Read Ebook: Men Women and Ghosts by Lowell Amy

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Ebook has 541 lines and 59843 words, and 11 pages

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

LII

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.

LIV

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.

LVI

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.

The Cremona Violin

Part First

Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind The distant town was black, and sharp defined Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

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