FullReads

* * * * *

Night black and chill, wind gathering still,
With its wail in the turret tall,
And its headlong blast like a catapult cast
On the crest of the outer wall,
And its hail and rain on the crashing pane,
Till the glassy splinters fall.

A moody knight by the fitful light
Of the great hall fire below;
A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayers,
Will they profit her, aye or no?
By’r lady fain, an’ she comfort gain,
There is comfort for us also.

The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone,
And he watched the gleams that broke
On the pale hearth-stone, and flickered and shone
On the panels of polish’d oak;
He was ‘ware of no presence except his own
Till the voice of young Margaret spoke:

“I’ve risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight,
I cannot sleep in my bed,
Now, unless my tale can be told aright,
I wot it were best unsaid;
It lies, the blood of yon northern knight,
On my lady’s hand and head.”

“Oh! the wild wind raves and rushes along,
But thy ravings seem more wild–
She never could do so foul a wrong–
Yet I blame thee not, my child,
For the fever’d dreams on thy rest that throng!”
He frown’d though his speech was mild.

“Let storm winds eddy, and scream, and hurl
Their wrath, they disturb me naught;
The daughter she of a high-born earl,
No secret of hers I’ve sought;
I am but the child of a peasant churl,
Yet look to the proofs I’ve brought;

“This dagger snapp’d so close to the hilt–
Dost remember thy token well?
Will it match with the broken blade that spilt
His life in the western dell?
Nay! read her handwriting an’ thou wilt,
From her paramour’s breast it fell.”

The knight in silence the letter read,
Oh! the characters well he knew!
And his face might have match’d the face of the dead,
So ashen white was its hue!
Then he tore the parchment shred by shred,
And the strips in the flames he threw.

And he muttered, “Densely those shadows fall
In the copse where the alders thicken;
There she bade him come to her, once for all–
Now, I well may shudder and sicken;–
Gramercy! that hand so white and small,
How strongly it must have stricken.”

* * * * *

At midnight hour, in the western tower,
Alone with the dead man there,
Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feels
The shock of the rushing air,
Though the gusts that pass through the riven glass
Have scattered her raven hair.

Across the floor, through the opening door,
Where standeth a stately knight,
The lamplight streams, and flickers, and gleams,
On his features stern and white–
‘Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near,
And the lady standeth upright.

“‘Tis little,” he said, “that I know or care
Of the guilt (if guilt there be)
That lies ‘twixt thee and yon dead man there,
Nor matters it now to me;
I thought thee pure, thou art only fair,
And to-morrow I cross the sea.

“He perish’d! I ask not why or how?
I come to recall my troth;
Take back, my lady, thy broken vow,
Give back my allegiance oath;
Let the past be buried between us now
For ever–’tis best for both.

“Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dare
Lay hand on that corpse’s heart,
And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear,
That thou hadst in his death no part?
I ask not, while threescore proofs I share
With one doubt–uncondemn’d thou art.”

Oh! cold and bleak upon Mabel’s cheek
Came the blast of the storm-wind keen,
And her tresses black, as the glossy back
Of the raven, glanced between
Her fingers slight, like the ivory white,
As she parted their sable sheen.

Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye,
And with cheek like the flush of dawn,
Unflinchingly she spoke in reply–
“Go hence with the break of morn,
I will neither confess, nor yet deny,
I will return thee scorn for scorn.”

The knight bow’d low as he turn’d to go;
He travell’d by land and sea,
But naught of his future fate I know,
And naught of his fair ladye;
My story is told as, long ago,
My story was told to me.