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      Sunday

My dear Watts

Your affec:

DGR      

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• “Sister,” said busy Amelotte
• To listless Aloÿse;
• “Along your wedding-road the wheat
• Bends as as if listening/hearkening for your to hear your palfrey's horse's feet,
• And the noonday stands still for heat.”

Deleted Text
Ah! sister, sister Aloÿse,
Keep watch through
all those fields.
Upon your bridesmaid at your
side;
For if I wear my years
with pride
I too this day may
be a bride.“

• Amelotte laughed into the glass air
• With eyes that sought the sun:
• But where the walls in with long brocade
• Stretched dim, Were wrought screened, as one who is afraid
• 10Sat Aloÿse within the shade.

• And even in shade was gleam enough light
• To shut out rest and peace full repose
• From the grand bridal-chamber, bride's 'tiring-chamber, which
• Was like the inner altar-niche
• Whose darkness splendour has made rich.

Deleted Text
The window was a wall of glass
Clear-latticed for the day
Beneath, where all its panes were white:
Above, it stood the chamber's height,
A maze of colour drenched with light.

• Within the window's heaped recess
• The light was counterchanged
• With thin In blent reflexes manifold
• From perfume-caskets of wrought gold
• And gems the bride's hair could not hold

• All thrust together: and with these
• A slim-curved lute, which now,
• At Amelotte's sudden passing there,
• Was swept in somewise unaware,
• And shook to music the close air.

Deleted Text
The window was a wall of glass
Clear-latticed for the day
Beneath, where all its panes were white:
Above, it stood the chamber's height,
A maze of colour drenched with light.

• Against the haloed lattice warm
• The bridesmaid sunned her breast;
• Then to the her the glass turned tall and free,
• And braced and shifted daintily
• 20Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie.

• The belt was silver, and the clasp
• Of lozenged [?] arm-bearings;
• A world of A thousand A world of [?] A world of mirrored tints minute
• The rippling sunshine wrought into't
• And bloomed her tender hands like fruit.
  Added TextThat flushed her hand and warmed her foot.

• At least an hour had Aloÿse,—
• With Her jewels in her hair—
• Clad in white samite, as a bride,
  Added TextHer white gown, as became a bride,
• Quartered in silver at each side,—
• 30Sat thus aloof, as if to hide.

• Over her bosom, that lay still,
• The vest was rich in grain,
• With close pearls wholly overset:
• Bound Around her long throat the fastenings met
• Of chevesayle and mantelet.

• Her arms were laid along her lap
• With the hands open: life
• Itself did seem at fault in her:
• Beneath the drooping brows, the stir
• 40Of thought made noonday heavier.

• Long sat she silent; and then raised
• Her head, with such a gasp
• As while she summoned breath to speak
• Fanned high that furnace in the cheek
• But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak.

• (Oh gather round her now, all ye
• Past seasons of her fear,—
• Sick springs, and summers deadly cold!
• For In To flight your waiting hovering wings unfold,
• 50For now your secret shall be told.

• Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts
• Of dread detecting flame,—
• Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels
• Went past with iron clank of bells,—
• Draw round and render up your spells!)

• “Sister,” said Aloÿse, “I had
• A thing to tell thee of
• Long since, and could not. But do thou
• Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow
• 60Thine heart, and I will tell thee now.”

• Amelotte wondered with her eyes;
• But her heart said in her:
• “Dear Aloÿse would have me pray
• Because the awe she feels to-day
• Must need more prayers than she can say.”

• So Amelotte put by the folds
• That covered up her feet,
• And knelt,—beyond the arras'd gloom
• And the hot window's dull perfume,—
• 70Where day was stillest in the room.

• “Queen Mary, hear,” she said, “and say
• To Jesus the Lord Christ,
• This bride's new joy, which He confers,
• Like New joy to many ministers,
• And many griefs are bound in hers.”

Deleted Text
Aloÿse shut her fingers hard,
And shut her eyes, and spoke:
“Keep kneeling still, sweet Amelotte,”
She said, “lest when thy love be not
Enough, and scorn possess thy thought.

Deleted Text
“Thou seest not (for it was not seen )
All I have borne & bear:—
That all is not enough, I know:
If When from my speech thy [?] doth disdain shall grow,
Remember that the thing is so.”

• Sweet Amelotte The bride turned Then turned she The bride turned in her chair, and hid
• Her face against the back,
• And , trembling, took her pearl gold-girt elbows in
• Her hands, and could not yet begin,
• 80But merely uttered uttered one name, shuddering, uttered, “Urscelyn!”.

• Most weak she was; for as she pressed
• Her hand against her throat,
• Along the arras she let trail
• Her face, as if all heart did fail,
• And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale.

