Three Evenings in a Life

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 nightTo mark how slow and wearyThe long day's cheerless flight!

Watching the sullen fire,Hearing the dismal rain,Drop after drop, run downOn the darkening window-pane:Chill was the heart of Alice,Chill as that winter day,--For the star of her life had risenOnly to fade away.

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.

Duty, Right, Truth, who promisedTo help and save their own,Seemed spreading wide their pinionsTo leave her there alone.So, turning from the PresentTo well-known days of yore,She called on them to strengthenAnd guard her soul once more.

She thought how in her girlhoodHer life was given away,The solemn promise spokenShe kept so well to-day;How to her brother HerbertShe had been help and guide,And how his artist natureOn her calm strength relied.

How through life's fret and turmoilThe passion and fire of artIn him was soothed and quickenedBy her true sister heart;How future hopes had alwaysBeen for his sake alone;And now,--what strange new feelingPossessed her as its own?

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 dearerBy leaving them for him.

And each year as it found herIn the dull, feverish town,Saw self still more forgotten,And selfish care kept downBy the calm joy of eveningThat brought him to her side,To warn him with wise counsel,Or praise with tender pride.

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 spiritWith strange and wild regret?

To leave him for another,--Could it indeed be so?Could it have cost such anguishTo bid this vision go?Was this her faith? Was HerbertThe second in her heart?Did it need all this struggleTo bid a dream depart?

And yet, within her spiritA far-off land was seen,A home, which might have held her,A love, which might have been.And Life--not the mere beingOf daily ebb and flow,But Life itself had claimed her,And she had let it go!

Within her heart there echoedAgain the well-known toneThat promised this bright future,And asked her for her own:Then words of sorrow, brokenBy half-reproachful pain;And then a farewell spokenIn words of cold disdain.

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 banishA hope that God had given?Why must she choose earth's portion,And turn aside from Heaven?

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 HeavenFor such great suffering call?And why--Oh, still more cruel!--Must her own words do all?

Did she repent? Oh 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 spiritFlow strength, and love, and peace.

The fire burns more brightly,The rain has passed away,Herbert will see no shadowUpon his home to-day;Only that Alice greets himWith doubly tender care,Kissing a fonder blessingDown on his golden hair.

The studio is deserted,Palette and brush laid by,The sketch rests on the easel,The paint is scarcely dry;And Silence--who seems alwaysWithin her depths to bearThe next sound that will utter--Now holds a dumb despair.

So Alice feels it: listeningWith breathless, stony fear,Waiting the dreadful summonsEach minute brings more near:When the young life, now ebbing,Shall fail, and pass awayInto that mighty shadowWho shrouds the house to-day.

But why--when the sick chamberIs on the upper floor--Why dares not Alice enterWithin the close--shut door?If he--her all--her Brother,Lies dying in that gloom,What strange mysterious powerHas sent her from the room?

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 neededTheir long relentless chain,To teach that shrinking mannerOf helpless, hopeless pain.

The struggle was scarce overLast Christmas Eve had brought:The fibres still were quiveringOf the one wounded thought,When Herbert--who, unconscious,Had guessed no inward strife--Bade her, in pride and pleasure,Welcome his fair young wife.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling,Although his eyes were dim,Thanked God he thus could pay herThe care she gave to him.This fresh bright life would bring herA new and joyous fate--Oh, Alice, check the murmurThat cries, "Too late! too late!"

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 usTo stifle vain regret.

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 resentmentFlushed on the young wife's cheek?

No more long talks by firelightOf childish times long past,And dreams of future greatnessWhich he must reach at last;Dreams, where her purer instinctWith truth unerring told,Where was the worthless gilding,And where refined gold.

Slowly, but surely ever,Dora's poor jealous pride,Which she called love for Herbert,Drove Alice from his side;And, spite of nervous effortTo share their altered life,She felt a check to Herbert,A burden to his wife.

This was the least; for AliceFeared, dreaded, knew at lengthHow much his nature owed herOf truth, and power, and strength;And watched the daily failingOf all his nobler part:Low aims, weak purpose, tellingIn lower, weaker art.

And now, when he is dying,The last words she could hearMust not be hers, but givenThe bride of one short year.The last care is another's;The last prayer must not beThe one they learnt togetherBeside their mother's knee.

Summoned at last: she kissesThe clay-cold stiffening hand;And, reading pleading effortsTo make her understand,Answers, with solemn promise,In clear but trembling tone,To Dora's life henceforwardShe will devote her own.

Now all is over. AliceDares not remain to weep,But soothes the frightened DoraInto a sobbing sleep.The poor weak child will need her: . . .Oh, who can dare complain,When God sends a new DutyTo comfort each new Pain!

The House is all deserted,In the dim evening gloom,Only one figure passesSlowly from room to room;And, pausing at each doorway,Seems gathering up againWithin her heart the relicsOf bygone joy and pain.

There is an earnest longingIn those who onward gaze,Looking with weary patienceTowards 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.

At every hearth she pauses,Touches each well-known chair;Gazes from every window,Lingers on every stair.What have these months brought AliceNow one more year is past?This Christmas Eve shall tell us,The third one and the last.

The wilful, wayward Dora,In those first weeks of grief,Could seek and find in AliceStrength, soothing, and relief;And Alice--last sad comfortTrue woman-heart can take--Had something still to sufferAnd bear for Herbert's sake.

Spring, with her western breezes,From Indian islands boreTo Alice news that LeonardWould 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?

He came. And who so kindlyCould ask and hear her tellHerbert's last hours; for LeonardHad 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.

Yet not the voice of LeonardCould her true care beguile,That turned to watch, rejoicingDora's reviving smile.So, from that little householdThe worst gloom passed away,The one bright hour of eveningLit up the livelong day.

Days passed. The golden summerIn sudden heat bore downIts blue, bright, glowing sweetnessUpon the scorching town.And sighs and sounds of countryCame in the warm soft tuneSung by the honeyed breezesBorne on the wings of June.

One twilight hour, but earlierThan usual, Alice thoughtShe knew the fresh sweet fragranceOf flowers that Leonard brought;Through opened doors and windowsIt stole up through the gloom,And with appealing sweetnessDrew Alice from her room.

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 knewThe tone--the words--the accents:She once had heard them too.

"Would Alice blame her?" Leonard'sLow, tender answer came;--"Alice was far too nobleTo 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!"

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."

Between the Past and Present,On that bleak moment's height,She stood. As some lost travellerBy a quick flash of lightSeeing a gulf before him,With dizzy, sick despair,Reels backward, but to find itA deeper chasm there.

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 dreamingOver their new-found fate,Ere they could think of wonderingWhy Alice was so late.

She came, and calmly listened;In vain they strove to traceIf Herbert's memory shadowedIn 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.

They could not hear the anguishThat broke in words of painThrough 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!"

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

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