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 refinèd gold.
X.
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.
XI.
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.
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.
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.