But because she was

fingering his heart,

Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so Only

to ease her smart

Of painful, apprehensive longing. At

Their feet the river swirled and chucked. They sat

An hour there. The thrush flew to

and fro.

XIX

The Lady Eunice supped alone that day, As

always since Sir Everard had gone,

In the oak-panelled parlour, whose array Of faded portraits

in carved mouldings shone.

Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked. Van Dykes with

long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stout

And heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame, A

peony just burst out,

With flaunting, crimson flesh. Eunice rebuked

Her thoughts of gentler blood, when these had duked

It with the best, and scorned to change their

name.

XX

A sturdy family, and old besides, Much older

than her own, the Earls of Crowe.

Since Saxon days, these men had sought their brides Among the

highest born, but always so,

Taking them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, But never

their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong,

The Framptons fed their blood from richest streams, Scorning

the common throng.

Gazing upon these men, she understands

The toughness of the web wrought from such strands

And pride of Everard colours all her dreams.

XXI

Eunice forgets to eat, watching their faces Flickering

in the wind-blown candles shine.

Blue-coated lackeys tiptoe to their places, And set out plates

of fruit and jugs of wine.

The table glitters black like Winter ice. The Dartles rushing,

and the gentle clash

Of blossomed branches, drifts into her ears. And

through the casement sash

She sees each cherry stem a pointed slice

Of splintered moonlight, topped with all the spice

And shimmer of the blossoms it uprears.

XXII

In such a night -- she laid the book aside, She

could outnight the poet by thinking back.

In such a night she came here as a bride. The date was graven

in the almanack

Of her clasped memory. In this very room Had Everard

uncloaked her. On this seat

Had drawn her to him, bade her note the trees, How

white they were and sweet

And later, coming to her, her dear groom,

Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloom

Of moon and shade, and whispered her to ease.

XXIII

Her little taper made the room seem vast, Caverned

and empty. And her beating heart

Rapped through the silence all about her cast Like some loud,

dreadful death-watch taking part

In this sad vigil. Slowly she undrest, Put out the

light and crept into her bed.

The linen sheets were fragrant, but so cold. And

brimming tears she shed,

Sobbing and quivering in her barren nest,

Her weeping lips into the pillow prest,

Her eyes sealed fast within its smothering fold.

XXIV

The morning brought her a more stoic mind, And

sunshine struck across the polished floor.

She wondered whether this day she should find Gervase a-fishing,

and so listen more,

Much more again, to all he had to tell. And he was there, but

waiting to begin

Until she came. They fished awhile,

then went To the old seat within

The cherrys shade. He pleased her very well

By his discourse. But ever he must dwell

Upon Sir Everard. Each incident

XXV

Must be related and each term explained. How

troops were set in battle, how a siege

Was ordered and conducted. She complained Because

he bungled at the fall of Liege.

The curious names of parts of forts she knew, And aired with

conscious pride her ravelins,

And counterscarps, and lunes. The

day drew on, And his dead fishs fins

In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue.

At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew.

But she sat long in still oblivion.

XXVI

Then he would bring her books, and read to her The

poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue river

Would murmur through the reading, and a stir Of birds and bees

make the white petals shiver,

And one or two would flutter prone and lie Spotting the smooth-clipped

grass. The days went by

Threaded with talk and verses. Green

leaves pushed Through blossoms stubbornly.

Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty,

Fell into strong and watchful loving, free

He thought, since always would his lips be hushed.

XXVII

But lips do not stay silent at command, And

Gervase strove in vain to order his.

Luckily Eunice did not understand That he but read himself

aloud, for this

Their friendship would have snapped. She treated him And

spoilt him like a brother. It was now

Gervase and Eunice with them, and he dined Whenever

shed allow,

In the oak parlour, underneath the dim

Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim

Figure, so bright against the chair behind.

XXVIII

Eunice was happier than she had been For many

days, and yet the hours were long.

All Gervase told to her but made her lean More heavily upon

the past. Among

Her hopes she lived, even when she was giving Her morning orders,

even when she twined

Nosegays to deck her parlours. With

the thought Of Everard, her mind

Solaced its solitude, and in her striving

To do as he would wish was all her living.

She welcomed Gervase for the news he brought.

XXIX

Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the

sun, Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other.

Eunice was standing, panting with her run Up to the tool-house

just to get another

Basket. All those which she had brought were filled, And

still Gervase pelted her from above.

