I

That night, returning to the farm, we rode Before a storm. Uprolling from the west, Incessant with distending fire, loomed The multitudes of tempest: towering here A shadowy Shasta, there a cloudy Hood, Veined as with agonies, aurora-born, Of torrent gold; resplendent heaven to heaven, Far peak to peak, terrific spoke; the vast Sierras of the storm, within which beat The caverned thunder like a mighty stream: Vibrating on, with rushing wind and flame, Now th’ opening welkin shone, one livid sheet Of instantaneous gold, a giant’s forge, Wild-clanging; now, with streak on angled streak Of momentary light, a labyrinth Where shouting Darkness stalked with Titan torch: Again the firmament hung hewn with fire Whence leapt the thunder; and it seemed that hosts Of Heaven rushed to war with blazing shields And swords of splendor. And before the storm We galloped, while the frantic trees above Went wild with rain, through whose mad limbs and leaves Splashed black the first big drops. On, on we drove, And gained the gates, pillaring the avenue Of ancient beech, at whose far, flickering end, At last, beaconed the lights of home.

And she? Was it the lightning that lent lividness And terror to her countenance? or fear Of her own heart? revulsion? memory? Did deep regret, that, now the thing was done, That she was mine, a yearning to be free, Away from me, assail her? or, the thought, The knowledge, that she did not love the man Whom she had wedded? knowing better now That all her heart was Julien’s from the first, And would be Julien’s until the end. And did she now look backward on the past? Or forward--on the barrier that the church For all the future years had placed between The possible and impossible? God knows!

Yet I had won her honestly with words Love, only, uttered out of its soul’s truth; Had won her--was it openly?--perhaps!-- Although engaged to Julien.--What else Had led us to elopement?--Well, ’t was done! The whole, mad, lovely, miserable affair Of love and youthful folly. Being done We must abide the reckoning. That is, I would; and she?--she saw her duty there Beside her husband. And within myself, When we alighted from the carriage, thus,-- Beneath the porch,--my mind resolved the thing: “I am her husband now, and she my wife. Less than her husband, I, much less a man, Were I not able to regain and keep The love she gave me, that she thinks is his, That is not his. ’T is pity merely now That makes her pensive. I am pensive, too, For Julien, the poet and the friend; The dreamer and the lover.--But all ’s fair In love they say; and I,--well, willingly I’ll bear the burthen of the blame of all.” Scarce had we entered when high heaven oped Vast gates of bronze and doors of booming brass That dammed a deluge, and the deluge poured.-- I thought of him still; for I felt that she Was thinking too of Julien and his moods, That often swept his soul with storm like this, Yet oftener with sunlight than with storm; That soul of sun and tempest, ray and rain, My school-friend Julien! whom once she won To think she loved--I know not how. My play Was open as the morning, and as fair. His poverty and genius here, and here My wealth and--platitude; and I had won. But it was hard for him. I did not dream That it would end so. And when Gwendolyn Used every gentleness--and that is much-- I did not dream his poet’s temperament Were so affected of a love affair, A wrong or right; he, whose sole aim seemed song. I did not dream he ’d take it desperately, And end so tragically. Who ’d have thought His character, although so sensitive, Would fall into extremes of morbidness And melancholy! Had it now been I, Whose heart had lost in the great game of love, None would have wondered; for I am of those Whose vigorous iron does not bend, but break At one decisive blow: his should have sprung-- Or so I think, not broken as it had-- Elastic as fine-tempered steel that bends And then resumes its usual usefulness.

A pale smile strained the corners of her mouth When, from the porch, into the parlor’s blaze I led her. And her mother met us there, Her mother and her father. And I saw The slow reflection of their happiness Make glad her eyes, as their approval grew From half-severe rebukes, that were well meant, To open, glad avowal of their joy. She had done well, and we were soon forgiven....

But I resumed his letter when alone: His letter written her three months before, When all was over, and we two were one, And well upon our way to Italy For six sweet months of honeymoon. His word, His letter, all of her, that came to me At Venice, that I opened in mistake, Amid a lot of papers sent from home. She had not read, and never should while I Had power to conceal until I ’d read. I would not let the dead scrawl mar or soil My late-won joy, my testament of love. No! I would read it, afterwards destroy. Thoughts made of music for a last farewell, When he knew all and asked her to perpend Expressions of past things her gift of love Had given speech to in the happy days. And so I read:--