"'Yes, my darling, dreaming always of you, night and day, surely, surely, hope should inspire me. This is the place and now the time to wander in love's enchanted realm. I shall not put off till your home-coming the joys I would experience. Let my "heart be a spirit,"

and then I may be wafted to your side this minute and sit beside you from early morn till twilight and the even-song of birds softly and sweetly hint the flight of time. Yes--

"'He who hath loved not, here would learn that love, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more: For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those-- For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights in its eternity!'

"'And now, my darling, I must not forget to remind you that you have quite overlooked my request for a lock of your golden hair. You acknowledged the receipt of mine, and asked why I did not tie it in a pretty ribbon instead of a piece of cotton thread.'"

"There is the lock of hair again!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "I saw it in the other letter when Jim was at the hospital. It was a trifle lighter than his. The poor girl--I suppose she thought it more precious than strands of pure gold."

"Hair has a lot to do with love, Gabrielle," whispered Mr. Gibson.

"Think what an uphill job it would have been for Jim with a bald head."

"Never could have done it," said Jim, huskily, determined to break in somewhere on a long chance that the letter would blow out to sea or the Produce Exchange tower topple over.

"'Haste, my sweetheart,'" continued Nellie, "'is my excuse--haste which wholly disregards the trifling detail; but I see my error now and enclose a yard of blue ribbon to be converted by your deft hands into a tight bow-knot where the unpoetic cotton now binds the clipped token of my love. I pray there may be enough left to gather a generous lock of the golden tresses for which I yearn. You will not withhold them, will you, Margaret? What sweet thoughts proceed from memory's strongholds:

"'Can I forget--canst thou forget, When playing with thy golden hair, How quickly thy fluttering heart did move?

Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, With eyes so languid, breast so fair, And lips, though silent, breathing love.

"'When thus reclining on my breast, Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, As half reproached, yet raised desire, And still we near and nearer prest, And still our glowing lips would meet, As if in kisses to expire.

"'And then those pensive eyes would close, And bid their lids each other seek, Veiling the azure orbs below, While their long lashes' darken'd gloss Seemed stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow.'

"'While it may be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, there are limitations, believe me, to man's endurance. Three months will find me worn to a scant shadow, a mere tissue, so sharp that the dial at noonday cannot point with finer finger the pa.s.sage of the sun under the meridian wire. Only the first month is now waning, and I dare not look a weighing machine in the face, for fear I might fall in the slot. I am not facetious, believe me, Margaret.

"'Fear underlies my woe. Annoying images, at first vague, gather strength of outline and haunt me like evil prophecies. Of course, there is naught but fear to account for these distressing delusions, but is it not as real when it wounds as the dagger's point? How shall we banish the terrors that arise in lonely hours? In writing to you these thoughts as they flow from the deep reservoirs of my soul, through the conduit of pen, in inky tracings on this fair page, my sweetest hours are spent. Here is an outlet that reduces in some measure the roaring flood-waters, as strength abides to perform the necessary physical evolutions till repose comes o'er me; then I slip into the Land of Nod through a lane of sweet magnolias, and approach the rose-bedecked gates garlanded as if for the entry of a prince and his bride. You are with me then, and as the cheering populace greets us, a herald stands forth and addresses you thus:

"'She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to the tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

"'And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.'"

"My! but he puts it on thick," gasped Nellie, pausing for breath.

"Oh, pshaw!" said her father; "impossible to mix it too thick."

"What would he have done without Lord Byron?" asked Mrs. Gibson, who gave me scant credit, apparently.

"Well, Byron wouldn't mind," said Gabrielle, smiling. "He would be glad to help the cause along. The lover is strengthening his persuasion with good poetry."

Nellie read more rapidly now, for she had learned many of my pen oddities:

"'What a worldly fellow I was till your eyes met mine and brought me far, far up from the depths to the heights of contemplation. My philosophy was naught. I saw not the beauty of life, for I was lost in a wilderness of its petty distractions. Remembering our happy days together, why should their inspiration not sustain me now? At the time of parting--

"'I saw thee weep--the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue, And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew; I saw thee smile--the sapphire blaze Beside thee ceased to shine; It could not match the living rays That filled that glance of thine.'

"'The feeling so tenderly expressed in that tear preceding the smile holds me in thrall when I bid fear depart and wake no more the ogres of its dread. Let me rather fondle that cherished smile,

"'As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow dye, Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky; Those smiles, into the moodiest mind, Their own pure joys impart; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart.'"

