Чарльз Диккенс - A House to Let

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!