"'We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly; Not vernal showers to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!'"

"My, but wouldn't it be fine to have such letters to treasure!" laughed Gabrielle, teasingly. "Jim, don't you think it splendid?"

But Jim looked glum and tried to dodge under the quilts.

"'It is not every night I _can_ dream, believe me, darling,'"

continued Hygeia, her face in smiles, for she felt that her audience was now in sympathy with the reading. "'Many and many a night I pace the floor of my dark room or idly sit by the window gazing out at the flickering stars and the pale moon until they fade away in the dawn, and then I rush out into the turmoil of the unheeding, jostling world, with nothing to live for but your return. On those nights one soft word from your fair lips would summon me to peaceful dreams.

Alas! to realize that you are far, far from me, and the agony of the thought that you may never return seizes and holds me fast. Then it is--

"'O, thou pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep!

Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep!

With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, And mourn in lamentation deep How life and love are all a dream.

"'Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptured moments flown!

How have I wished for fortune's charms, For her dear sake and hers alone!

And must I think it!--is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast?

And does she heedless hear my groan?

And is she ever, ever lost?

"'Oh! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honor, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth!'"

"Jim, why didn't you learn how to write letters, so that you could send some to me like that? Don't you think it lovely? Please don't stop.

Pardon my interruptions," said Gabrielle.

"Never mind the interruptions. Let us get all the fun out of it we can,"

replied Hygeia, who continued to read with frequent interruptions from Gabrielle, but none whatever from Jim--the livelier the comments and laughter, the greater he was inclined to silence and disappearance beneath the covers.

"Jim, why don't you laugh?" Gabrielle would say, turning to the poor fellow, who was as meek as any beggar could be. The part.i.tion wall was too thick for me to hear what was going on, although by direct line I was probably not two feet away from Jim, for our beds stood head to head.

The idea of entertaining Miss Tescheron and her ill companion in this way was pleasing to Hygeia. Of course, she knew there was nothing in those letters that could make a woman cry, so on she read, and as she proceeded the fun for Gabrielle and the interest from Jim's standpoint became intensified. I don't suppose I did anything except snore.

"'I have tried hard, my sweetheart,'" continued Hygeia, "'to find distraction by visiting the places of amus.e.m.e.nt alone, but the music of the orchestras became jarring discord in my ears; the plays, either dull, or if interesting in plot with lovers happily united, they but added to my anguish. There is no escape for a heart crushed as mine has been. How I long for the wilderness; to be alone with my sorrow since heaven calling for your companionship cannot be mine!

"'Had I a cave on some wild distant sh.o.r.e, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more.

"'Every time you mention a birdie in one of your letters, Margaret, I am driven to desperation. Why have I not the charms of the woodland warblers to pierce with dulcet note the inmost fortresses of your heart b.u.t.tressed to strong resistance against my awkward protestations of undying love? Nature has taught these creatures of the wild to woo with a finer art. Man is but a clod--too sordid to rise on wings of song into that vast expanse of heaven, a woman's heart. Let me learn of the birds:

"'O, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!

Nor quit for me the trembling spray; A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.

"'Again, again, that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art, For surely that would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining.'"

"Why, how apt those quotations are and how full!" laughed Gabrielle.

"You don't suppose the writer could have been so cruel as to deliberately copy them, and yet he must have done so, of course.

Just think of it: some man sitting there wildly in love, seeking counsel of the inspired poets to plead his cause. His great devotion leads him to select the tenderest pa.s.sages; only those verses that speak the deep sentiments of his flaming heart does he see, and with them he presents his case. Why, really, I find that I am arguing myself into a friendly att.i.tude toward this poor soul. Perhaps it is not right for us to laugh at that which is so real to this earnest pleader. Still, it is funny to stand aside and see two people in love, isn't it, Jim? Really one can't help laughing, and as we don't know whose letters these are, why shouldn't we laugh? Then think of the poor girl, up there in the country, writing long letters in return, proud of her lover's ardor, yet shy in penning words of devotion. Isn't it an attractive picture, Jim?--full of that 'soothing, fond complaining' for them, and comedy for the rest of us? Go on, my dear, and let us hear more of this poetic woe; although Jim doesn't say anything, I can see that he is listening.

Does it make you tired, Jim?"

"Oh, no. No, no, Gabrielle--not at all!" Jim managed to spruce up enough to deny the intimation.

"Then please continue," urged Gabrielle.

Hygeia was delighted to find her entertainment so successful, and proceeded, not noting, of course, the inward groans which spread through the quaking man in the bed. Jim could see that unless a great stroke of luck turned up there would be another fire, and he would take a fall that would probably kill him next time.

It is dangerous to leave waste paper like those letters lying around close to such highly inflammable material.

Poor Hygeia! She played with the fire like a child. What did she know about the rules of the Board of Underwriters! Neither had she ever heard of the Bureau of Combustibles!

