A prose poem
by Ethel Gibbs.
Originally published in The Poet's Magazine (Leonard Lloyd) vol.2 #10 (Jun 1877).
Part I.—The Longest Day.
Yes! we were very happy, Ellie and I. Ellie, my bright little sister, who scarcely knew what trouble meant; and I, Valda, ten years her senior, who could remember a time when our peaceful little home was lighted by a mother's love—who could remember, too, a parting bitter as death—a low, loving voice bidding me take every care of the little one, and then—a silence, broken, never again on earth. From that time we had lived quietly on with our placid old guardian uncle who, perpetually buried in his books, paid not the slightest heed to our proceedings. My one aim since our loss had been to fulfil the charge left to me, my hope to live as long as Ellie might want me, my chief joy to see her contented and happy.
And certainly that pleasure was ever near at hand. Gay as the summer song-birds, happy as a child—and a thorough child she was despite her sixteen years!—life seemed, to her, one long glad day, with no fears of coming night to cloud its sunshine. See her now as she comes singing from the meadows which June has filled with fragrant heaps of hay, watch her light steps, her lips ready with instant smiling, and as she pauses there in the flower-decked garden you must own the picture fair, and long to look again.
"Ah! Valda," she cries, seeing me at the window, "Do leave your pens and paper and come out into the day's delight! Oh! the flowers are sweeter than ever, and the birds are joying in the sunshine; come out and be joyful, too, Valda, for the longest day and the best!"
It was tempting, no doubt, and I yielded to a certain extent. "Duty first, Ellie!" I said, smiling down at her pleading face. "This afternoon I will take a holiday—here is my gage!"
And plucking a piece of the honeysuckle which grew round the window, I tossed it lightly down.
"My share!" said a deeper voice beside her. "If Ellie has the promise I must have the flower," and Hereford Dane—whose frequent visits had ceased to surprise us—took possession of the blossom before Ellie could demur.
"She will not want a playfellow now," I said, withdrawing from the window, for the pleasure that Hereford found in Ellie's companionship was very plainly visible, and fully accounted for his frequent visits to our mutual friends, the Oscars' of Glebe Farm. To be sure he had been a college-chum of young George Oscar's, but this increase of partiality might be traced to something more than a renewal of the old friendship, and honest George often confessed to me his wonder at Hereford's sudden love of country-life. Perhaps it was not altogether acceptable to him, for he and Ellie had been friends from childhood, and handsome Hereford was not a rival to be despised. I am ashamed to confess that I secretly rejoiced in the new aspect of affairs. George was an admirable fellow in every respect; steady, good-hearted, and an excellent son to his old father, who, having toiled for years to give him a thoroughly good education, was more than satisfied with its effect upon "our George." Yet, in spite of all these good qualities, I could not resign myself to the thought of him for my bonnie, graceful Ellie. I had pictured such a very different being, years ago even, when dreaming of her future. And the first time my eyes fell upon Hereford, he appeared the beau-ideal of my fancies. I liked to see them together, enjoying each other's company, but at the same time, in pity for poor George, I was glad to see that Ellie did not at once discard her old friend. For instance, when we spent an evening with the Oscars—and very often that was, for George's dear old mother had loved ours, and showed us every kindness for her sake—in the games of croquet, or what not, with which we beguiled the pleasant hours before supper, Ellie was almost provokingly ready to listen to George's suggestions that she should be his partner in the game. And either from a wish to please him or—as I sometimes fancied—from a coquettish desire to pique his friend, the wicked little woman would droop her dark eyelashes and accede to the request.
Hereford was never outwardly provoked by this arrangement, but would listen to George's ingenuous appeals, with a quiet smile of amusement and then hand me my mallet with as good a grace as if I had been Ellie herself. Of course he did not wish me to feel at all neglected, and this often led him to keep by my side, when I was sure he must be envying George, his merry, light-hearted companion. At the same time I could not but enjoy his society, and I often thought that the quiet saunter home—whither the two invariably accompanied us—was the pleasantest part of the whole evening. For it was then that Hereford showed the deeper side of his character; and while Ellie in her frolicsome moods would dart to and fro, or hasten on before, with the faithful George closely in her wake, I was learning to know and value the noble nature that I nightly prayed might be given her as guide through life.