• Amelotte still was on her knees
• As she had kneeled to pray.
• Deeming her sister swooned, she thought,
• At first, some succour to have brought;
• 80But seeing her hands move, did not Aloÿse rocked, as one distraught.

• She would have pushed the lattice wide
• To gain what breeze might be;
• But marking that no leaf once beat
• The outside casement, it seemed meet
• Not to bring in more scent and heat.

• So she said only: “Aloÿse,
• Sister, when happened it
• At any time that the bride came
• To ill, or spoke in fear of shame,
• 90When speaking first the bridegroom's name?”

• A bird had out its song and ceased
• Ere the bride spoke. At length
• She said: “The name is as the thing:
• Sin hath no second christening,
• And shame is all that shame can bring.

• “In divers places more than once
• I would have told thee this;
• But faintness took me, or a fit
• Like fever. God would not permit
• 100That I should change thine eyes with it.”

• “Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard:—
• That time we wandered out
• All the sun's hours, but missed our way
• When evening darkened, and so lay
• The whole night covered up in hay.

• “At last my face was hidden: so,
• Having God's hint, I paused
• Not long; but drew myself more near
• Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear,
• 110And whispered quick into thine ear

• Something of the whole tale. At first
• I lay and bit my hair
• For the sore silence thou didst keep:
• Till, as thy breath came long & deep,
• I knew that thou hadst been asleep.

• The moon was covered, but the stars
• Lasted till morning broke.
• Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream
• Had been of me,—that all did seem
• 120At jar,—but that it was a dream.

• I knew God's hand and might not speak.
• After that night I kept
• Silence and let the record swell:
• Till now there is much more to tell
• Which must be told out ill or well.”

Deleted Text
“Mary and Christ! Lest when 'tis told
I should be prone to wrath,—
This prayer beforehand! How she errs
Soe'er, take count of grief like hers,
Whereof the days are turned to years!”

• She paused then, weary, with dry lips
• Apart. From the outside
• By fits there boomed a dull report
• From where i' the hanging tennis-court
• 130The bridegroom's retinue made sport.

• The room lay still in dusty glare,
• Having no sound through through it
• Except the chirp of a caged bird
• That came & ceased: and if she stirred,
• Amelotte's raiment could be heard.

• Quoth Amelotte: “The night this chanced
• Was a late summer night
• Last year! What secret, for Christ's love,
• Keep'st thou since then? Mary above!
• 140What thing is this thou speakest of?”

• She bowed her head neck, and having said,
• Kept on her knees to hear;
• And then, because strained thought demands
• Quiet before it understands,
• Darkened her eyesight with her hands.

• So when at last her sister spoke,
• She did not see the pain
• O' the mouth nor the ashamèd eyes,
• But marked the breath that came in sighs
• 150And the half-pausing for replies.

• The speech went thus, or hard on it
  Added TextThis was the bride's sad prelude-strain:—
• “I' the convent where the a girl
• I was grew up to dwelt till near my womanhood,
• I had but preachings of the rood
• And Aves told in solitude

• “To spend my heart on: and my hand
• Had but the weary skill
• To eke out upon silken cloth
• Christ's visage, or the long bright growth
• 160Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth.

• “So when at last I went, and thou,
• A child not known before,
• Didst come to take the place I left,—
• My limbs, after such lifelong theft
• Of life, could be but little deft

• “In all that ministers delight
• To noble women: I
• Had learned no duress such as yours word of love's youth's discourse
• Nor gazed on games of warriors,
• 170Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse.

• “Besides, the ir daily life i' the sun
• Made me at first hold back.
• To thee this came at once; to me
• It crept with pauses timidly;
• I am not blithe and strong like thee.

• “Yet my feet liked the dances well,
• The songs went to my voice,
• The music made me shake and weep;
• And often, all night long, my sleep
• 180Gave dreams I had been fain to keep.

• “But though I loved not holy things,
• To hear them scorned brought pain,—
• They were my childhood; and these dames
• Were only merely perjured in saints' names
• And fixed upon saints' days for games.

• “And sometimes when my father rode
• To hunt with his loud friends,
• I dared not bring him to be quaff e'd,
• As my wont was, his stirrup-draught,
• 190Because they jested so and laugh'd.

• “At last one day my brothers said,
• “The girl must not grow thus,—
• Bring her a jennet,—she shall ride.”
• They helped my mounting, and I tried
• To seem laugh with them and keep their side.

• “But the end was I took a fall,
  Added Text“But brakes were rough and bents were steep
• And when I strove to rise
  Added TextUpon our path that day:
• My strength was gone; and so I sunk; so catching breath, I went My strength had left me; so I went
  Added TextMy palfrey threw me; and I went
• Home on men's shoulders, hurt & faint,
  Added TextUpon men's shoulders home, sore spent,
• 200
  Added TextWhile the hun chase followed up the scent.

