Pickthorn Manor

How fresh the Dartle’s 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 throughAnd tip the edges of the waves with shiftsAnd spots of whitest fire, hard like gemsCut from the midnight moon they were, and sharpAs wind through leafless stems.The Lady Eunice walked between the driftsOf blooming cherry-trees, and watched the riftsOf clouds drawn through the river’s azure warp.

Her little feet tapped softly down the path.Her soul was listless; even the morning breezeFluttering the trees and strewing a light swathOf fallen petals on the grass, could pleaseHer not at all.  She brushed a hair asideWith a swift move, and a half-angry frown.She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,And held them to her gownTo test the colours; put them at her side,Then at her breast, then loosened them and triedSome new arrangement, but it would not do.

III

A lady in a Manor-house, alone,Whose husband is in Flanders with the DukeOf Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she’s grownToo apathetic even to rebukeHer idleness.  What is she on this Earth?No woman surely, since she neither canBe wed nor single, must not let her mindBuild thoughts upon a manExcept for hers.  Indeed that were no dearthWere her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.

Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.Too unaccustomed as a bride to feelOther than strange delight at her wife’s doing.Even at the thought a gentle blush would stealOver her face, and then her lips would frameSome little word of loving, and her eyesWould brim and spill their tears, when all they sawWas the bright sun, slantwiseThrough burgeoning trees, and all the morning’s flameBurning and quivering round her.  With quick shameShe shut her heart and bent before the law.

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 whatHe’d left her here in charge of.  Then a spellOf conscience sent her through the orchard spyingUpon the gardeners.  Were their tools about?Were any branches broken?  Had the weedsBeen duly taken outUnder the ‘spaliered pears, and were these lyingNailed snug against the sunny bricks and dryingTheir leaves and satisfying all their needs?

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 aboutWere strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.No stone could mar their sifted smoothness.  SoShe hurried to the river.  At the edgeShe stood a moment charmed by the swift blueBeyond the river sedge.She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snowPurfled upon its wave-tops.  Then, “Hullo,My Beauty, gently, or you’ll wriggle through.”

VII

The Lady Eunice caught a willow sprayTo save herself from tumbling in the shallowsWhich rippled to her feet.  Then straight awayShe peered down stream among the budding sallows.A youth in leather breeches and a shirtOf finest broidered lawn lay out uponAn overhanging bole and deftly swayedA well-hooked fish which shoneIn the pale lemon sunshine like a spurtOf silver, bowed and damascened, and girtWith crimson spots and moons which waned and played.

VIII

The fish hung circled for a moment, ringedAnd bright; then flung itself out, a thin bladeOf spotted lightning, and its tail was wingedWith chipped and sparkled sunshine.  And the shadeBroke up and splintered into shafts of lightWheeling about the fish, who churned the airAnd made the fish-line hum, and bent the rodAlmost to snapping.  CareThe young man took against the twigs, with slight,Deft movements he kept fish and line in tightObedience to his will with every prod.

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 lastThe fish was near enough to touch.  He paused.Eunice knew well the craft—“What’s 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.

The broad, black ribbon she had thought his basketMust hang from, held instead a useless arm.“I do not wonder, Madam, that you ask it.”He smiled, for she had spoke aloud.  “The charmOf trout fishing is in my eyes enhancedWhen you must play your fish on land as well.”“How will you take him?” Eunice asked.  “In truthI really cannot tell.’Twas stupid of me, but it simply chancedI never thought of that until he glancedInto the branches.  ’Tis a bit uncouth.”

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 fineSense of true sportsmanship, I know it would,”Cried Eunice.  “Let me do it.”  Swift and lightShe ran towards him.  “It is so long nowSince I have felt a bite,I lost all heart for everything.”  She stood,Supple and strong, beside him, and her bloodTingled her lissom body to a glow.

XII

She quickly seized the fish and with a stoneEnded 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 stampFilling the middle space.Two letters half rubbed out were there, and roundAbout them gay rococo flowers woundAnd tossed a spray of roses to the clamp.

