The Story of Saville/Part 2
II.
Well,—to a man in a dungeon an infinitesimal thing
Looms large as the fate of an empire doth to a fetterless king,
And for the first time in aeons Kyrle felt a surcease of pain,
Casting the slough of his anguish a blessed brief hour or twain,—
’Twas something to hope and to live for, that hour in the afternoon,
To question if fate would vouchsafe him a second such velvety boon,—
He would not fail to keep tryst,—not he! And yet—O heaven!—and yet—
What? had he sunk to this estate? to care if some selfish coquette,
A pampered doll, an idol of clay, born only to drive men mad,
Yielded or not to such sweet ruth as yesterday she had?
She came, with her printless hurrying feet stepping so shamed and fast
Scarce had he guessed her near him at all ere she had onward passed,
And when she had turned and again approached it seemed that she would have gone
Straight on unseeing across the stretch of wide snow-sprinkled lawn,—
But she was perforce constrained to pause; he wist not that he held up
A visage stamped with an awful need, like a beggar’s holding a cup—
He never knew that he reached his hand, while slowly advanced the maid
And into his fingers eager and worn a bunch of violets laid—
And he tried to mutter a word of thanks, and he heard a quick low sob,
And he sank half stunned to his seat again, afraid of his heart’s wild throb,
And it was over, all over and past! and now for twenty-four hours
He must live like a starving sailor, on a breath and a knot of flowers,
And ever there rang in his weary brain, the roar of the city above,
These words of a laurelled master, till he sickened with terror thereof,
“Hath man not evil enough, O Earth, that thou must lay on him love?”