This was the thought in my mind that summer morning, as Ellie and her companion moved away; and, returning to my work, I found it difficult to help pursuing it. A mysterious hint from Hereford the preceding evening had led me to infer that his confession was near at hand, and half-dreamily I was thinking how appropriate the day, "The longest, the brightest, perhaps to both the happiest of the year." A voice without, requesting admission, and Hereford entered the room. I knew then that I was right.
"Valda, I want to speak to you."
Pushing my papers aside, I looked up at him with a smile. "Very well, Hereford; you know I am always willing to listen—and, if possible, advise," and I signed to him to take a chair beside me.
"What I want to say may take you by surprise, Valda," he began, after a moment's pause. "But it is what I have long contemplated, long hoped for, long fancied might be realized."
"I know," I murmured, leaning forward, "and you are going to trust me with your hope?"
"Ay! because you are the only one who can change that hope into certainty."
"No fear as to that!" I answered, smiling contentedly. "Your wish has long been mine!"
"Then I need not fear a disappointing answer?" he said eagerly. "Sometimes I have thought I might safely venture to ask your decision, but then, again, I fancied you were not willing to repose entire confidence in me."
"Oh! Hereford, yes! IfI have seemed anxious and doubtful, it was only that I was so desirous of the perfect happiness of both Ellie and you. But now I am indeed well satisfied, and can rejoice in your joy with a free and gladdened heart."
"Valda!"
His tone astonished, aroused me. I looked up at him again. He had risen, and faced me with a look of mingled perplexity and distress. "What are you saying? What do you mean?" he cried; "I am not thinking of Ellie!"
Not thinking of Ellie! Oh! what could he mean? Surely my senses deceived me—surely it was not Hereford, avowing his love for another, when I had thought to hear him speak of her! "Not Ellie?" I exclaimed at last, indignation conquering surprise. "And you dare stand and own that, after all that has passed? Have you not lingered by her, sought her society, showed your pleasure in it without disguise? Have you not given daily, hourly evidence of feelings deeper than friendship? Answer, Hereford, have you not done this?"
I paused for breath, and Hereford looked sadly up.
"I did not know you thought anything of that," he said, in a low voice, "She is so young, a child almost!"
It irritated me to hear him speak thus of her—my treasure! She was a child in her ways, but not in feeling; he had taken her heart only to cast it aside—gained her innocent trust only to show how little he prized it! In vain might he try to excuse his conduct, I saw only the thoughtlessness, the cruelty to my poor little mother less one. I would not listen to what he strove to say, and at last he rose, looking thoroughly miserable.
"I will say 'good-bye' now Valda," he said. "I little thought this day would bring the end of all the pleasant hours we have spent together. Let me thank you for what has been, and forgive me that I so vainly hoped—"
He could say no more; but the pain of his voice fell unheeded on my ear. Coldly I bade him farewell, and, even before he left the room, I again took up my pen. But my shaking fingers would scarcely enable me to make this show of indifference, and as the door closed my self-command gave place to bitter tears of disappointed grief.
* * * * *
"Valda!" said Ellie that evening, coming to me where I sate, sadly musing, under the fragrant rose branches of the porch. "Valda, what can be the matter with Hereford? He has suddenly gone away to London, he would not tell me why, and he looked more troubled than I ever saw him before!"
"And why do you mind?" I asked, noting the disquietude in her eyes. "Am I a dull companion, dearie? You see I am only a stupid old maid."
"Valda! hush! How dare you say such things? You are my own dear, beautiful, darling sister!" and she threw her arms round my neck and held me closely. "All the same Valda," she presently continued, recurring to her former question, "I should like to know what Hereford meant by his sudden departure. He told me early this morning that he thought he could never go."
Further proof that he has been deliberately misleading her, I said to myself; then aloud: "You like Hereford, Ellie, do you not?"
She turned and looked at me, almost indignantly. "Like him, Valda! Of course I do, and always shall! Why he is one of our best friends. There is nobody like Hereford in the whole world!"
Had I been less simple this frank avowal might have given me comfort. As it was my heart sank lower, and nervously I pursued: "If he did not care for you, Ellie, would you cease to care for him?"
"That is a strange question, Valda! When you know some one likes you, it is difficult to imagine the reverse."
"And how do you know it?" I persisted. "It may be only pretence."
She laughed gleefully. "No, no, you dear, doubting old thing! There is no pretence about him! He has told me numbers of times how he enjoys coming here, how much good it does him, and how it refreshes him when he is hard at work, even to think of our little Eden and of—well, of its inhabitants, Does that convince you, Valda?"