XIII

The Lady Eunice puzzled over these.“G. D.” the young man gravely said.  “My nameIs Gervase Deane.  Your servant, if you please.”“Oh, Sir, indeed I know you, for your fameFor exploits in the field has reached my ears.I did not know you wounded and returned.”“But just come back, Madam.  A silly prickTo gain me such unearnedHoliday making.  And you, it appears,Must be Sir Everard’s lady.  And my fearsAt 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 proudThat you should find it pleasant from this shore.Nobody fishes now, my husband usedTo angle daily, and I too with him.He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace.He even had a whimThat flies my fingers tied swiftly confusedThe greater fish.  And he must be excused,Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place.”

She sighed because it seemed so long ago,Those days with Everard; unthinking tookThe path back to the orchard.  Strolling soShe walked, and he beside her.  In a nookWhere a stone seat withdrew beneath low boughs,Full-blossomed, hummed with bees, they sat them down.She questioned him about the war, the shareHer husband had, and grownEager by his clear answers, straight allowsHer hidden hopes and fears to speak, and rouseHer numbed love, which had slumbered unaware.

XVI

Under the orchard trees daffodils dancedAnd jostled, turning sideways to the wind.A dropping cherry petal softly glancedOver her hair, and slid away behind.At the far end through twisted cherry-treesThe old house glowed, geranium-hued, with bricksBloomed in the sun like roses, low and long,Gabled, and with quaint tricksOf chimneys carved and fretted.  Out of theseGrey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breezeTossed into nothing.  Then a thrush’s 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 who’s speaking in the gladnessOf being this man’s wife.Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the wordIs kindly said, but to a softer chordShe strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,

XVIII

“And is Sir Everard still unscathed?  I fainWould 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 soOnly to ease her smartOf painful, apprehensive longing.  AtTheir feet the river swirled and chucked.  They satAn 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 arrayOf faded portraits in carved mouldings shone.Warriors and ladies, armoured, ruffed, peruked.Van Dykes with long, slim fingers; Holbeins, stoutAnd heavy-featured; and one Rubens dame,A peony just burst out,With flaunting, crimson flesh.  Eunice rebukedHer thoughts of gentler blood, when these had dukedIt with the best, and scorned to change their name.

A sturdy family, and old besides,Much older than her own, the Earls of Crowe.Since Saxon days, these men had sought their bridesAmong 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 understandsThe toughness of the web wrought from such strandsAnd pride of Everard colours all her dreams.

XXI

Eunice forgets to eat, watching their facesFlickering in the wind-blown candle’s 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 Dartle’s rushing, and the gentle clashOf blossomed branches, drifts into her ears.And through the casement sashShe sees each cherry stem a pointed sliceOf splintered moonlight, topped with all the spiceAnd 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 almanackOf her clasped memory.  In this very roomHad Everard uncloaked her.  On this seatHad drawn her to him, bade her note the trees,How white they were and sweetAnd later, coming to her, her dear groom,Her Lord, had lain beside her in the gloomOf moon and shade, and whispered her to ease.

XXIII

Her little taper made the room seem vast,Caverned and empty.  And her beating heartRapped through the silence all about her castLike some loud, dreadful death-watch taking partIn 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 findGervase a-fishing, and so listen more,Much more again, to all he had to tell.And he was there, but waiting to beginUntil she came.  They fished awhile, then wentTo the old seat withinThe cherry’s shade.  He pleased her very wellBy his discourse.  But ever he must dwellUpon Sir Everard.  Each incident

XXV

Must be related and each term explained.How troops were set in battle, how a siegeWas ordered and conducted.  She complainedBecause 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 fish’s finsIn 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 herThe poems of Dr. Donne, and the blue riverWould murmur through the reading, and a stirOf birds and bees make the white petals shiver,And one or two would flutter prone and lieSpotting the smooth-clipped grass.  The days went byThreaded with talk and verses.  Green leaves pushedThrough blossoms stubbornly.Gervase, unconscious of dishonesty,Fell into strong and watchful loving, freeHe 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 understandThat he but read himself aloud, for thisTheir friendship would have snapped.  She treated himAnd spoilt him like a brother.  It was now“Gervase” and “Eunice” with them, and he dinedWhenever she’d allow,In the oak parlour, underneath the dimOld pictured Framptons, opposite her slimFigure, so bright against the chair behind.

