Part 16

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 refinèd gold.

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.

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.

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.