They’ve kept the servant sitting up;
It’s late again,
Their fire burning so high they’ve opened a door,
And from her room
She hears them settling the great questions:
How treat a case
Of green-sickness, or again, one of unrequited love?
The fire burns down,
They close the door. She was writing to her mother,
Resumes: Don’t think
Of consulting that fraudulent woman. Her sister, who
Died, had the gift.
… I understand, it must be hard for her,
So long, no news,
But surely, secretly it comforts her heart
That the child thrives.
The voices boom again, the door is wide,
She hears the bell,
Appears with her candlestick, ready to guide
A guest to bed,
Then back to her letter. The lady of this house
Keeps to her room.
The master sighs as he locks the heavy street door.
There is no cure.