III.

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.

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.

At every hearth she pauses,

Touches each well-known chair;

Gazes from every window,

Lingers on every stair.

What have these months brought Alice

Now one more year is past?

This Christmas Eve shall tell us,

The third one and the last.

The wilful, wayward Dora,

In those first weeks of grief,

Could seek and find in Alice

Strength, soothing, and relief;

And Alice — last sad comfort

True woman-heart can take —

Had something still to suffer

And bear for Herbert's sake.

Spring, with her western breezes,

From Indian islands bore

To Alice news that Leonard

Would seek his home once more.

What was it — joy, or sorrow?

What were they — hopes, or fears?

That flushed her cheeks with crimson,

And filled her eyes with tears?

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 Alice,

Poor weary heart, at length,

Weighed down by others’ weakness,

Could lean upon his strength.

Yet not the voice of Leonard

Could her true care beguile,

That turned to watch, rejoicing

Dora's reviving smile.

So, from that little household

The worst gloom passed away,

The one bright hour of evening

Lit up the livelong day.

Days passed. The golden summer

In sudden heat bore down

Its blue, bright, glowing sweetness

Upon the scorching town.

And sighs and sounds of country

Came in the warm soft tune

Sung by the honeyed breezes

Borne on the wings of June.

One twilight hour, but earlier

Than usual, Alice thought

She knew the fresh sweet fragrance

Of flowers that Leonard brought;

Through opened doors and windows

It stole up through the gloom,

And with appealing sweetness

Drew Alice from her room.

Yes, he was there; and pausing

Just near the opened 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.

“Would Alice blame her?” Leonard's

Low, tender answer came;—

“Alice 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!”

Then came a plaintive murmur,—

“Dora had once been told

That he and Alice” — “Dearest,

Alice is far too cold

To love; and I, my Dora,

If once I fancied so,

It was a brief delusion,

And over,— long ago.”

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 backward, but to find it

A deeper chasm there.

The twilight grew still darker,

The fragrant flowers more sweet,

The stars shone out in heaven,

The lamps gleamed down the street;

And hours passed in dreaming

Over their new-found fate,

Ere they could think of wondering

Why Alice was so late.

She came, and calmly listened;

In vain they strove to trace

If Herbert's memory shadowed

In grief upon her face.

No blame, no wonder showed there,

No feeling could be told;

Her voice was not less steady,

Her manner not more cold.

They could not hear the anguish

That broke in words of pain

Through the 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!”

Now Christmas Eve returning,

Saw Alice stand beside

The altar, greeting Dora,

Again a smiling bride;

And now the gloomy evening

Sees Alice pale and worn,

Leaving the house for ever,

To wander out forlorn.

Forlorn — nay, not so. Anguish

Shall do its work at length;

Her soul, passed through the fire,

Shall gain still purer strength.

Somewhere there waits for Alice

An earnest noble part;

And, meanwhile God is with her,—

God, and her own true heart!