I turned my head away. I could not meet her smiling questioning eyes. "Ah, Ellie!" I answered, forcing myself to speak naturally. "People of my age find it easier to realise that 'men are deceivers ever.'" And with this I rose and went into the house.
Ellie's disconcerted silence lasted but a moment. Before I had reached my own room I heard her ringing voice: "Shakspeare did not know everything, Valda, he made mistakes sometimes, and that was one!" and warbling "Sigh no more," she wandered away towards the western meadows.
"If this be Eden, he, surely, has been the destroyer of its happiness," thought I, clasping my hands together with pain that would not be suppressed.
And thus the day that had dawned so brightly ended in deepest gloom: and though the evening was fair and sweet, and the golden sun lingered lovingly amidst the clouds, darker than the dreariest Winter could make it the world seemed to me now. For my trust had been misplaced, my hopes were faded, and the memory of past pleasure could but make my pain more keen.
Part II.—One Day Between.
How could she look at him, think of him, in any way compare him with Hereford? While equal perhaps in character, indescribable was the difference in other respects. And contrasting George's robust frame, and plain, unpolished manner with Hereford's slight, graceful figure, refined features, and musical-toned voice, I found myself repeating again and again, "How can she, how can she love him?" For it had actually come to this. George was Ellie's accepted lover, and it was difficult to say who was more enchanted with the arrangement, George's father and mother, or the two young people themselves, As for myself I had been utterly puzzled.
Was there no such thing as constancy in the world ? Willing, however, to think it was all for the best, I hid my disappointment and tried to appreciate more highly the virtues of my prospective brother. It was difficult to be discontented, certainly, when the other four were perpetually glorifying themselves in their new happiness, and yet, through all this time, there seemed to be a blank in my existence that I had not been wont to feel.
"It is the thought of losing my Ellie," I said to myself one evening, as I watched her straying to and fro with George in the happy, dual solitude that I pleaded fatigue not to interrupt.
The hour of departure came, and George reluctantly took leave, Ellie accompanying him to the gate for a last "good-night." I sate there still at the window watching the silent stars: a heavy feeling of depression and loneliness was over me, and before I had time to shake it off Ellie was beside me again.
"Valda! Valda!" she said reproachfully, kneeling at my side and pressing her cheek on my hand in her pretty, caressing way; "You are unhappy; I know you are, and you will not tell me why!"
"Nonsense dear!" I said, rousing myself with an effort. "What is there to make me unhappy?"
Ellie looked down, and seemed musing. "I don't know, Valda," she answered slowly, "unless it is that you don't like George!"
I smiled. "Of course that's not it," she continued, "yet I am sure there is something. I wish Hereford would come again; he always used to cheer you. How merry we were, Valda, that Autumn when he sprained his foot while out shooting with George! We were staying at the farm, and helped Mrs. Oscar to take care of him. I remember he said that was a fortunate day, and, pretending his foot would never recover strength, asked me if I should be sorry to have him always there."
"And what did you say," I asked, while, carried back by Ellie's words, my thoughts dwelt again on the bright presence that had filled those days with sunshine.
"I told him I should be glad, but I did not know if you would like it because he gave so much trouble."
"Ellie! how impolite!"
"It was only a joke you know, Valda! But he became quite grave, with a mournful frown on his face, like he had when he went away last, and then I laughed and said it was fun, and he wasn't a trouble really!"
"He often talked to you like that?" I asked, trying to harden my heart by remembering the misery he might have caused. "He often spoke confidentially of his plans and wishes in those days?"
"Yes, very often; he said it was like having a sister, and I said I wished he were our brother and would take care of you when I had gone."
"Why did you speak of me so often, silly child?"
"Oh! because he liked it, and always turned the conversation round in some way. He didn't like the idea of being our brother, however; perhaps he thought it would be too dull to live here always."
"Did he know about you and George?"
"Oh yes! he was very glad of that, and said that perhaps he would tell me a secret when he had told it first to you. But he never did, did he?"
It was almost more than I could bear.
