A House to Let, et al by Charles Dickens (spicy books to read TXT) 📖

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 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, Thank’d 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 Bertha, 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 pain. Love: why, his wife best gave it; Comfort: durst Bertha speak? Counsel: when quick resentment Flush’d 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 told Where was the worthless gilding, And where refined gold.

X.

Slowly, but surely ever, Dora’s poor jealous pride, Which she call’d love for Herbert, Drove Bertha from his side; And, spite of nervous effort To share their alter’d life, She felt a check to Herbert, A burden to his wife.

XI.

This was the least; for Bertha Fear’d, dreaded, KNEW at length, How much his nature owed her Of truth, and power, and strength; And watch’d 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. The last care is another’s; The last prayer must not be The one they learnt together Beside their mother’s knee.

XIII.

Summon’d 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. Bertha 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!

 

NUMBER THREE.

 

I.

The House is all deserted In 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 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 Bertha 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 Bertha Strength, soothing, and relief. And Bertha—last sad comfort True woman-heart can take - Had something still to suffer And do for Herbert’s sake.

V.

Spring, with her western breezes, From Indian islands bore To Bertha news that Leonard Would seek his home once more. What was it—joy, or sorrow? What were they—hopes, or fears? That flush’d her cheeks with crimson, And fill’d 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 Bertha, Poor wear heart, at length, Weigh’d down by other’s weakness, Could rest upon his strength.

VII.

Yet not the voice of Leonard Could her true care beguile, That turn’d to watch, rejoicing, Dora’s reviving smile. So, from that little household The worst gloom pass’d away, The one bright hour of evening Lit up the livelong day.

VIII.

Days passed. The golden summer In 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 honey’d breezes Borne on the wings of June.

IX.

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

X.

Yes, he was there; and pausing Just near the open’d 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 Bertha blame her?” Leonard’s Low, tender answer came: “Bertha 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 Bertha—” “Dearest, Bertha is far too cold To 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 light Seeing a gulf before him, With dizzy, sick despair, Reels to clutch backward, but to find A deeper chasm there.

XIV.

The twilight grew still darker, The fragrant flowers more sweet, The stars shone out in heaven, The lamps gleam’d down the street; And hours pass’d in dreaming Over their new-found fate, Ere they could think of wondering Why Bertha was so late.

XV.

She came, and calmly listen’d; In vain they strove to trace If Herbert’s memory shadow’d In grief upon her face. No blame, no wonder show’d 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 that 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 Bertha stand beside The altar, greeting Dora, Again a smiling bride; And now the gloomy evening Sees Bertha pale and worn, Leaving the house for ever, To wander out forlorn.

XVIII.

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

 

I could warmly and sincerely praise the little poem, when Jarber had done reading it; but I could not say that it tended in any degree towards clearing up the mystery of the empty House.

Whether it was the absence of the irritating influence of Trottle, or whether it was simply fatigue, I cannot say, but Jarber did not strike me, that evening, as being in his usual spirits. And though he declared that he was not in the least daunted by his want