The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher Until

his shoulders strove

Quite through the top. Eunice, your spirits filled

This tree. White-hearts! He shook, and cherries

spilled

And spat out from the leaves like falling fire.

XXX

The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself Over

the quiet garden. And they packed

Full twenty baskets with the fruit. My shelf Of

cordials will be stored with what it lacked.

In future, none of us will drink strong ale, But cherry-brandy. Vastly

good, I vow,

And Gervase gave the tree another shake. The

cherries seemed to flow

Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail.

Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale,

Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake.

XXXI

She gave a little cry and fell quite prone In

the long grass, and lay there very still.

Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan, And kneeling

over her, with clumsy skill

Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat, And his unguarded

lips pronounced his heart.

Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt? His

trembling fingers dart

Over her limbs seeking some wound. She strove

To answer, opened wide her eyes, above

Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert.

XXXII

Her eyelids fell again at that sweet sight, My

Love! she murmured, Dearest! Oh, my Dear!

He took her in his arms and bore her right And tenderly to

the old seat, and Here

I have you mine at last, she said, and swooned Under his kisses. When

she came once more

To sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowing Herself

laid as before

Close covered on his breast. And all her glowing

Youth answered him, and ever nearer growing

She twined him in her arms and soft festooned

XXXIII

Herself about him like a flowering vine, Drawing

his lips to cling upon her own.

A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine Where her half-opened

bodice let be shown

Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress, Half-gasping

with her gladness. And her pledge

She whispers, melting with delight. A

twig Snaps in the hornbeam hedge.

A cackling laugh tears through the quietness.

Eunice starts up in terrible distress.

My God! Whats that? Her

staring eyes are big.

XXXIV

Revulsed emotion set her body shaking As though

she had an ague. Gervase swore,

Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful taking His face was ghastly

with the look it wore.

Crouching and slipping through the trees, a man In worn, blue

livery, a humpbacked thing,

Made off. But turned every few steps

to gaze At Eunice, and to fling

Vile looks and gestures back. The ruffian!

By Christs Death! I will split him to a span

Of hogs thongs. She grasped at his

sleeve, Gervase!

XXXV

What are you doing here? Put down that

sword, Thats only poor old Tony, crazed and lame.

We never notice him. With my dear Lord I ought not

to have minded that he came.

But, Gervase, it surprises me that you Should so lack grace

to stay here. With one hand

She held her gaping bodice to conceal Her

breast. I must demand

Your instant absence. Everard, but new

Returned, will hardly care for guests. Adieu.

Eunice, youre mad. His brain began

to reel.

XXXVI

He tried again to take her, tried to twist Her

arms about him. Truly, she had said

Nothing should ever part them. In a mist She pushed

him from her, clasped her aching head

In both her hands, and rocked and sobbed aloud. Oh! Where

is Everard? What does this mean?

So lately come to leave me thus alone! But

Gervase had not seen

Sir Everard. Then, gently, to her bowed

And sickening spirit, he told of her proud

Surrender to him. He could hear her

moan.

XXXVII

Then shame swept over her and held her numb, Hiding

her anguished face against the seat.

At last she rose, a woman stricken -- dumb -- And trailed away

with slowly-dragging feet.

Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass The barrier set

between them. All his rare

Joy broke to fragments -- worse than that, unreal. And

standing lonely there,

His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass

He flung himself and wept. He knew, alas!

The loss so great his life could never heal.

XXXVIII

For days thereafter Eunice lived retired, Waited

upon by one old serving-maid.

She would not leave her chamber, and desired Only to hide herself. She

was afraid

Of what her eyes might trick her into seeing, Of what her longing

urge her then to do.

What was this dreadful illness solitude Had

tortured her into?

Her hours went by in a long constant fleeing

The thought of that one morning. And her being

Bruised itself on a happening so rude.

XXXIX

It grew ripe Summer, when one morning came Her

tirewoman with a letter, printed

Upon the seal were the Deane crest and name. With utmost gentleness,

the letter hinted

His understanding and his deep regret. But would she not permit

him once again

To pay her his profound respects? No

word Of what had passed should pain

Her resolution. Only let them get

Back the old comradeship. Her eyes were wet

With starting tears, now truly she deplored

XL

His misery. Yes, she was wrong to keep Away

from him. He hardly was to blame.

Twas she -- she shuddered and began to weep. Twas her fault! Hers! Her

everlasting shame

Was that she suffered him, whom not at all She loved. Poor

Boy! Yes, they must still be friends.

