Chapter I

That time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,
Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,
Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and iterant grasshoppers, crying
All the still nights long, from the ripened abundance of gardens;
Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest
autumn,
But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,
Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor;
And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,
And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the
tree-top;
When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the
thistles,
Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes and the
loppings,
When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,
And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;
When the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,
And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you cannot
remember,--
Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!
That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the meadow,
Fronting the sinking sun, and the level stream of its splendor
Crimsoned the meadow-slope and woodland with tenderest sunset,
Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,
Smote through the painéd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the
sense, there.
Languidly clung about by the half-fallen shawl, and with folded
Hands, that held a few sad asters: "I sigh for this idyl
Lived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,"
With a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,
"Better and better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened
Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together
Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woodlands;
All our afternoon readings, and all our strolls through the moonlit
Village,--so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scandal,
Heartache, and trouble, and spite, that were hushed for the night,
in its silence.
Yes, I am better. I think I could even be civil to _him_ for his
kindness,
Letting me come here without him.... But open the gate, Cousin
Clement;
Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.
--No, then I you need not speak, for I know well enough what is
coming:
Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging views of the future?
Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,--just as you like it;--
Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.
Then I'll take part in the play, and appear the remorseful young
person
Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius
Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.
O you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish?
Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband."
Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,
Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,
Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,--
All her mocking face transfigured,--with mournful effusion:
"Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,--
Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Ambition,
Fame, and your art,--you have all these things to console you.
I--what have I in this world? Since my child is dead--a bereavement."
Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him
Broken, and melting in tears. But he shrank from her touch while he
answered
(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, being a lover),
"Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me
beforetime,
With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!
Yes, you might play it, I think,--that _rôle_ of remorseful young
person,
That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted.
Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,
Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant
you--
Not, indeed, for your word--that is light--but I wish to believe
you.
Well, I say, since you have not forgotten, forget now, forever!
I--I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.
Only receive this bud to remember me when we have parted,--
Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I
cherished!"
There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,
Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mocking obeisance,
Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:
"You are a wiser man than I thought you could ever be, Clement,--
Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember."
Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,
Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.