• “ The Our shrift-father, (and he alone
• Of all the household there
• Had skill in leechcraft,) was away
• So, tossing on my couch, I lay
  Added TextWhen I reached home. I tossed, and lay
• Sullen with anguish the whole day.

• “For the day passed ere some one brought
• To mind that in the hunt
• Rode a young lord she named, long bred
• Among the priests, whose art (she said)
• 210Might chance to stand me in much stead.

• “I bade them seek and summon him:
• But long ere this, the chase
• Had scattered, and he was not found.
• I lay in the same weary stound,
• Therefore, until the night came round.

• “It was dead night and near on twelve
• When the horse-tramp at length
• Beat up the echoes of the court:
• By then, my feverish pulse came breath pulse breath was short
• 220With pain the sense could scarce support.

• “My dearest fond nurse sitting near my feet
• Rose softly,—her lamp's flame
• Held in her hand, lest it should make
• My heated lids, in passing, ache;
• And she passed softly, for my sake.

• “Returning soon, she brought the youth
• They spoke of. Meek he seemed,
• But good knights held him of stout heart.
• He was akin to us in part,
• 230And bore our shield, but barred athwart.

• “I now remembered to have seen
• His face, and heard him praised
• For letter-lore and medicine,
• Seeing his youth was nurtured in
• Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been.”

• The bride's voice did not weaken here,
• Yet by her sudden pause
• She seemed to look for questioning;
• Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring
• 240Well to her mind the long known the bygone thing.

• Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech,
• Gave her a sick recoil;
• As, dip thy fingers through the green
• That masks a pool,—where they have been
• The naked depth is black between.

• Amelotte kept her knees; her face
• Was shut within her hands,
• And had As it had been throughout the tale;
• Her forehead's whiteness might avail
• 250Nothing to say if she were pale.

• Although the lattice had dropped loose,
• There was no wind; the heat
• Being so at rest that Amelotte
• Heard far beneath the plunge & float
• Of a hound washing swimming in the moat.

• Some minutes since, a two rook s had toiled
• Back Home to its the nests built deep that crowned
• In buttress-coign. Ancestral ash-trees. Into Through the glare
• Beating again, it they seemed to tear
• 260With that thick caw the woof o' the air.

• But else, 'twas at the dead of noon
• Absolute silence; all,
• From the raised bridge and guarded sconce
• To green-clad places of pleasaùnce
• Where the long lake was white with swans.

• Amelotte spoke not any word
• Nor moved she once; but felt
• Between her hands in narrow space
• Her own hot breath upon her face,
• 270And kept in silence the same place.

• Aloÿse did not hear at all
• The sounds without. She heard
• The inward voice (past help obey e 'd)
• Which not [?] might not slacken nor be stay'd,
• But urged her till the whole were said.

• Therefore she spoke again: “That night
• There was not much to do:
  Added TextBut little could be done:
• He took my foot into his hands,
  Added TextMy foot, held in my nurse's hands,
• And He swathed it up heedfully in bands,
• 280And for my rest gave close commands.

• “I slept till noon, but an ill sleep
• Of dreams: through all that day
• My side was stiff and caught the breath;
• Next day, such pain as sickeneth
• Took me, and I was nigh to death.

• “At least I thought so. This endured
  Added Text“Life strove, Death claimed me for his own
• Some Through days and nights: but now
• 'Twas the shrift good father tended me,
• Having returned. Still, I did see
• 290The youth I spoke of constantly.

• “For he would with my brothers come
• To stay beside my couch,
• And fix my eyes against his own,
• Noting my pulse; or else alone,
• To sit at gaze while I made moan.

• Those n “(Some nights I knew he kept the watch,
• Because my women laid
• The rushes thick for his steel shoes.)
• Through many days this pain did use
• 300The life God would not let me lose.

• “At length, I bettered and would walk, with my good nurse to aid,
• But not without some help.
  Added TextI could walk forth again:
• And still, as one who broods or grieves,
• At noons I'd meet him and at eves,
• With idle feet that drove the leaves.

Added Text
Little we said; nor one heart heard
Even what was said within;
And, faltering some farewell, I soon
Rose up; but then i'the autumn noon
My feeble brain whirled like a swoon.

• “The day when I first walked alone
• Was dead thinned in grass and leaf,
• And yet a goodly day o' the year:
• The bird's long throstle's last bird's cry upon mine ear
• 310Left my brain weak, it was so clear.

• “The tears were sharp within mine eyes;
• I sat down, being glad,
• And wept; but stayed the sudden flow
• Anon, for footsteps that fell slow;
• 'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low.

