Against the magic of her slenderness,
Gabrielle in whom there was much of spring, much of chilly fall, much of Botticelli—a shadowed mingling of violets and wintergreen. Bartholow saw this and that morning, when she stood in the doorway, half awake, watching his springtime antics of adoration of his new self in his looking-glass, he found her irresistible and
crushed
The fragrant elements of mingled wool
And beauty in his arms and pressed with his
A cool silk mouth, which made a quick escape,
Leaving an ear—to which he told unheard
The story of his life intensively.
“He told unheard”. There, there was the cloud that must bring him darkness. Gabrielle did not heed him.
For the sake of an explanation, let us first attribute her listlessness to a dislike of physical affections from her husband. Let us say, along with Penn-Raven, that she retreated from Roman because she was an adultress, that she told him she would never build that house because that house would be founded on a lie. Infidelity must out. How great then would be the tumbling down of Roman’s house! A woman guilty as she could never hope to build a spiritual house.