The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter With an Introduction by Charles Dickens |
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THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. |
The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter | ||
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE.
I
Yes, it looked dark and dreary,That long and narrow street:
Only the sound of the rain,
And the tramp of passing feet,
The duller glow of the fire,
And gathering mists of night
To mark how slow and weary
The long day's cheerless flight!
II
Watching the sullen fire,Hearing the dismal rain,
Drop after drop, run down
On the darkening window-pane:
314
Chill as that winter day,—
For the star of her life had risen
Only to fade away.
III
The voice that had been so strongTo bid the snare depart,
The true and earnest will,
The calm and steadfast heart,
Were now weighed down by sorrow,
Were quivering now with pain;
The clear path now seemed clouded
And all her grief in vain.
IV
Duty, Right, Truth, who promisedTo help and save their own,
Seemed spreading wide their pinions
To leave her there alone.
So, turning from the Present
To well-known days of yore,
She called on them to strengthen
And guard her soul once more.
V
She thought how in her girlhoodHer life was given away,
The solemn promise spoken
She kept so well to-day;
315
She had been help and guide,
And how his artist nature
On her calm strength relied.
VI
How through life's fret and turmoilThe passion and fire of art
In him was soothed and quickened
By her true sister heart;
How future hopes had always
Been for his sake alone;
And now,—what strange new feeling
Possessed her as its own?
VII
Her home—each flower that breathed there,The wind's sigh, soft and low,
Each trembling spray of ivy,
The river's murmuring flow,
The shadow of the forest,
Sunset, or twilight dim—
Dear as they were, were dearer
By leaving them for him.
VIII
And each year as it found herIn the dull, feverish town,
Saw self still more forgotten,
And selfish care kept down
316
That brought him to her side,
To warn him with wise counsel,
Or praise with tender pride.
IX
Her heart, her life, her future,Her genius, only meant
Another thing to give him,
And be therewith content.
To-day, what words had stirred her,
Her soul could not forget?
What dream had filled her spirit
With strange and wild regret?
X
To leave him for another,—Could it indeed be so?
Could it have cost such anguish
To bid this vision go?
Was this her faith? Was Herbert
The second in her heart?
Did it need all this struggle
To bid a dream depart?
XI
And yet, within her spiritA far-off land was seen,
A home, which might have held her,
A love, which might have been.
317
Of daily ebb and flow,
But Life itself had claimed her,
And she had let it go!
XII
Within her heart there echoedAgain the well-known tone
That promised this bright future,
And asked her for her own:
Then words of sorrow, broken
By half-reproachful pain;
And then a farewell, spoken
In words of cold disdain.
XIII
Where now was the stern purposeThat nerved her soul so long?
Whence came the words she uttered,
So hard, so cold, so strong?
What right had she to banish
A hope that God had given?
Why must she choose earth's portion,
And turn aside from Heaven?
XIV
To-day! Was it this morning?If this long, fearful strife
Was but the work of hours,
What would be years of life?
318
For such great suffering call?
And why—Oh, still more cruel!—
Must her own words do all?
XV
Did she repent? Oh Sorrow!Why do we linger still
To take thy loving message,
And do thy gentle will?
See, her tears fall more slowly,
The passionate murmurs cease,
And back upon her spirit
Flow strength, and love, and peace.
XVI
The fire burns more brightly,The rain has passed away,
Herbert will see no shadow
Upon his home to-day;
Only that Alice greets him
With doubly tender care,
Kissing a fonder blessing
Down on his golden hair
319
II.
I
The Studio is deserted,Palette and brush laid by,
The sketch rests on the easel,
The paint is scarcely dry;
And Silence—who seems always
Within her depths to bear
The next sound that will utter—
Now holds a dumb despair.
II
So Alice feels it: listeningWith breathless, stony fear,
Waiting the dreadful summons
Each minute brings more near:
When the young life, now ebbing,
Shall fail, and pass away
Into that mighty shadow
Who shrouds the house to-day.
III
But why—when the sick chamberIs on the upper floor—
Why dares not Alice enter
Within the close-shut door?
320
Lies dying in that gloom,
What strange mysterious power
Has sent her from the room?
IV
It is not one week's anguishThat can have changed her so;
Joy has not died here lately,
Struck down by one quick blow;
But cruel months have needed
Their long relentless chain,
To teach that shrinking manne
Of helpless, hopeless pain.
V
The struggle was scarce overLast Christmas Eve had brought
The fibres still were quivering
Of the one wounded thought,
When Herbert—who, unconscious,
Had guessed no inward strife—
Bade her, in pride and pleasure,
Welcome his fair young wife.
VI
Bade her rejoice, and smiling,Although his eyes were dim,
Thanked God he thus could pay her
The care she gave to him.
321
A new and joyous fate—
Oh, Alice, check the murmur
That cries, “Too late! too late!”
VII
Too late! Could she have known itA few short weeks before,
That his life was completed,
And needing hers no more,
She might—Oh sad repining!
What “might have been,” forget
“It was not,” should suffice us
To stifle vain regret.
VIII
He needed her no longer,Each day it grew more plain;
First with a startled wonder,
Then with a wondering pain.
Love: why, his wife best gave it;
Comfort: durst Alice speak,
Or counsel, when resentment
Flushed on the young wife's cheek?
IX
No more long talks by firelightOf childish times long past,
And dreams of future greatness
Which he must reach at last;
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With truth unerring told,
Where was the worthless gilding,
And where refinèd gold.
X
Slowly, but surely ever,Dora's poor jealous pride,
Which she called love for Herbert,
Drove Alice from his side;
And, spite of nervous effort
To share their altered life,
She felt a check to Herbert,
A burden to his wife.
XI
This was the least; for AliceFeared, dreaded, knew at length
How much his nature owed her
Of truth, and power, and strength;
And watched the daily failing
Of all his nobler part:
Low aims, weak purpose, telling
In lower, weaker art.
XII
And now, when he is dying,The last words she could hear
Must not be hers, but given
The bride of one short year.
323
The last prayer must not be
The one they learnt together
Beside their mother's knee.
XIII
Summoned at last: she kissesThe clay-cold stiffening hand;
And, reading pleading efforts
To make her understand,
Answers, with solemn promise,
In clear but trembling tone,
To Dora's life henceforward
She will devote her own.
XIV
Now all is over. AliceDares not remain to weep,
But soothes the frightened Dora
Into a sobbing sleep.
The poor weak child will need her:...
Oh, who can dare complain,
When God sends a new Duty
To comfort each new Pain!
324
III.
I
The House is all desertedIn the dim evening gloom
Only one figure passes
Slowly from room to room;
And, pausing at each doorway,
Seems gathering up again
Within her heart the relics
Of bygone joy and pain.
II
There is an earnest longingIn those who onward gaze,
Looking with weary patience
Towards the coming days.
There is a deeper longing,
More sad, more strong, more keen
Those know it who look backward,
And yearn for what has been.
III
At every hearth she pauses,Touches each well-known chair;
Gazes from every window,
Lingers on every stair.
325
Now one more year is past?
This Christmas Eve shall tell us,
The third one and the last.
IV
The wilful, wayward Dora,In those first weeks of grief,
Could seek and find in Alice
Strength, soothing, and relief;
And Alice—last sad comfort
True woman-heart can take—
Had something still to suffer
And bear for Herbert's sake.
V
Spring, with her western breezes,From Indian islands bore
To Alice news that Leonard
Would seek his home once more.
What was it—joy, or sorrow?
What were they—hopes, or fears?
That flushed her cheeks with crimson,
And filled her eyes with tears?
VI
He came. And who so kindlyCould ask and hear her tell
Herbert's last hours; for Leonard
Had known and loved him well.
326
Poor weary heart, at length,
Weighed down by others' weakness,
Could lean upon his strength.
VII
Yet not the voice of LeonardCould her true care beguile,
That turned to watch, rejoicing,
Dora's reviving smile.
So, from that little household
The worst gloom passed away,
The one bright hour of evening
Lit up the livelong day.
VIII
Days passed. The golden summerIn sudden heat bore down
Its blue, bright, glowing sweetness
Upon the scorching town.
And sights and sounds of country
Came in the warm soft tune
Sung by the honeyed breezes
Borne on the wings of June.
IX
One twilight hour, but earlierThan usual, Alice thought
She knew the fresh sweet fragrance
Of flowers that Leonard brought;
327
It stole up through the gloom,
And with appealing sweetness
Drew Alice from her room.
X
Yes, he was there; and pausingJust near the opened door,
To check her heart's quick beating,
She heard—and paused still more—
His low voice—Dora's answers—
His pleading—Yes, she knew
The tone—the words—the accents:
She once had heard them too.
XI
“Would Alice blame her?” Leonard'sLow, tender answer came:—
“Alice was far too noble
To think or dream of blame.”
“And was he sure he loved her?”
“Yes, with the one love given
Once in a lifetime only,
With one soul and one heaven!”
XII
Then came a plaintive murmur,—“Dora had once been told
That he and Alice”—“Dearest,
Alice is far too cold
328
If once I fancied so,
It was a brief delusion,
And over,—long ago.”
XIII
Between the Past and Present,On that bleak moment's height,
She stood. As some lost traveller
By a quick flash of light
Seeing a gulf before him,
With dizzy, sick despair,
Reels backward, but to find it
A deeper chasm there.
XIV
The twilight grew still darker,The fragrant flowers more sweet,
The stars shone out in heaven,
The lamps gleamed down the street;
And hours passed in dreaming
Over their new-found fate,
Ere they could think of wondering
Why Alice was so late.
XV
She came, and calmly listened;In vain they strove to trace
If Herbert's memory shadowed
In grief upon her face.
329
No feeling could be told;
Her voice was not less steady,
Her manner not more cold.
XVI
They could not hear the anguishThat broke in words of pain
Through the calm summer midnight,—
“My Herbert—mine again!”
Yes, they have once been parted,
But this day shall restore
The long lost one: she claims him:
“My Herbert—mine once more!”
XVII
Now Christmas Eve returning,Saw Alice stand beside
The altar, greeting Dora,
Again a smiling bride;
And now the gloomy evening
Sees Alice pale and worn,
Leaving the house for ever,
To wander out forlorn.
XVIII
Forlorn—nay, not so. AnguishShall do its work at length;
Her soul, passed through the fire
Shall gain still purer strength.
330
An earnest noble part;
And, meanwhile God is with her,—
God, and her own true heart!
The Complete Works of Adelaide A. Procter | ||