She owed him that to keep the balance straight. It

was such poor amends

Which she could make for rousing hopes to gall

Him with their unfulfilment. Tragical

It was, and she must leave him desolate.

XLI

Hard silence he had forced upon his lips For

long and long, and would have done so still

Had not she -- here she pressed her finger tips Against her

heavy eyes. Then with forced will

She wrote that he might come, sealed with the arms Of Crowe

and Frampton twined. Her heart felt lighter

When this was done. It seemed her

constant care Might some day cease to fright her.

Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harms

Did come from too much sunshine. Her alarms

Would lessen when she saw him standing there,

XLII

Simple and kind, a brother just returned From

journeying, and he would treat her so.

She knew his honest heart, and if there burned A spark in it

he would not let it show.

But when he really came, and stood beside Her underneath the

fruitless cherry boughs,

He seemed a tired man, gaunt, leaden-eyed. He

made her no more vows,

Nor did he mention one thing he had tried

To put into his letter. War supplied

Him topics. And his mind seemed occupied.

XLIII

Daily they met. And gravely walked and

talked. He read her no more verses, and he stayed

Only until their conversation, balked Of every natural channel,

fled dismayed.

Again the next day she would meet him, trying To give her tone

some healthy sprightliness,

But his uneager dignity soon chilled Her

well-prepared address.

Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, crying

Of wild geese startled Eunice, and their flying

Whirred overhead for days and never stilled.

XLIV

One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind, Eunice

awaited Gervase by the river.

The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined Over the willow-roots,

and a long sliver

Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank. All through

the garden, drifts of skirling leaves

Blew up, and settled down, and blew again. The

cherry-trees were weaves

Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank

Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank

With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain.

XLV

Eunice paced up and down. No joy she

took At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown

Still held her. He was late. She sudden shook, And

caught at her stopped heart. Her eyes had shown

Sir Everard emerging from the mist. His uniform was travel-stained

and torn,

His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride Jangled

his spurs. A thorn

Entangled, trailed behind him. To the tryst

He hastened. Eunice shuddered, ran -- a twist

Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide.

XLVI

But he had seen her as she swiftly ran, A

flash of white against the rivers grey.

Eunice, he called. My Darling. Eunice. Can You

hear me? It is Everard. All day

I have been riding like the very devil To reach you sooner. Are

you startled, Dear?

He broke into a run and followed her, And

caught her, faint with fear,

Cowering and trembling as though she some evil

Spirit were seeing. What means this uncivil

Greeting, Dear Heart? He saw her

senses blur.

XLVII

Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried To

speak, but only gurgled in her throat.

At last, straining to hold herself, she cried To him for pity,

and her strange words smote

A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase To leave her,

twas too much a second time.

Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind Repeated

like a rhyme

This name he did not know. In sad amaze

He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze,

So unremembering and so unkind.

XLVIII

Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt With

what he feared her madness. By and by

He pierced her understanding. Then he knelt Upon

the seat, and took her hands: Now try

To think a minute I am come, my Dear, Unharmed and back on

furlough. Are you glad

To have your lover home again? To

me, Pickthorn has never had

A greater pleasantness. Could you not bear

To come and sit awhile beside me here?

A stone between us surely should not be.

XLIX

She smiled a little wan and ravelled smile, Then

came to him and on his shoulder laid

Her head, and they two rested there awhile, Each taking comfort. Not

a word was said.

But when he put his hand upon her breast And felt her beating

heart, and with his lips

Sought solace for her and himself. She

started As one sharp lashed with whips,

And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb quest

Denied and shuddered from. And he, distrest,

Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted.

L

Eunice was very quiet all that day, A little

dazed, and yet she seemed content.

At candle-time, he asked if she would play Upon her harpsichord,

at once she went

And tinkled airs from Lullys `Carnival And `Bacchus, newly

brought away from France.

Then jaunted through a lively rigadoon To

please him with a dance

By Purcell, for he said that surely all

Good Englishmen had pride in national

Accomplishment. But tiring of it soon

LI

He whispered her that if she had forgiven His

startling her that afternoon, the clock

Marked early bed-time. Surely it was Heaven He entered

when she opened to his knock.

The hours rustled in the trailing wind Over the chimney. Close

they lay and knew

Only that they were wedded. At his

touch Anxiety she threw

Away like a shed garment, and inclined

Herself to cherish him, her happy mind

Quivering, unthinking, loving overmuch.

