strongest possible conviction that he was at his old tricks: and that his stepping out in the evening, without leave, meant—Philandering.
Controlling myself on my visitor’s account, I dismissed Peggy, stifled my indignation, and prepared, as politely as might be, to listen to Jarber.
THREE EVENINGS IN THE HOUSE
Adelaide Anne Proctor
NUMBER ONE.
I.
Yes, it look'd 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 dreary rain, Drop after drop, run down On the darkening window-pane; Chill was the heart of Bertha, 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, And the calm and steadfast heart, Were now weigh'd down by sorrow, Were quivering now with pain; The clear path now seem'd clouded, And all her grief in vain.
IV.
Duty, Right, Truth, who promised To help and save their own, Seem'd spreading wide their pinions To leave her there alone.
So, turning from the Present To well-known days of yore, She call'd 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 art In him was soothed and quicken'd By her true sister heart; How future hopes had always Been for his sake alone; And now, what strange new feeling Possess'd 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 down By 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 meant Another thing to give him, And be therewith content.
To-day, what words had stirr'd her, Her soul could not forget?
What dream had fill'd 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 claim'd her, And she had let it go!
XII.
Within her heart there echo'd Again the well-known tune That promised this bright future, And ask'd her for its 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 utter'd, 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?
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 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 Bertha greets him With doubly tender care, Kissing a fonder blessing Down on his golden hair.
NUMBER TWO.
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 Bertha 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 away Into that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day.
III.
But why—when the sick chamber Is on the upper floor— Why dares not Bertha 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
