IX.
O friend! if a brother, struggling and faint, cries out for thy helping hand,
And begs for a draught of water or wine in a barren and fountainless land,—
If a human soul in a need extreme where the weltering surges roll
Entreats for a token of sympathy, the touch of a stancher soul,
Hasten, O hasten to give of thy strength! let not the poor sufferer wait,
For the sand burns white and the waves leap fierce, and to-morrow it may be too late,—
Thou shalt haply see in the morning sun an outworn shell at thy gate!
Saville had responded to Kyrle’s wild prayer, and so was permitted to save
His wounded faith and his breaking heart from the dusty dark of the grave,
And the days like white-winged birds wheeled by, and nearer and nearer they grew,
And each was a light in the other’s life, tinging its grayness through
With a cordial warmth, as in winter wolds vermilion barberries do,—
Ah me! ’tis a world of shadows we walk in, and happy is he who can cling
In the midst of the vacillant spectres secure to one real true thing.
And April arrived and the sward to the foot was spongily tender and wet,
And the ice-bound brooks broke loose and ran singing a canzonet,
And coral the maple-buds shone overhead, and mayweed and thistles and dill
Were springing as if but to honor and please sweet arbutus-laden Saville,
And Kyrle stood erect and majestic, awaiting her, seeming again
Sovereign and lord of his turbulent fate, self-poised and a man among men.
He had something to tell her—yet where was the need? Her knowledge preceded his own—
She must have incited her lady L’Estrange, a power behind the throne,—
The picture was sold to that lady, no more should it languish unseen,
But was called to its rightful station, the home of a social queen,
And the lady had paid a liberal price, almost a fabulous sum;
A monarch’s fee, and ’twas through Saville that this fortunate chance had come,
And so she had earned a commission,—she must not be over nice,—
She was poorer than he himself was, and here was the half of the price,—
He fathomed the dullness abhorred of her daily routine at the Hall,
There were nettles ’mid silkiest cushions, and the bread was besprinkled with gall,—
And here was the money, her earnings, not his; she must take it and hasten away
To the rose-misted mountains or chrysoprase sea, and rest for a long holiday.
One word incoherent and sudden she spoke in a doubting reproachful tone,
Then struggled for dignity all too late, for the word had been simply “Alone?”
Full often the mind, when fate’s dense cloud suddenly ominous lowers,
Or sparkles with gold or crimson, charged by kindlier powers,
Works in the groove a master cut, in deeper expressions than ours,
And Kyrle but mused how the knight of old mourned of his fateful sin
That he dare not pluck it forth of his heart, since all that was lovely therein
Was tendrilled and knotted with what was evil in union so vital and strong
That which was tainted and which was pure he wist not, nor right from wrong.
“Now surely this were a sin,” mused Kyrle, “or a cowardice, which is worse,—
A month ago I had spurned the thought away from me with a curse.
What should such fellows as I do,” forsooth? and Hamlet as good as his word,
Weak, irresolute, yet put by the plea of temptation unheard,—
Yes,—and thanks to his reasoning so unimpeachably sound,
To this Alpine glimmer of purpose high in his brain’s fantastical round,
His poor, poor love with her pansied hands and her daisied tresses lay drowned!
And Oh! he was weary of prudence, that frigid fanatical nun,—
In her hateful name what straits he had seen, what tasks superhuman had done,
He had chidden his lips for smiling, forbidden his blood to run,—
And now at the thought of breaking her bond, Kyrle’s heart, exuberant, wild,
Leapt as a cataract plunges o’er masses of granite up-piled,—
Sweet is a reckless beat in a pulse long glacier-gentle and mild!
Again did a master’s words come back in rippling mellifluous flow,
“Whither, O whither, my love, shall we flee for a sweet little summer or so?”
And he said, “The thorn-girded Princess arose and followed her lover,—but no!
You are hedged with a thousand conventional briers, Saville, and you dare not go,—
It is but a dream that we twain might wed and sweep in a swallow-like flight
Away for a roseate triple-mooned day, and then ere autumnal sad night
Slip back to our niches appointed and strait, and arm for the winter’s fight,
Yours, the hushing of peevish complaints, the filling of futile demands,
Mine, the patiently facing the dark and chafing the listless hands,—
But no!—’tis the dream of a dastard, a dolt,—’twere a children’s folly, a sin—
Yet what right doing of all our lives, what sacrifice ever shall win
Reward so regal? And yet, the end! If I held you once as a wife,
God! what a thing were I to sink content to the old blank life!
But it is not I who shall blench at the risk,—the madness, the crime, if you will,—
Yours is the right to rebuke or accede,—Will you marry me then, Saville?”
Sobbing she answered, “Dear heart! the wrong, if any there be, is mine,—
I should have vision for both of us; but I am the night-shade’s vine,
Purple and scarlet with poison, throttling whatever I twine,—
These are hysterical ravings! Forget them! My spirit hath passed
Through a long purgatorial penance, but now soareth lark-like at last,
And I cannot be sorry this moment, dear heart, e’en for your lampless eyes,—
I am glad they must fail to discern in my own the exquisite rapture that lies
Mixed with my tears,—tears vanishing now under your kiss as the dew
In the sun! And where have you lingered, my king, these horrible centuries through,
While I pined and paled in the dungeon-damps, waiting for you—for you!”
