A House to Let (10 page)

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!

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 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
an empty House, with the Water Rate unpaid.

Under these distressing circumstances, I was necessarily left alone with
Trottle. His promised explanation began, like Jarber's discoveries, with
the reading of a written paper. The only difference was that Trottle
introduced his manuscript under the name of a Report.

The curious events related in these pages would, many of them, most
likely never have happened, if a person named Trottle had not presumed,
contrary to his usual custom, to think for himself.

The subject on which the person in question had ventured, for the first
time in his life, to form an opinion purely and entirely his own, was one
which had already excited the interest of his respected mistress in a
very extraordinary degree. Or, to put it in plainer terms still, the
subject was no other than the mystery of the empty House.

Feeling no sort of objection to set a success of his own, if possible,
side by side with a failure of Mr. Jarber's, Trottle made up his mind,
one Monday evening, to try what he could do, on his own account, towards
clearing up the mystery of the empty House. Carefully dismissing from
his mind all nonsensical notions of former tenants and their histories,
and keeping the one point in view steadily before him, he started to
reach it in the shortest way, by walking straight up to the House, and
bringing himself face to face with the first person in it who opened the
door to him.

It was getting towards dark, on Monday evening, the thirteenth of the
month, when Trottle first set foot on the steps of the House. When he
knocked at the door, he knew nothing of the matter which he was about to
investigate, except that the landlord was an elderly widower of good
fortune, and that his name was Forley. A small beginning enough for a
man to start from, certainly!

On dropping the knocker, his first proceeding was to look down cautiously
out of the corner of his right eye, for any results which might show
themselves at the kitchen-window. There appeared at it immediately the
figure of a woman, who looked up inquisitively at the stranger on the
steps, left the window in a hurry, and came back to it with an open
letter in her hand, which she held up to the fading light. After looking
over the letter hastily for a moment or so, the woman disappeared once
more.

Trottle next heard footsteps shuffling and scraping along the bare hall
of the house. On a sudden they ceased, and the sound of two voices—a
shrill persuading voice and a gruff resisting voice—confusedly reached
his ears. After a while, the voices left off speaking—a chain was
undone, a bolt drawn back—the door opened—and Trottle stood face to
face with two persons, a woman in advance, and a man behind her, leaning
back flat against the wall.

"Wish you good evening, sir," says the woman, in such a sudden way, and
in such a cracked voice, that it was quite startling to hear her. "Chilly
weather, ain't it, sir? Please to walk in. You come from good Mr.
Forley, don't you, sir?"

"Don't you, sir?" chimes in the man hoarsely, making a sort of gruff echo
of himself, and chuckling after it, as if he thought he had made a joke.

If Trottle had said, "No," the door would have been probably closed in
his face. Therefore, he took circumstances as he found them, and boldly
ran all the risk, whatever it might be, of saying, "Yes."

"Quite right sir," says the woman. "Good Mr. Forley's letter told us his
particular friend would be here to represent him, at dusk, on Monday the
thirteenth—or, if not on Monday the thirteenth, then on Monday the
twentieth, at the same time, without fail. And here you are on Monday
the thirteenth, ain't you, sir? Mr. Forley's particular friend, and
dressed all in black—quite right, sir! Please to step into the dining-
room—it's always kep scoured and clean against Mr. Forley comes here—and
I'll fetch a candle in half a minute. It gets so dark in the evenings,
now, you hardly know where you are, do you, sir? And how is good Mr.
Forley in his health? We trust he is better, Benjamin, don't we? We are
so sorry not to see him as usual, Benjamin, ain't we? In half a minute,
sir, if you don't mind waiting, I'll be back with the candle. Come
along, Benjamin."

"Come along, Benjamin," chimes in the echo, and chuckles again as if he
thought he had made another joke.

Left alone in the empty front-parlour, Trottle wondered what was coming
next, as he heard the shuffling, scraping footsteps go slowly down the
kitchen-stairs. The front-door had been carefully chained up and bolted
behind him on his entrance; and there was not the least chance of his
being able to open it to effect his escape, without betraying himself by
making a noise.

Not being of the Jarber sort, luckily for himself, he took his situation
quietly, as he found it, and turned his time, while alone, to account, by
summing up in his own mind the few particulars which he had discovered
thus far. He had found out, first, that Mr. Forley was in the habit of
visiting the house regularly. Second, that Mr. Forley being prevented by
illness from seeing the people put in charge as usual, had appointed a
friend to represent him; and had written to say so. Third, that the
friend had a choice of two Mondays, at a particular time in the evening,
for doing his errand; and that Trottle had accidentally hit on this time,
and on the first of the Mondays, for beginning his own investigations.
Fourth, that the similarity between Trottle's black dress, as servant out
of livery, and the dress of the messenger (whoever he might be), had
helped the error by which Trottle was profiting. So far, so good. But
what was the messenger's errand? and what chance was there that he might
not come up and knock at the door himself, from minute to minute, on that
very evening?

While Trottle was turning over this last consideration in his mind, he
heard the shuffling footsteps come up the stairs again, with a flash of
candle-light going before them. He waited for the woman's coming in with
some little anxiety; for the twilight had been too dim on his getting
into the house to allow him to see either her face or the man's face at
all clearly.

The woman came in first, with the man she called Benjamin at her heels,
and set the candle on the mantel-piece. Trottle takes leave to describe
her as an offensively-cheerful old woman, awfully lean and wiry, and
sharp all over, at eyes, nose, and chin—devilishly brisk, smiling, and
restless, with a dirty false front and a dirty black cap, and short
fidgetty arms, and long hooked finger-nails—an unnaturally lusty old
woman, who walked with a spring in her wicked old feet, and spoke with a
smirk on her wicked old face—the sort of old woman (as Trottle thinks)
who ought to have lived in the dark ages, and been ducked in a
horse-pond, instead of flourishing in the nineteenth century, and taking
charge of a Christian house.