XXVIII

Eunice was happier than she had beenFor many days, and yet the hours were long.All Gervase told to her but made her leanMore heavily upon the past.  AmongHer hopes she lived, even when she was givingHer morning orders, even when she twinedNosegays to deck her parlours.  With the thoughtOf Everard, her mindSolaced its solitude, and in her strivingTo 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 runUp to the tool-house just to get anotherBasket.  All those which she had brought were filled,And still Gervase pelted her from above.The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higherUntil his shoulders stroveQuite through the top.  “Eunice, your spirit’s filledThis tree.  White-hearts!”  He shook, and cherries spilledAnd spat out from the leaves like falling fire.

XXX

The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itselfOver the quiet garden.  And they packedFull twenty baskets with the fruit.  “My shelfOf 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 flowOut 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 proneIn the long grass, and lay there very still.Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan,And kneeling over her, with clumsy skillUnloosed 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 dartOver her limbs seeking some wound.  She stroveTo answer, opened wide her eyes, aboveHer 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 rightAnd tenderly to the old seat, and “HereI have you mine at last,” she said, and swoonedUnder his kisses.  When she came once moreTo sight of him, she smiled in comfort knowingHerself laid as beforeClose covered on his breast.  And all her glowingYouth answered him, and ever nearer growingShe 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 shineWhere her half-opened bodice let be shownHer white throat fluttering to his soft caress,Half-gasping with her gladness.  And her pledgeShe whispers, melting with delight.  A twigSnaps in the hornbeam hedge.A cackling laugh tears through the quietness.Eunice starts up in terrible distress.“My God!  What’s that?”  Her staring eyes are big.

XXXIV

Revulsed emotion set her body shakingAs though she had an ague.  Gervase swore,Jumped to his feet in such a dreadful takingHis face was ghastly with the look it wore.Crouching and slipping through the trees, a manIn worn, blue livery, a humpbacked thing,Made off.  But turned every few steps to gazeAt Eunice, and to flingVile looks and gestures back.  “The ruffian!By Christ’s Death!  I will split him to a spanOf hog’s thongs.”  She grasped at his sleeve, “Gervase!

XXXV

What are you doing here?  Put down that sword,That’s only poor old Tony, crazed and lame.We never notice him.  With my dear LordI ought not to have minded that he came.But, Gervase, it surprises me that youShould so lack grace to stay here.”  With one handShe held her gaping bodice to concealHer breast.  “I must demandYour instant absence.  Everard, but newReturned, will hardly care for guests.  Adieu.”“Eunice, you’re mad.”  His brain began to reel.

XXXVI

He tried again to take her, tried to twistHer arms about him.  Truly, she had saidNothing should ever part them.  In a mistShe pushed him from her, clasped her aching headIn 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 seenSir Everard.  Then, gently, to her bowedAnd sickening spirit, he told of her proudSurrender 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 passThe barrier set between them.  All his rareJoy broke to fragments—worse than that, unreal.And standing lonely there,His swollen heart burst out, and on the grassHe 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 desiredOnly to hide herself.  She was afraidOf what her eyes might trick her into seeing,Of what her longing urge her then to do.What was this dreadful illness solitudeHad tortured her into?Her hours went by in a long constant fleeingThe thought of that one morning.  And her beingBruised itself on a happening so rude.

XXXIX

It grew ripe Summer, when one morning cameHer tirewoman with a letter, printedUpon the seal were the Deane crest and name.With utmost gentleness, the letter hintedHis understanding and his deep regret.But would she not permit him once againTo pay her his profound respects?  No wordOf what had passed should painHer resolution.  Only let them getBack the old comradeship.  Her eyes were wetWith starting tears, now truly she deplored

His misery.  Yes, she was wrong to keepAway from him.  He hardly was to blame.’Twas she—she shuddered and began to weep.’Twas her fault!  Hers!  Her everlasting shameWas that she suffered him, whom not at allShe loved.  Poor Boy!  Yes, they must still be friends.She owed him that to keep the balance straight.It was such poor amendsWhich she could make for rousing hopes to gallHim with their unfulfilment.  TragicalIt was, and she must leave him desolate.

