Chapter II

Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,-- A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen Of sight and hearing to the delicate Beauty and music of an altered world; Began to walk in that mysterious light Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, Intenser meaning; in disquieting Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love.

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. She never turned from him with sweet caprice, Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, But excellent in youthful grace came up; And ere his words were ready, passing on, Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure That by her own true will, and fixed intent, She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit He knew she did not love him, yet so long As of a rival unaware, he dwelt All in the present, without fear, or hope, Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, And could not get his head above its wave To reach the far horizon, or to mark Whereto it drifted him. So long, so long; Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale All in the tolling out of noon. 'Twas thus: Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, Half turning, through a sense that came to him As of some presence in it, he beheld His love, and she had come for shelter there; And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, The blush of happiness; and one held up Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes Were full of peace and tender light: they looked One moment in the ungraced lover's face While he was passing in the snow; and he Received the story, while he raised his hat Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; And in a certain way he marked the snow, And walked, and came upon the open heath; And in a certain way he marked the cold, And walked as one that had no starting-place Might walk, but not to any certain goal.

And he strode on toward a hollow part, Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, And he was conscious of a cry, and went Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, O my good God, He sends us help at last."

Then looking hard upon her, came to him The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes.

"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; "Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, As praying him to take it; and he did; And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust Its small round face against his breast, and felt With small red hands for warmth,--unbearable Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, For the poor upland dwellers had been out Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through The great white storm coming, and coming yet. And coming till the world confounded sat With all her fair familiar features gone, The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, He led or bore them, and the little one Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, I left my can of milk upon the moor." And he compared her trouble with his own, And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; It filled her to the putting down of pain And hunger,--what could his do more? He brought The children to their home, and suddenly Regained himself, and wondering at himself, That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, The weary wailing of the girl: he paid Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, "Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, It is no matter!" and went forth again And waded in the snow, and quietly Considered in his patience what to do With all the dull remainder of his days.

With dusk he was at home, and felt it good To hear his kindred talking, for it broke A mocking, endless echo in his soul, "It is no matter!" and he could not choose But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, It is no matter!" For he felt that all Was as it had been, and his father's heart Was easy, knowing not how that same day Hope with her tender colors and delight (He should not care to have him know) were dead; Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, It was no matter. And he heard them talk Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, And profitable markets. All for him Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam About his head, whenever there was pause; "It is no matter!" And his greater self Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, It matters all to these, that not to-day Nor ever they should know it. I will hide The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust Himself in thought away, and made his ears Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem Another, to make answer, when they spoke, As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, And no despair. So this went on awhile Until the snow had melted from the wold, And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech Faltered; but when the common kindly words Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, "Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: She answered "Yes," and sighed. "O pardon me. Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: Is he with whom I saw you once of late To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; And over all her face the rose-bloom came, As thinking on that other, unaware Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, A quickened sense of his great impotence To drive away the doom got hold on him; He set his teeth to force the unbearable Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes Flashed as with flame. And she, all overawed And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, And trembled at the deep she could not sound; A passionate nature in a storm; a heart Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp Of an immortal love. "Farewell," he said, Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, "My thanks for your good candor; for I feel That it has cost you something." Then, the blush Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: But keep this matter from your friends and kin, We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, Because there leaped from under his straight lids, And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,-- "He wills it, and I therefore think it well." Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, Whether they met on festal eve, in field, Or at the church, she ever bore herself Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, The disapproval hastily betrayed And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, And he rewards me with surprise. I like No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed Where he bestowed it." But the spring came on: Looking to wed in April all her thoughts Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed More happy with her happiness, and oft Walking among the flowery woods she felt Their loveliness reach down into her heart, And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, The rapture that was satisfied with light, The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring.

