II.

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.

So Alice 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.

But why — when the sick chamber

Is on the upper floor —

Why dares not Alice 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?

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.

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.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling,

Although his eyes were dim,

Thanked God he thus could pay her

The care she gave to him.

This fresh bright life would bring her

A new and joyous fate —

Oh, Alice, check the murmur

That cries, “Too late! too late!”

Too late! Could she have known it

A few short weeks before,

That his life was completed,

And needing hers no more,

She might — Oh sad repining!

What “might have been,” forget;

“It was not,” should suffice us

To stifle vain regret.

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 Alice speak,

Or counsel, when resentment

Flushed on the young wife's cheek?

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.

Slowly, but surely ever,

Dora's poor jealous pride,

Which she called love for Herbert,

Drove Alice from his side;

And, spite of nervous effort

To share their altered life,

She felt a check to Herbert,

A burden to his wife.

This was the least; for Alice

Feared, dreaded, knew at length

How much his nature owed her

Of truth, and power, and strength;

And watched the daily failing

Of all his nobler part:

Low aims, weak purpose, telling

In lower, weaker art.

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.

Summoned 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.

Now all is over. Alice

Dares not remain to weep,

But soothes the frightened Dora

Into a sobbing sleep.

The poor weak child will need her:...

Oh, who can dare complain,

When God sends a new Duty

To comfort each new Pain!