A House to Let

by Charles Dickens

  "How can he be anything else?" I said, answering for Trottle, who sat obstinately silent. "This time, Jarber, you have not only read us a delightfully amusing story, but you have also answered the question about the House. Of course it stands empty now. Who would think of taking it after it had been turned into a caravan?" I looked at Trottle, as I said those last words, and Jarber waved his hand indulgently in the same direction.

  "Let this excellent person speak," said Jarber. "You were about to say, my good man?"—

  "I only wished to ask, sir," said Trottle doggedly, "if you could kindly oblige me with a date or two in connection with that last story?"

  "A date!" repeated Jarber. "What does the man want with dates!"

  "I should be glad to know, with great respect," persisted Trottle, "if the person named Magsman was the last tenant who lived in the House. It's my opinion—if I may be excused for giving it—that he most decidedly was not."

  With those words, Trottle made a low bow, and quietly left the room.

  There is no denying that Jarber, when we were left together, looked sadly discomposed. He had evidently forgotten to inquire about dates; and, in spite of his magnificent talk about his series of discoveries, it was quite as plain that the two stories he had just read, had really and truly exhausted his present stock. I thought myself bound, in common gratitude, to help him out of his embarrassment by a timely suggestion. So I proposed that he should come to tea again, on the next Monday evening, the thirteenth, and should make such inquiries in the meantime, as might enable him to dispose triumphantly of Trottle's objection.

  He gallantly kissed my hand, made a neat little speech of acknowledgment, and took his leave. For the rest of the week I would not encourage Trottle by allowing him to refer to the House at all. I suspected he was making his own inquiries about dates, but I put no questions to him.

  On Monday evening, the thirteenth, that dear unfortunate Jarber came, punctual to the appointed time. He looked so terribly harassed, that he was really quite a spectacle of feebleness and fatigue. I saw, at a glance, that the question of dates had gone against him, that Mr. Magsman had not been the last tenant of the House, and that the reason of its emptiness was still to seek.

  "What I have gone through," said Jarber, "words are not eloquent enough to tell. O Sophonisba, I have begun another series of discoveries! Accept the last two as stories laid on your shrine; and wait to blame me for leaving your curiosity unappeased, until you have heard Number Three."

  Number Three looked like a very short manuscript, and I said as much. Jarber explained to me that we were to have some poetry this time. In the course of his investigations he had stepped into the Circulating Library, to seek for information on the one important subject. All the Library-people knew about the House was, that a female relative of the last tenant, as they believed, had, just after that tenant left, sent a little manuscript poem to them which she described as referring to events that had actually passed in the House; and which she wanted the proprietor of the Library to publish. She had written no address on her letter; and the proprietor had kept the manuscript ready to be given back to her (the publishing of poems not being in his line) when she might call for it. She had never called for it; and the poem had been lent to Jarber, at his express request, to read to me.

  Before he began, I rang the bell for Trottle; being determined to have him present at the new reading, as a wholesome check on his obstinacy. To my surprise Peggy answered the bell, and told me, that Trottle had stepped out without saying where. I instantly felt the strongest possible conviction that he was at his old tricks: and that his stepping out in the evening, without leave, meant—Philandering.

  Controlling myself on my visitor's account, I dismissed Peggy, stifled my indignation, and prepared, as politely as might be, to listen to Jarber.

  Three Evenings in the House

  *

  Number One

  I.

  Yes, it look'd dark and dreary

  That long and narrow street:

  Only the sound of the rain,

  And the tramp of passing feet,

  The duller glow of the fire,

  And gathering mists of night

  To mark how slow and weary

  The long day's cheerless flight!

  II.

  Watching the sullen fire,

  Hearing the dreary rain,

  Drop after drop, run down

  On the darkening window-pane;

  Chill was the heart of Bertha,

  Chill as that winter day,—

  For the star of her life had risen

  Only to fade away.

  III.

  The voice that had been so strong

  To bid the snare depart,

  The true and earnest will,

  And the calm and steadfast heart,

  Were now weigh'd down by sorrow,

  Were quivering now with pain;

  The clear path now seem'd clouded,

  And all her grief in vain.

  IV.

  Duty, Right, Truth, who promised

  To help and save their own,

  Seem'd spreading wide their pinions

  To leave her there alone.

  So, turning from the Present

  To well-known days of yore,

  She call'd on them to strengthen

  And guard her soul once more.

  V.

  She thought how in her girlhood

  Her life was given away,

  The solemn promise spoken

  She kept so well to-day;

  How to her brother Herbert

  She had been help and guide,

  And how his artist-nature

  On her calm strength relied.

  VI.

  How through life's fret and turmoil

  The passion and fire of art

  In him was soothed and quicken'd

  By her true sister heart;

  How future hopes had always

  Been for his sake alone;

  And now, what strange new feeling

  Possess'd her as its own?

  VII.

  Her home; each flower that breathed there;

  The wind's sigh, soft and low;

  Each trembling spray of ivy;

  The river's murmuring flow;

  The shadow of the forest;

  Sunset, or twilight dim;

  Dear as they were, were dearer

  By leaving them for him.

  VIII.

  And each year as it found her

  In the dull, feverish town,

  Saw self still more forgotten,

  And selfish care kept down

  By the calm joy of evening

  That brought him to her side,

  To warn him with wise counsel,

  Or praise with tender pride.

  IX.

  Her heart, her life, her future,

  Her genius, only meant

  Another thing to give him,

  And be therewith content.

  To-day, what words had stirr'd her,

  Her soul could not forget?

  What dream had fill'd her spirit

  With strange and wild regret?

  X.

  To leave him for another:

  Could it indeed be so?

  Could it have cost such anguish

  To bid this vision go?

  Was this her faith? Was Herbert

  The second in her heart?

  Did it need all this struggle

  To bid a dream depart?

  XI.

  And yet, within her spirit

  A far-off land was seen;

  A home, which might have held her;

  A love, which might have been;

  And Life: not the mere being

  Of daily ebb and flow,

  But Life itself had claim'd her,

  And she had let it go!

  XII.

  Within her heart there echo'd

  Again the well-known tune
/>
  That promised this bright future,

  And ask'd her for its own:

  Then words of sorrow, broken

  By half-reproachful pain;

  And then a farewell, spoken

  In words of cold disdain.

  XIII.

  Where now was the stern purpose

  That nerved her soul so long?

  Whence came the words she utter'd,

  So hard, so cold, so strong?

  What right had she to banish

  A hope that God had given?

  Why must she choose earth's portion,

  And turn aside from Heaven?

  XIV.

  To-day! Was it this morning?

  If this long, fearful strife

  Was but the work of hours,

  What would be years of life?

  Why did a cruel Heaven

  For such great suffering call?

  And why—O, still more cruel!—

  Must her own words do all?

  XV.

  Did she repent? O Sorrow!

  Why do we linger still

  To take thy loving message,

  And do thy gentle will?

  See, her tears fall more slowly;

  The passionate murmurs cease,

  And back upon her spirit

  Flow strength, and love, and peace.

  XVI.

  The fire burns more brightly,

  The rain has passed away,

  Herbert will see no shadow

  Upon his home to-day;

  Only that Bertha greets him

  With doubly tender care,

  Kissing a fonder blessing

  Down on his golden hair.

  Number Two

  I.

  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.

  II.

  So Bertha 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.

  III.

  But why—when the sick chamber

  Is on the upper floor—

  Why dares not Bertha 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?

  IV.

  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.

  V.

  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 refined gold.

  X.

  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

  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,