And Stukeley laughed. Then, as he bore himself to the grim end, All doubt being over, the old sea-king stood Among those glittering points, a king indeed. The black boats rocked. We heard his level voice, "_Sir Lewis, these actions never will turn out To your good credit._" Across the moonlit Thames It rang contemptuously, cold as cold steel, And passionless as the judgment that ends all.
Some three months later, Raleigh's widow came To lodge a se'nnight at the Mermaid Inn. His house in Bread Street was no more her own, But in the hands of Stukeley, who had reaped A pretty harvest ... She kept close to her room, and that same night, Being ill and with some fever, sent her maid To fetch the apothecary from Friday Street, Old "Galen" as the Mermaid christened him. At that same moment, as the maid went out, Stukeley came in. He met her at the door; And, chucking her under the chin, gave her a letter. "Take this up to your mistress. It concerns Her property," he said. "Say that I wait, And would be glad to speak with her." The wench Looked pertly in his face, and tripped upstairs. I scarce could trust my hands. "Sir Lewis," I said, "This is no time to trouble her. She is ill." "Let her decide," he answered, with a sneer. Before I found another word to say The maid tripped down again. I scarce believed My senses, when she beckoned him up the stair. Shaking from head to foot, I blocked the way. "Property!" Could the crux of mine and thine Bring widow and murderer into one small room? "Sir Lewis," I said, "she is ill. It is not right! She never would consent." He sneered again, "You are her doctor? Out of the way, old fool! She has decided!" "Go," I said to the maid, "Fetch the apothecary. Let it rest With him!" She tossed her head. Her quick eyes glanced, Showing the white, like the eyes of a vicious mare. She laughed at Stukeley, loitered, then obeyed.
And so we waited, till the wench returned, With Galen at her heels. His wholesome face, Russet and wrinkled like an apple, peered Shrewdly at Stukeley, twinkled once at me, And passed in silence, leaving a whiff of herbs Behind him on the stair. Five minutes later, To my amazement, that same wholesome face Leaned from the lighted door above, and called "Sir Lewis Stukeley!" Sir Judas hastened up. The apothecary followed him within. The door shut. I was left there in the dark Bewildered; for my heart was hot with thoughts Of those last months. Our Summer's Nightingale, Our Ocean-Shepherd from the Main-deep Sea, The Founder of our Mermaid Fellowship, Was this his guerdon--at the Mermaid Inn? Was this that maid-of-honour whose romance With Raleigh, once, had been a kingdom's talk? Could Bess Throckmorton slight his memory thus? "It is not right," I said, "it is not right. She wrongs him deeply." I leaned against the porch Staring into the night. A ghostly ray Above me, from her window, bridged the street, And rested on the goldsmith's painted sign Opposite. I could hear the muffled voice Of Stukeley overhead, persuasive, bland; And then, her own, cooing, soft as a dove Calling her mate from Eden cedar-boughs, Flowed on and on; and then--all my flesh crept At something worse than either, a long space Of silence that stretched threatening and cold, Cold as a dagger-point pricking the skin Over my heart. Then came a stifled cry, A crashing door, a footstep on the stair Blundering like a drunkard's, heavily down; And with his gasping face one tragic mask Of horror,--may God help me to forget Some day the frozen awful eyes of one Who, fearing neither hell nor heaven, has met That ultimate weapon of the gods, the face And serpent-tresses that turn flesh to stone-- Stukeley stumbled, groping his way out, Blindly, past me, into the sheltering night.