For the first time I clearly saw what I had done: for the first time reason confirmed what I had long refused to let my heart whisper. I knew now that I loved Hereford with all my strength; and alas! sad knowledge! I knew that he had loved me! Grateful to the twilight that hid my pale face and trembling lips from Ellie's loving eyes, I rose now and bade her good-night. A moment later, in the solitude of my own room, I was crouching by the window in a tearless agony of grief. All my nameless longing and unrest, all the dull heart-pain that I had striven to banish as mere folly came over me with insufferable anguish, and when at last came tears they were the saddest and most hopeless I had ever shed before. For I had not only to bear myself the result of my own work; he had suffered too, he, who had offered me in vain his noble, generous heart.
Recalling now the scene of our last interview, I fully realized his position and my own blind hastiness. I seemed to see again his pale and wistful face, and hear the tones with which he bade farewell, and as the moonlight wavered over the lawn, where he had stood so often, and where I knew I should see him never more, all my strength seemed failing, and I wept and moaned his name in powerless despair.
Part III.—The Shortest Day.
"And I tell you, Valda, I will not go yet, so you may just as well sit down again by the fire, instead of opening the door and letting that cold air in!"
So said Ellie, one winter evening at the Oscar's, when, finding hints in vain, I rose with the intention of leaving.
"I cannot think why you are so fidgety!" she went on, with the best attempt at a pout of which her pretty lips were capable. "When George is coming down by the last train, too, and I am so anxious to see him! It is quite unkind!" and she looked round upon George's parents for sympathy.
They gave it, of course; they spoilt her dreadfully, good old souls that they were, and the end of it was that, arranging to leave her there for the night, I prepared to start alone, and at once. There was a special reason for my haste which I could not communicate. From certain speeches of Ellie's—she fancied herself clever in deception, and all the while was as transparent as crystal—Thad discovered that some-one, besides George, was expected by that train, some-one whom I would not care to meet while the memory of that summer's morning talk was clear and painful, some-one whose name was Hereford. Well wrapped-up, for it was "drear December," I hastened down stairs and bade the Oscars good-night. Ellie followed me into the hall, making every effort to detain me. But I saw through it all: saw how her eyes wandered to the clock and how intently she was listening for the sound of wheels, "Did you bring your water-proof cloak, Valda?" she asked, while I was unbarring the door. It was a side one which led into the garden and thence to my road home, and I verily believe that she had fastened it herself! "Are you sure that is your own umbrella? Let me take it to the light. And, oh! Valda," she cried, in desperation, as I turned away, "Your veil is coming off, I must fasten it!" At that moment the front door was thrown open, I caught one glimpse of a tall figure behind George, and then, escaping from Ellie's detaining hand, I sped swiftly away.
From the light and warmth within, from the kind faces and merry voices, it was a dreary change to be plodding alone in the chill darkness of the muddy roads; and the sore pain in my heart, that was ever ready to break into keenness, was very sharp tonight. Perhaps it was wakened by that glimpse at Hereford's face. I pictured the scene from which I had turned away; the hearty greeting to the travellers, the old folks' warm welcome, Ellie's frank pleasure at meeting; and I, I who loved him better than any of them could dream, I, alone, must leave without a word! Oh! it seemed very hard! The longing I had striven for months to quell leapt up stronger than ever, and, toiling along in my loneliness, the thought of the years to come, the weight of present sadness grew unbearably heavy.
Coming to the gate that opened on to the road, I leaned my head down on the top rail, and yielded for a moment to despair. Little dreamed I who was near at that moment! But the next told me. While I fumbled at the cold iron latch, came footsteps quickly nearer, a friendly touch upon my trembling fingers, and turning hastily, the dim light showed me—Hereford!
"You ran away from me and I ran after you, Valda," he said, "Will you send me away again, or can you give me a different greeting now? Listen, darling! I want your love so much, that I have dared to believe you did not understand me before. I have hoped it was a mistake, and now I want you to tell me that my fancy has come true. Will you love me, Valda? Will you, dear?"
My tears were still quietly falling, but they were not sad ones now, and, raising my face towards him, he read his answer there more clearly than in my faltering attempts to speak.
The longest day had brought pain to us both in a time that seemed long ago now, but with the shortest came sweet compensation, filling our souls with peace. Henceforward, alone no more, was the glad thought throbbing in my heart, for Hereford's warm, firm hand clasped mine, and we went on our way—together!
And thus the day that had dawned so darkly ended in brightest joy: and though the evening was cold and chill, and the keen wind went howling through the branches, gladder than the loveliest summer could make it the world seemed to me now. For sorrow had departed, hopes bloomed out before me, and the memory of past trouble could but make my joy more sweet.