Читать книгу Men, Women and Ghosts - Lowell Amy - Страница 7

Table of Contents

I

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.

II

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.

III

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.

IV

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.

V

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?

VI

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."

VII

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.

VIII

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.

IX

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.

X

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."

XI

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.

XII

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.

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.

XXIII

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.

XXIV

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

XXV

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.

XXVI

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.

XXVII

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.

XXVIII

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.

XXIX

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.

XXX

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.

XXXI

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.

XXXII

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

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.