The Story
of Saville
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
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