XLI

Hard silence he had forced upon his lipsFor long and long, and would have done so stillHad not she—here she pressed her finger tipsAgainst her heavy eyes.  Then with forced willShe wrote that he might come, sealed with the armsOf Crowe and Frampton twined.  Her heart felt lighterWhen this was done.  It seemed her constant careMight some day cease to fright her.Illness could be no crime, and dreadful harmsDid come from too much sunshine.  Her alarmsWould lessen when she saw him standing there,

XLII

Simple and kind, a brother just returnedFrom journeying, and he would treat her so.She knew his honest heart, and if there burnedA spark in it he would not let it show.But when he really came, and stood besideHer 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 triedTo put into his letter.  War suppliedHim topics.  And his mind seemed occupied.

XLIII

Daily they met.  And gravely walked and talked.He read her no more verses, and he stayedOnly until their conversation, balkedOf every natural channel, fled dismayed.Again the next day she would meet him, tryingTo give her tone some healthy sprightliness,But his uneager dignity soon chilledHer well-prepared address.Thus Summer waned, and in the mornings, cryingOf wild geese startled Eunice, and their flyingWhirred 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 whinedOver the willow-roots, and a long sliverOf caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank.All through the garden, drifts of skirling leavesBlew up, and settled down, and blew again.The cherry-trees were weavesOf empty, knotted branches, and a dankMist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rankWith sodden wood, and still unfalling rain.

XLV

Eunice paced up and down.  No joy she tookAt meeting Gervase, but the custom grownStill held her.  He was late.  She sudden shook,And caught at her stopped heart.  Her eyes had shownSir Everard emerging from the mist.His uniform was travel-stained and torn,His jackboots muddy, and his eager strideJangled his spurs.  A thornEntangled, trailed behind him.  To the trystHe hastened.  Eunice shuddered, ran—a twistRound a sharp turning and she fled to hide.

XLVI

But he had seen her as she swiftly ran,A flash of white against the river’s grey.“Eunice,” he called.  “My Darling.  Eunice.  CanYou hear me?  It is Everard.  All dayI have been riding like the very devilTo 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 evilSpirit were seeing.  “What means this uncivilGreeting, Dear Heart?”  He saw her senses blur.

XLVII

Swaying and catching at the seat, she triedTo speak, but only gurgled in her throat.At last, straining to hold herself, she criedTo him for pity, and her strange words smoteA coldness through him, for she begged GervaseTo leave her, ’twas too much a second time.Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mindRepeated like a rhymeThis name he did not know.  In sad amazeHe watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze,So unremembering and so unkind.

XLVIII

Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealtWith what he feared her madness.  By and byHe pierced her understanding.  Then he kneltUpon the seat, and took her hands:  “Now tryTo think a minute I am come, my Dear,Unharmed and back on furlough.  Are you gladTo have your lover home again?  To me,Pickthorn has never hadA greater pleasantness.  Could you not bearTo 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 laidHer head, and they two rested there awhile,Each taking comfort.  Not a word was said.But when he put his hand upon her breastAnd felt her beating heart, and with his lipsSought solace for her and himself.  She startedAs one sharp lashed with whips,And pushed him from her, moaning, his dumb questDenied and shuddered from.  And he, distrest,Loosened his wife, and long they sat there, parted.

Eunice was very quiet all that day,A little dazed, and yet she seemed content.At candle-time, he asked if she would playUpon her harpsichord, at once she wentAnd tinkled airs from Lully’s ‘Carnival’And ‘Bacchus’, newly brought away from France.Then jaunted through a lively rigadoonTo please him with a danceBy Purcell, for he said that surely allGood Englishmen had pride in nationalAccomplishment.  But tiring of it soon

He whispered her that if she had forgivenHis startling her that afternoon, the clockMarked early bed-time.  Surely it was HeavenHe entered when she opened to his knock.The hours rustled in the trailing windOver the chimney.  Close they lay and knewOnly that they were wedded.  At his touchAnxiety she threwAway like a shed garment, and inclinedHerself to cherish him, her happy mindQuivering, unthinking, loving overmuch.

