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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! What's 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 Christ's Death! I will split him to a span
Of 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 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, you're 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.
