II
William Habberton drank his ale;
An iron man! An iron man!
—Without the first stars, cold and pale,
Streaked heaven with radiance milky-wan.
William Habberton sat at meat;
He frowned an oaken frown and stark.
The lovers cursed at Time, the fleet,
And stumbled, kissing, towards the dark.
And as they went the purse chinked thrice,
In chiming notes like clinking ice.
William Habberton eyed his guest;
Like stubborn flint was grown his stare.
He drew a parchment from his breast,
And looked, and saw his ruin there.
His fields beneath another’s plow,
Another’s seal stamped on his brow.
Black hound, Disaster, at his heel ...
Hand crept to sheath and found the steel.
Out of the night the lovers came,
Their cheeks on fire, their lips like flame.
And twined once more, mouth fused to mouth,
Before the bitter three months’ drouth.
She passed. Her candle shot with flares
The creaking mystery of the stairs.
The trooper watched each darling tread.
“A good night’s rest!” the farmer said.
“And where sleep I?” his guest spoke free,
Oh white was William Habberton!
“Soft, soft and deep your bed shall be!
And you shall wake when day’s begun!”
“Rest in the Blue Room as you may;
I’ll light you on your lonely way.”
The lantern like a secret fear,
Whispered and guttered at his ear.
The shadows mouthed at him to stay,
He staggered upward on his way.
Below, the house grew black and still,
As listening stood Habberton.
The moonlight’s daggers stabbed the sill.
The dark wind rustled and was gone.
Then slowly, slowly, up the stair
One trod as if he trod on air.
The wavering silence closed around
A ghost that shook at every sound.
Up to the Blue Room’s door he passed,
Gripping the blade unsheathed at last.
· · · · ·
Dawn filled the air with fire and foam
When William Habberton came home.
But sun had warmed the drowsy flies
Before he met his daughter’s eyes.
A new-got purse knocked at his side;
Oh rich was William Habberton!
“You’ve mounted roses like a bride.
Take heed they be not withered soon.”
· · · · ·
The dry leaves whirled in yellow and brown
Like the tattered rags of a beauty’s gown.
And a chattering wind piped loud of snows
As the year went out as a sunset goes.
But Habberton’s farm was heavy with dread,
And Elsie Habberton lay in bed,
And fought for breath with the gloom o’erhead.
For fever came, and a shadow came;
Her hot lips writhed to speak its name;
Till the sick fit passed and left her lame.
Bent as a windblown tree and weak,
But her soul was steel and her eyes were bleak.
“Wait you no more for hoofs to near?”
Thus mockingly spoke Habberton,
“And where’s the picture of your dear
That kissed you in the August sun?”
Her breast her shaking hands did feel,
Where something stung them like a weal,
—She ground the picture under heel.
And the glad wind, and the loud rain
Beat at the shuttering eaves in vain,
And the aching summer comes again.
The grain stands high in the meadow now,
Save for one spot untouched by plow
Where two rocks meet on the hillside’s brow.
“Habberton, lend me your powder horn!
For barren rocks I’ll promise you corn!”
Answered Habberton, heavy of hand,
“I do as I please with my own land!”
And he strikes the stones with his oaken stick,
And a strange sound rings—and his smile turns sick.