LII

Eunice lay long awake in the cool nightAfter her husband slept.  She gazed with joyInto the shadows, painting them with brightPictures of all her future life’s employ.Twin gems they were, set to a single jewel,Each shining with the other.  Soft she turnedAnd felt his breath upon her hair, and prayedHer happiness was earned.Past Earls of Crowe should give their blood for fuelTo light this Frampton’s hearth-fire.  By no cruelAffrightings would she ever be dismayed.

LIII

When Everard, next day, asked her in jokeWhat name it was that she had called him by,She told him of Gervase, and as she spokeShe hardly realized it was a lie.Her vision she related, but she hidThe fondness into which she had been led.Sir Everard just laughed and pinched her ear,And quite out of her headThe matter drifted.  Then Sir Everard chidHimself for laziness, and off he ridTo see his men and count his farming-gear.

LIV

At supper he seemed overspread with gloom,But gave no reason why, he only askedMore questions of Gervase, and round the roomHe walked with restless strides.  At last he taskedHer with a greater feeling for this manThan she had given.  Eunice quick deniedThe slightest interest other than a friendMight claim.  But he repliedHe thought she underrated.  Then a banHe put on talk and music.  He’d a planTo work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End.

Next morning Eunice found her Lord still changed,Hard and unkind, with bursts of anger.  PrideKept him from speaking out.  His probings rangedAll round his torment.  Lady Eunice triedTo sooth him.  So a week went by, and thenHis anguish flooded over; with clenched handsStriving to stem his words, he told her plainTony had seen them, “brandsBurning in Hell,” the man had said.  AgainEunice described her vision, and how whenAwoke at last she had known dreadful pain.

LVI

He could not credit it, and misery fedUpon his spirit, day by day it grew.To Gervase he forbade the house, and ledThe Lady Eunice such a life she flewAt his approaching footsteps.  Winter cameSnowing and blustering through the Manor trees.All the roof-edges spiked with iciclesIn fluted companies.The Lady Eunice with her tambour-frameKept herself sighing company.  The flameOf 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 writer’s, had so well recovered thatTo 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 sacrificeMake for a dying man?  How could she readThe 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 meetingAs farthest from the farms where EverardSpent all his days.  How should he know such cheatingWas quite expected, at least no dullardWas Everard Frampton.  Hours by hours he hidAmong the willows watching.  Dusk had come,And from the Manor he had long been gone.Eunice her burdensomeTask set about.  Hooded and cloaked, she slidOver the slippery paths, and soon amidThe sallows saw a boat tied to a stone.

LIX

Gervase arose, and kissed her hand, then pointedInto the boat.  She shook her head, but heBegged her to realize why, and with disjointedWords told her of what peril there might beFrom listeners along the river bank.A push would take them out of earshot.  TenMinutes was all he asked, then she should land,He go away again,Forever this time.  Yet how could he thankHer for so much compassion.  Here she sankUpon a thwart, and bid him quick unstrand

His boat.  He cast the rope, and shoved the keelFree of the gravel; jumped, and dropped besideHer; took the oars, and they began to stealUnder the overhanging trees.  A wideGash of red lantern-light cleft like a bladeInto the gloom, and struck on Eunice sittingRigid and stark upon the after thwart.It blazed upon their flittingIn merciless light.  A moment so it stayed,Then was extinguished, and Sir Everard madeOne leap, and landed just a fraction short.

LXI

His weight upon the gunwale tipped the boatTo straining balance.  Everard lurched and seizedHis wife and held her smothered to his coat.“Everard, loose me, we shall drown—“ and squeezedAgainst him, she beat with her hands.  He gasped“Never, by God!”  The slidden boat gave wayAnd the black foamy water split—and met.Bubbled up through the sprayA wailing rose and in the branches rasped,And creaked, and stilled.  Over the treetops, claspedIn the blue evening, a clear moon was set.

LXII

They lie entangled in the twisting roots,Embraced forever.  Their cold marriage bedClose-canopied and curtained by the shootsOf willows and pale birches.  At the head,White lilies, like still swans, placidly floatAnd sway above the pebbles.  Here are wavesSun-smitten for a threaded counterpaneGold-woven on their graves.In perfect quietness they sleep, remoteIn the green, rippled twilight.  Death has smoteThem to perpetual oneness who were twain.

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