XVII.
It was over, his long suspense and doubt; the delicate daring hand
Had executed successfully the intellect’s keen command,—
O, scarce in the New Jerusalem paven with gold and with pearls,
Scarce shall the ransomed of God know rapture diviner than Kyrle’s!
For an hour or twain ’twas enough to enjoy, merely that God had said
“Let there be light!” for him once more, and had summoned his eyes from the dead,
But quickly the rift crept widening in,—’twas but a mere broken toy,
A splintered gem, a goblet cracked, if Saville did not share in his joy.
He blamed himself for granting her prayer,—she should have remained beside
Her husband and bravely fronted with him what weal or woe should betide,—
Alone? Why, not so alone had he been before they ever had met,—
A tenebrous wall of solitude, carven of solid jet,
Immured him round, and the air waxed cold, e’en as the sun had set.
He sought the room where her laugh and song had made the obscurity bright,
And gazed on trifles familiar and dear to the touch if not to the sight,—
Her bird chirped low in its shining cage, the fish gleamed gay in the globe,
And careless it lay on the rich divan, her rosy and silvery robe,—
Yes, she herself would be here anon—where else should she be?—but yet—
Surely the hour was passing—had passed—the hour she had set
To return—Good God! he was stifling, meshed in a strangling net!
They brought him a note. “Dear Kyrle, Dear Love, Briefly and plain must I write,
Nor tax God’s last best gift to you, the peerless blessing of sight,—
They who shall give you this letter will tell you wherefore it must be
That you and I are severed nor meet till we meet by the jasper sea.
I had meant to leave you another way,—but I could not! my aim would have missed
The head that your hands had benisoned, the bosom your lips had kissed,—
I could wish ’twere a loftier motive, dear, some impulse of duty or right,
But no,—’twas only that what you had loved thenceforth was inviolate quite,
And so I have only gone away. Seek not, for you never will find,—
Spend rather each precious moment in doing the work we outlined
For your brush if our Heavenly Father should call you back into the field,—
Strive on, and this present personal need, this ache in your heart, shall be healed,—
For me,—I shall think of you there in my home, I shall know that you dream of me still,
And shall read in each finished picture a starry sweet thought of
And shall read in each finished picture a starry sweet thought of SAVILLE!”
SO HERE ENDETH THE STORY OF SAVILLE AS TOLD BY JULIA DITTO YOUNG 🌽 AND DONE INTO A BOOK 🌽 AT THE ROYCROFT SHOP ♣ WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, NEW YORK, U. S. A. ♣ ♣ MDCCCXCVII ❧ ❧