It's a mighty lucky thing for my nerves that I was dreaming an easier plot.

If Jim had been able to reach over the back of his bed and slit me with a cleaver into rosette ribbons, one-quarter inch wide, I believe he would have done it and been proud of the job.

Hygeia continuing, with Gabrielle expectant and Jim well m.u.f.fled, must have presented a picture I would give anything to have preserved in oil paint.

"'How dearly I cherish the lock of hair I stole from you the evening we parted! You are not angry with me, are you, Margaret?'" read Hygeia.

"'Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past.

"'Really I do not wonder at the volumes of poetry that have been written on the beautiful tresses of the fair enshrined in lovers'

hearts. Sweet dreams hover near this soft remembrance and I only regret that I did not snip off enough to have a jeweler braid it for my watch-charm locket. Enclosed please find some of mine in return.'"

"Here it is," exclaimed Hygeia, and she produced the small allotment of Jim's, tied with a cotton thread in the middle.

Fortunately the original quant.i.ty had dwindled in fondling or transit, so that with an exhibit of only eighteen strands, as per my inventory, there was not enough to bulk and show the same depth of shade as the original on the neighboring pillow. Gabrielle took the fragmentary token and held it up, playfully remarking:

"Why, the dear fellow was a blond; almost your color, Jim, I should imagine; perhaps a little lighter. He probably had eyes like yours, Jimmy. Now, what a fortunate girl she was! Oh, my! Some men are so tender and thoughtful about these little matters. Jim, you never teased me by stealing a lock of my hair, did you? and so of course I never asked for yours. What a slow old chap you are! These letters will teach you a lesson, which I hope you will heed. Put the lock back with that poetry to preserve it, and do let us hear the rest of it."

"Listen, then," said Hygeia, continuing:

"'How the fresh breezes must be painting their ruddy hues on those cheeks of yours, Margaret, for you write me that you are spending most of your time in the open these beautiful days. How I long to be with you and behold, for as the poet would sing of you--

"'Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flow'ry scene, Just opening on its th.o.r.n.y stem.

"'Aye, and then--

"'Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen-- They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.'"

At this point I awoke, sat up in bed and reached out for the suspended electric b.u.t.ton, which I pushed for two long rings and a short one, my private signal. I was thirsty for grape-juice. Hygeia seldom traveled beyond range of my bell. As soon as she heard it, she stopped reading and asked to be excused for a few minutes, until she could attend to my wants.

It was now my eighth week at the hospital, and it found me with little to do. I pined silently. The nurse flitting in and out cheered and then distracted me; she was too busy elsewhere most of the time to suit me. I dared not think too much of my troubles, for I found it discouraging and weakening. The letters from Obreeon furnished the material I needed to sustain a happy train of thought. Sitting up in bed with this precious poetic patchwork piled over my lap, I had many a good sneeze. I am sure I got some of my money back by reading them over and over again, with the memory of the original spirit in which they were slapped together.

For a time the happy days of the fifth flat came back to me, and I smiled and chuckled over the wildest specimens in suppressed glee.

Robert Burns, of Scotland, and I were responsible for many of these lone lover's laments. I must say that Burns held up his end fairly well, because I knew just where to place his underpinning to make it support my magnificent prose. The Byron and Shakespeare-built letters were also good. Scott rumbled a little too hard; his stride was too firm to answer the purpose, except for short fillers now and then. All the big licks were put in with Byron and Burns, and Morris occasionally as a subst.i.tute. Those fellows warmed up to the subject in a way that pleased me; they took right hold of a girl with as little timidity as a dancing professor and poured their song into her inclining ear, happy in the understanding that they were delivering the goods she wanted. Early in the business I had come to the conclusion that it was useless to fool with the cold-blooded wooers if results were wanted. Shakespeare, of course, was a leader, but his best stuff was getting to be so common in the language I found it impossible to quote him and maintain an air of dignified originality, so as to make it appear that the gems fell naturally by suggestion from Jim's well-stocked poem reservoir. If the maiden should get the idea that the prose was written around the poetry the scenic effect would be destroyed. The great thing was to make a hit by getting the sincerity in the prose boiled down so thick that the following poetry would seem to be only a breath of steam arising from the solid ma.s.s of seething sentiment. It was a.s.sumed that the lady would know who the poet was, but give Jim credit for selecting the verses the same as if he had written them; she would not doubt him on the prose, for occasionally I brought that down to the style of a plain business letter to destroy suspicion.

The more I read those letters over at the hospital, the prouder I became. My calm judgment was that they were well worth the price and any woman might be proud to have them sent to her. Perhaps I would copy them off again some time when I needed help that way myself; at any rate, I was so proud of them I decided I would always keep them for their literary value.

When Hygeia entered, I was deeply interested in this doc.u.mentary ma.s.s. I had forgotten about my thirst, imbibing from this fount of poetic inspiration. She asked me what it was that pleased me so much, but I dodged that question politely.