And as for him,--(Some narrow hearts there are That suffer blight when that they fed upon As something to complete their being fails, And they retire into their holds and pine, And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, That in a sacred want and hunger rise, And draw the misery home and live with it, And excellent in honor wait, and will That somewhat good should yet be found in it, Else wherefore were they born?),--and as for him, He loved her, but his peace and welfare made The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange Threw open wide its hospitable doors And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. In him the eyes at home were satisfied, And if he did but laugh the ear approved. What then? He dwelt among them as of old, And taught his mouth to smile. And time went on, Till on a morning, when the perfect spring Rested among her leaves, he journeying home After short sojourn in a neighboring town, Stopped at the little station on the line That ran between his woods; a lonely place And quiet, and a woman and a child Got out. He noted them, but walking on Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, And she was sitting on a rustic seat That overlooked the line, and he desired With longing indescribable to look Upon her face again. And he drew near. She was right happy; she was waiting there. He felt that she was waiting for her lord. She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek In her fair hand. And he, not able yet To force himself away, and never more Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, And wild anemone, for many a clump Grew all about him, and the hazel rods Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard The stopping train, and felt that he must go; His time was come. There was nought else to do Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near And would have had her take it from his hand; But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, And then remembering him and his long love, She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees Suddenly broke upon their quietude The woman and her child. And Muriel said, "What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, "Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, As if considering in how short a while It would be changed, she lifted up her face And gave it, and the little child drew near And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,-- "Your errand with this lady?"--"And your right To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face And looked,--they looked into each other's eyes.

"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, "That man with whom you think to wed so soon, You must not heed him. What! the world is full Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, Better than he,--that I should say it!--far Better." And down her face the large tears ran, And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, Taking a terrible meaning from her words; And Laurance stared about him half in doubt If this were real, for all things were so blithe, And soft air tossed the little flowers about; The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes.

He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; A man that could desert and plan to wed Will not his purpose yield to God and right, Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, If you be come this day to urge a claim, You will not tell me that your claim will hold; 'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, Sorrowful, hateful story!" Muriel sighed, With a dull patience that he marvelled at, "Be plain with me. I know not what to think, Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? Be plain with me." And all too quietly, With running down of tears, the answer came, "Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, And cried upon him with a bitter cry, Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, With such affright, and violent anger stirred He broke from out the thicket to her side, Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, Herbert!"--and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, And lifted up his hand and looked at it, And at the woman; but a man was there Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself Between them; he was strong,--a stalwart man: And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. "What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive And wrestle all this April day? A word, And not a blow, is what these women want: Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak With passion and great anguish, flung himself Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, "Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, Not for myself, nor for your child. I know We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, O sweet, forgive me." Then the woman moved Slowly away: her little singing child Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, And sat before these two that loved her so, Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; And afterwards the man she loved stooped down And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew To look at her, and with a gesture pray Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, And presently, and soon, O,--he was gone.

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, Remained beside her; and she put her hand Before her face again, and afterward She heard a voice, as if a long way off, Some one entreated, but she could not heed. Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised Her passive from her seat. So then she knew That he would have her go with him, go home,-- It was not far to go,--a dreary home. A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, Had in her youth, and for a place and home, Married the stern old rector; and the girl Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,--had no kin Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, And spared to her the telling of this woe. He sought her kindred where they sat apart, And laid before them all the cruel thing, As he had seen it. After, he retired: And restless, and not master of himself, He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; And all things, even to the spreading out Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace And glory and great light on mountain heads,-- All things were leagued against him,--ministered By likeness or by contrast to his love.

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace He would have purchased for her with all prayers, And costly, passionate, despairing tears? O what to her that he should find it worse To bear her life's undoing than his own?

She let him see her, and she made no moan, But talked full calmly of indifferent things, Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes And lovely wasted cheek, he started up With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel His manhood giving way, and utterly Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, Battling and chiding with himself, the maze.

She suffered, and he could not make her well For all his loving;--he was naught to her. And now his passionate nature, set astir, Fought with the pain that could not be endured; And like a wild thing suddenly aware That it is caged, which flings and bruises all Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged Against the misery: then he made all worse With tears. But when he came to her again, Willing to talk as they had talked before, She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, "I know you have been crying": and she bent Her own fair head and wept. She felt the cold-- The freezing cold that deadened all her life-- Give way a little; for this passionate Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears.