Poems (Procter)/Three Evenings in a Life

by Adelaide Anne Procter

THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE.

I.

ES, 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 nightTo mark how slow and weary The long day's cheerless flight

II.

Watching the sullen fire, Hearing the dreary rain,Drop after drop, run down On the darkening window-pane:Chill was the heart of Alice, Chill as that winter day,—For the star of her life had risen Only to fade away.

III.

The voice that had been so strong To 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 promised To 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 girlhood Her life was given away,The solemn promise spoken She kept so well to-day;How to her brother Herbert She had been help and guide,And how his artist nature On her calm strength relied.

VI.

How through life's fret and turmoil The passion and fire of artIn 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 her In the dull, feverish town,Saw self still more forgotten, And selfish care kept downBy the calm joy of evening 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 meantAnother 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 spirit A far-off land was seen,A home, which might have held her, A love, which might have been,And Life—not the mere being Of daily ebb and flow,But Life itself had claimed her, And she had let it go!

XII.

Within her heart there echoed Again the well-known toneThat 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 purpose That 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 strifeWas but the work of hours, What would be years of life?Why did a cruel Heaven For such great suffering call?And why—O still more cruel!— Must her own words do all?

XV.

Did she repent? O Sorrow! Why do we linger stillTo 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.

II.

I.

HE 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 bearThe next sound that will utter— Now holds a dumb despair.

II.

So Alice feels it: listening With breathless, stony fear,Waiting the dreadful summons Each minute brings more near:When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pass awayInto that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.

But why—when the sick-chamber Is on the upper floor—Why dares not Alice enter Within the close-shut door?If he—her all—her Brother, Lies dying in that gloom,What strange mysterious power Has sent her from the room?

IV.

It is not one week's anguish That 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 manner Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.

The struggle was scarce over Last 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.This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate—O Alice, check the murmur That cries, "Too late! too late!"

VII.

Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more,She might———O 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 painLove: 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 firelight Of childish times long past,And dreams of future greatness Which he must reach at last;Dreams, where her purer instinct With truth unerring toldWhere was the worthless gilding, And where refined 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 Alice Feared, dreaded, knew at lengthHow 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 hearMust not be hers, but given The bride of one short year.The last care is another's; The last prayer must not beThe one they learnt together Beside their mother's knee.

XIII.

Summoned at last: she kisses The 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. Alice Dares not remain to weep,But soothes the frightened Dora Into a sobbing sleep.The poor weak child will need her: . . . O, who can dare complain,When God sends a new Duty To comfort each new Pain!

III.

I.

HE House is all deserted In the evening gloom,Only one figure passes Slowly from room to room;And, pausing at each doorway, Seems gathering up againWithin her heart the relics Of bygone joy and pain.

II.

There is an earnest longing In 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.What have these months brought Alice 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 boreTo 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 kindly Could ask and hear her tell Herbert's last hours; for Leonard Had known and loved him well,Daily he came; and Alice, Poor weary heart, at length,Weighed down by others' weakness, Could lean upon his strength.

VII.

Yet not the voice of Leonard Could 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 summer In sudden heat bore downIts blue, bright, glowing sweetness Upon the scorching town.And sights and sounds of country Came in the warm soft tuneSung by the honeyed breezes Borne on the wings of June.

IX.

One twilight hour, but earlier Than usual, Alice thoughtShe knew the fresh sweet fragrance Of flowers that Leonard brought; Through opened doors and windows It stole up through the gloom,And with appealing sweetness Drew Alice from her room.

X.

Yes, he was there; and, pausing Just 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 knewThe tone—the words—the accents; She once had heard them too.

XI.

"Would Alice blame her?" Leonard's Low, 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 givenOnce in a lifetime only, With one soul and one heaven!"

XII.

Then came a plaintive murmur,— "Dora had once been toldThat he and Alice—" "Dearest, Alice is far too coldTo love; and I, my Dora, 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 lightSeeing 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 traceIf Herbert's memory shadowed In grief upon her face.No blame, no wonder showed there, No feeling could be told;Her voice was not less steady, Her manner not more cold.

XVI.

They could not hear the anguish That broke in words of pain Through the calm summer midnight,— "My Herbert—mine again!"Yes, they have once been parted, But this day shall restoreThe long-lost one: she claims him: "My Herbert—mine once more!"

XVII.

Now Christmas Eve returning Saw Alice stand besideThe altar, greeting Dora, Again a smiling bride;And now the gloomy evening Sees Alice pale and worn,Leaving the house forever, To wander out forlorn.

XVIII.

Forlorn—nay, not so. Anguish Shall do its work at length;Her soul, passed through the fire, Shall gain still purer strength.Somewhere there waits for Alice An earnest, noble part;And meanwhile God is with her,— God, and her own true heart!