• “He passed me without speech; but when,
• At least an hour gone by,
• Rethreading the same covert, he
• Saw I was still beneath the tree,
• 320He spoke and sat him down with me.

Deleted Text
“He said but little and I less;
He was not well at ease,
Nor I; so, feeling such constraint,
I rose, with, “ Sir, 'twere time I went;”
But rising, I was like to faint.

• “He made me sit. “Cousin, I grieve
• Your sickness stays by you.”
• “I would,” said I, “that you did err
• So grieving. I am wearier
• 330 Than I can tell you of it, Sir.”
  Added TextThan death, of the sickening dying year.”

• “He answered: ”If your weariness
• Accepts a remedy,
• I hold one & can give it you.”
• I gazed: “What ministers thereto,
• Be sure,“ I said, ”that I will do.”

• “He went on quickly:—'Twas a cure
• He had not ever named
• Unto our kin lest they should stint
• Their favour, for some foolish hint
• 340Of wizardry or magic in't:

• “But that if he were let to come
• Within my bower that night,
• (My women still attending me,
• He said, while he remain'd there,) he
• Could teach me the cure privily.

• “I bade him come that night. He came;
• But little in his speech
• Was cure or sickness spoken of,
• Only a passionate fierce love
• 350That clamoured upon God above.

• “My women wondered, leaning close
• Aloof. At mine own heart
• I think great wonder was not stirr e 'd.
• I did not dared shrank from dared not listen ing , but yet I heard
• His tangled speech, word within word.

• “He craved my pardon first,—all else
• Mere bubbling Wild tumult. In the end
• He remained silent at my feet
• Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat
• 360Made all the blood of my life meet.

• “I found I loved him. I but said,
• If he would leave me then,
• He should hear more of what had pass'd,
• His hot lips stung my hand: at last
• My damsels led him forth in haste.”

• The bride took breath to pause; and turned
• Her gaze where Amelotte
• Knelt,—the gold hair upon her back
• Quite still in all its threads,—the track
• 370Of her still shadow sharp and black.

• That listening without sight had grown
• To stealthy dread; and now
• That the one sound she had to mark
• Left her alone too, she was stark
• Afraid, as children in the dark.

• Her fingers felt her temples beat;
• Then came that brain-sickness
• Which thinks to scream, and murmureth;
• And pent between her hands, the breath
• 380Was damp against her face like death.

• Her arms both fell at once; but when
• She gasped upon the light,
• Her sense returned. She would have pray'd
• To change whatever words still stay'd
• Behind, but felt there was no aid.

• So she rose up, and having gone
• Within the window's arch
• Once more, she sat there, on the scent [?] pent all intent
• Among And her [?], On torturing doubts, and once more bent
• 390To hear, in mute bewilderment.

• But Aloÿse still paused. Thereon
• Amelotte gathered voice
• In somewise from the torpid fear
• Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear
• She said: “Speak, sister; for I hear.”

• But Aloÿse threw up her neck
• And called the name of God:—
• “Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day!
• She knows how hard this is to say,
• 400Yet will not have one word away.”

• Her sister was quite silent. Then
• Afresh:—“Not she, dear Lord!
• Thou be my judge, on Thee I call!”
• She ceased,—her forehead smote the wall:
• “Is there a God,” she said “at all?”

• Amelotte shuddered and [?] at the soul
• But did not speak. The pause
• Was long this time. At length the bride
• Pressed her hand hard against her side,
• 410And trembling between shame and pride

• Said by fierce effort: “From that night
• Often at nights we met:
• What else he hoped was unexpress'd
  Added TextThat night, his passion could but rave:
• Save pardon — ever his sole guest:
  Added TextThe next, what grace his lips did crave
• Pardon I gave; he took the rest.”
  Added TextI knew not, but I know I gave.”

• Where Amelotte was sitting, all
• The light and warmth of day
• Were so upon her without shade
• That the thing seemed by sunshine made
• 420Most foul and wanton to be said.

• She would have questioned more, & known
• The whole truth at its worst,
• But held her silent, in mere shame
• Of day. 'Twas only these words came:—
• “Sister, thou hast not said his name.”

Deleted Text
In places of dark water at night;
Or thine own image, garbed
Strangely, and printed in some year
Old long before the birth of her
Whose womb first felt the life astir.

Deleted Text
And as thou then might'st be at gaze
And feel God's shadow cross
This life, —even so did Amelotte
An instant find her sense distraught
With wonder and the dread of thought.

• “Sister,“ quoth Amelotte, Aloÿse, ”thou know'st
• His name. I said that he
• Was in a manner of our kin.
• Waiting the title he might win,
• 430They called him the Lord Urscelyn.”

• The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte
• Daily familiar,—heard
• Thus in this dreadful history,—
• Was dreadful to her; as might be
• Thine own voice speaking unto thee.