Figurines in Old Saxe
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 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 river's azure warp.


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.


A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
  Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's 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.


Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
  Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's 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 morning's flame
Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame
        She 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 what
  He'd 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?


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 you'll wriggle through."


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.


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.


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 -- "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 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."


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.


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.


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."


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."


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.


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


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,


"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.


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.


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.


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.


"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.


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.


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 cherry's shade. He pleased her very well
By his discourse. But ever he must dwell
        Upon Sir Everard. Each incident


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 fish's fins
In the hot sunshine turned a mauve-green hue.
At last Gervase, guessing the hour, withdrew.
        But she sat long in still oblivion.


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.


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 she'd allow,
In the oak parlour, underneath the dim
Old pictured Framptons, opposite her slim
        Figure, so bright against the chair behind.


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.


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 spirit's filled
This tree. White-hearts!" He shook, and cherries spilled
        And spat out from the leaves like falling fire.


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.


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.


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


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.


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!


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.


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.


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.


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.


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


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.


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,


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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."


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.


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


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.


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 life's 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 Frampton's hearth-fire. By no cruel
        Affrightings would she ever be dismayed.


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.


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. He'd a plan
        To work at, draining swamps at Pickthorn End.


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.


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.


A letter was brought to her as she sat,
  Unsealed, unsigned. It told her that his wound,
The writer's, 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.


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.


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


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.


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.


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.