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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 Everard's 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 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 gladness Of
being this man's 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 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 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.
