Men, Women and Ghosts | Page 8

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.
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,