The Story
of Saville
And he seemed as a carven statue, and the wife stopped stricken and gasped,
For close in his long unused right hand his palette and brushes were grasped.
And how he had found in the dark these things she could not imagine or know,
And she closed the door and stole away, leaving him sleeping so,
And in solitude knelt for a bitter hour and wrestled alone with her woe,
Yet loved him a hundred-fold better because he had broken the thrall
Of her arms for a vision of duty, nor made her his all in all.
Came another day,—outside ’twas wild, and the wind whistled scimetar shrill,
Whipping the terrified snowflakes sheeplike over the hill,
But in the library dense with thought where loitered Kyrle and Saville
Peaceful was all the atmosphere, solemnly, heavenly still,
Save as the woodbine tapped the pane with little coquettish starts,
Or an ash fell feathery on the hearth ’neath rosy and violet darts.
