Christmas Classics: Charles Dickens Collection (With Original Illustrations). Charles Dickens

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 of success thus far, and that he was resolutely determined to make more discoveries, he spoke in a languid absent manner, and shortly afterwards took his leave at rather an early hour.

      When Trottle came back, and when I indignantly taxed him with Philandering, he not only denied the imputation, but asserted that he had been employed on my service, and, in consideration of that, boldly asked for leave of absence for two days, and for a morning to himself afterwards, to complete the business, in which he solemnly declared that I was interested. In remembrance of his long and faithful service to me, I did violence to myself, and granted his request. And he, on his side, engaged to explain himself to my satisfaction, in a week's time, on Monday evening the twentieth.

      A day or two before, I sent to Jarber's lodgings to ask him to drop in to tea. His landlady sent back an apology for him that made my hair stand on end. His feet were in hot water; his head was in a flannel petticoat; a green shade was over his eyes; the rheumatism was in his legs; and a mustard-poultice was on his chest. He was also a little feverish, and rather distracted in his mind about Manchester Marriages, a Dwarf, and Three Evenings, or Evening Parties—his landlady was not sure which—in СКАЧАТЬ