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Amy Lowell:Pickthorn Manor

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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 river's 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 Lully's `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



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