The Story
of Saville
XVI.
Sweet April, blossomy April, the laughing capricious maid,
Had velvet enamellar carpets spread in garden and glebe and glade,
Had carelessly dropped her loose-clasped gold, dotting with coins the lawn,
Had lingered for thirty ravishing days, and to-night was almost gone,
For the latest even of April had come, and the soft air, moist with rain,
Stole through the ivied casement, a lilac breath in its train,
Over the two who had known together a year of divinest love,
And who now had come by the will of fate to the last sweet moment thereof.
“Kyrle, I have something to ask,” she said, timidly stroking his hand,
“Answer me not with blame of my weakness, but try, dear, to understand,—
It is that you let me leave home to-night,—but of course, dear Kyrle, not for long,—
I dare not be present to-morrow,—I have aye been so brave and so strong
That haply you think I can bear all things,—but if the result should go wrong,