LII

Eunice lay long awake in the cool night After

her husband slept. She gazed with joy

Into the shadows, painting them with bright Pictures of all

her future lifes employ.

Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel, Each shining with

the other. Soft she turned

And felt his breath upon her hair, and prayed Her

happiness was earned.

Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuel

To light this Framptons hearth-fire. By no cruel

Affrightings would she ever be dismayed.

LIII

When Everard, next day, asked her in joke What

name it was that she had called him by,

She told him of Gervase, and as she spoke She hardly realized

it was a lie.

Her vision she related, but she hid The fondness into which

she had been led.

Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear, And

quite out of her head

The matter drifted. Then Sir Everard chid

Himself for laziness, and off he rid

To see his men and count his farming-gear.

LIV

At supper he seemed overspread with gloom, But

gave no reason why, he only asked

More questions of Gervase, and round the room He walked with

restless strides. At last he tasked

Her with a greater feeling for this man Than she had given. Eunice

quick denied

The slightest interest other than a friend Might

claim. But he replied

He thought she underrated. Then a ban

He put on talk and music. Hed a plan

To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End.

LV

Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed, Hard

and unkind, with bursts of anger. Pride

Kept him from speaking out. His probings ranged All

round his torment. Lady Eunice tried

To sooth him. So a week went by, and then His anguish

flooded over; with clenched hands

Striving to stem his words, he told her plain Tony

had seen them, brands

Burning in Hell, the man had said. Again

Eunice described her vision, and how when

Awoke at last she had known dreadful pain.

LVI

He could not credit it, and misery fed Upon

his spirit, day by day it grew.

To Gervase he forbade the house, and led The Lady Eunice such

a life she flew

At his approaching footsteps. Winter came Snowing

and blustering through the Manor trees.

All the roof-edges spiked with icicles In

fluted companies.

The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frame

Kept herself sighing company. The flame

Of the birch fire glittered on the walls.

LVII

A letter was brought to her as she sat, Unsealed,

unsigned. It told her that his wound,

The writers, had so well recovered that To join his regiment

he felt him bound.

But would she not wish him one short Godspeed, He asked no

more. Her greeting would suffice.

He had resolved he never should return. Would

she this sacrifice

Make for a dying man? How could she read

The rest! But forcing her eyes to the deed,

She read. Then dropped it in the fire

to burn.

LVIII

Gervase had set the river for their meeting As

farthest from the farms where Everard

Spent all his days. How should he know such cheating Was

quite expected, at least no dullard

Was Everard Frampton. Hours by hours he hid Among

the willows watching. Dusk had come,

And from the Manor he had long been gone. Eunice

her burdensome

Task set about. Hooded and cloaked, she slid

Over the slippery paths, and soon amid

The sallows saw a boat tied to a stone.

LIX

Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointed Into

the boat. She shook her head, but he

Begged her to realize why, and with disjointed Words told her

of what peril there might be

From listeners along the river bank. A push would take them

out of earshot. Ten

Minutes was all he asked, then she should land, He

go away again,

Forever this time. Yet how could he thank

Her for so much compassion. Here she sank

Upon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand

LX

His boat. He cast the rope, and shoved

the keel Free of the gravel; jumped, and dropped beside

Her; took the oars, and they began to steal Under the overhanging

trees. A wide

Gash of red lantern-light cleft like a blade Into the gloom,

and struck on Eunice sitting

Rigid and stark upon the after thwart. It

blazed upon their flitting

In merciless light. A moment so it stayed,

Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard made

One leap, and landed just a fraction short.

LXI

His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boat To

straining balance. Everard lurched and seized

His wife and held her smothered to his coat. Everard, loose

me, we shall drown -- and squeezed

Against him, she beat with her hands. He gasped Never,

by God! The slidden boat gave way

And the black foamy water split -- and met. Bubbled

up through the spray

A wailing rose and in the branches rasped,

And creaked, and stilled. Over the treetops, clasped

In the blue evening, a clear moon was set.

LXII

They lie entangled in the twisting roots, Embraced

forever. Their cold marriage bed

Close-canopied and curtained by the shoots Of willows and pale

birches. At the head,

White lilies, like still swans, placidly float And sway above

the pebbles. Here are waves

Sun-smitten for a threaded counterpane Gold-woven

on their graves.

In perfect quietness they sleep, remote

In the green, rippled twilight. Death has smote

Them to perpetual oneness who were twain.