Would luck ever come? Would it ever come? What would be the outcome? Jim tried to plan for the approaching emergency, but the best he could do was to struggle to conceal the acute case of chills and fever then torturing his weak body and adding confusion to his dazed mind. The reader proceeded:

"'All the deep feelings of the lover have been experienced by the poets, and to them we must turn to find words attuned to the harmonies surging within, clamoring for expression, where pa.s.sion has just been born. These gifted singers have searched the human heart as only genius can and have given their songs as a universal heritage to all who feel the melting murmurs. If there is aught of inspiration in their words, it belongs to me as the harper's music belonged to Byron when he craved it:

"'My soul is dark--oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.

If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again; If in those eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow and cease to burn my brain.'

"'And how natural, Margaret, it is for the man steeped in love as I am to search out consolation amid the sweet concord of poetry. And so seeking the thought attuned to mine, I also say:

"'But let the strain be wild and deep, Nor let the notes of joy be first; I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst And break at once--or yield to song.'

"'My writing is usually over at midnight, and when I have returned from the corner, where I post the letter, I sit me down in the darkness to ponder on what I have composed. How dull it seems to me then; how poorly expressed these sentiments too deep for words of mine, and not always within range of such poetry as I can find! Moods are so fleeting, too; some tender thought pa.s.ses over me and for a moment I am lost in the rare atmosphere of mountain-tops to which it summons me. When I come to tell of this magic wrought by your innocent witchery, I find it quite impossible to explain, as the essence of my heavenly flight is all so poetic and strange a mere mortal like myself cannot interpret the feeling. It surely cannot be that all men who love are so entranced. It must be that within the circle of your enchanting power a superior charm prevails:

"'There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters, Is thy sweet voice to me; When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

"'The moon is your partner in this mysterious midnight revel, Margaret:

"'And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep; So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee, With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.'

"'How wise, after all, your advice to be hopeful! The sweetest moments of our lives are pa.s.sing now while we are wrapped in our devotion to each other. All sounds are sweet--

"''Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellowed o'er the water's sweep.

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 'Tis sweet to listen to the night winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.'"

Gabrielle now took up Hygeia's letter again. The rainbow of hope based on ocean seemed to Jim to be disappearing beneath its watery foundation.

If Obreeon had appeared and offered to remove those letters at that point, he might have doubled the price, and Jim would have paid it gladly.

But the reader did not stop.

"'Of course, I am interested,'" read Nellie, "'in your daily doings in the country, so do not chide me for not asking more questions. I should like to know the number of cows your Uncle Reuben keeps, and if the cheese factory is running on full time. These items savor of rural thrift, and as the farmer is the backbone of the country, I would not eliminate him--scratch him as it were--from our worldly calculations. The cows, the cheese factory and Uncle Reuben, however, stand in the dim background fading into the hazy purple of the tree-lined brook, as I think of you, my May Queen, laughing, in the center of the picture. When I correspond with Uncle Reuben it will be by telegram at my end of the line.

"'Before I close to-night I must again a.s.sure you that a happier view of the outlook for the coming two months will be taken. Your happiness must be mine:

"'Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy, too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly--'"

"Stop, Nellie! James Hosley, you wrote that letter! Do you deny it?"

Gabrielle Tescheron crumpled Hygeia's note in her clenched hand as she said that, and arose, fastening her steady eyes on the crouching form of the cripple, who appeared to cringe under the blast of the storm. He had tried to be prepared, but he failed utterly when he attempted to speak.

He was seen to raise his hand and elevate his eyebrows, but now words were impossible; a low murmur and heavy breathing, an effort to stand and a surrender in despair to the hopelessness of his fate, were all that marked Jim Hosley's resistance to this accusation.

"You wrote this letter--you wrote the others--do you deny it?"

This came quickly after the first question from her lips; her manner completely changed, betraying the nervous strain under which she suppressed her emotions, as she bravely faced the man for whom the world had seemed a small sacrifice. Jealousy might have waged its battle in privacy; but the revelation of a detestable crime so convincingly corroborated by this letter from the nurse, whose p.r.i.c.king conscience had at last reported my version of Hosley with her view of the ownership and purpose of the damaging poetic doc.u.ments, outlined to Gabrielle's quick intelligence the method of a deep, patiently pursued course of crime. Her father's claims, to which her deaf ears had been turned in the ardor of youth, came now with terrible force to win instant conviction. She would not falter in the crisis. The man should be given a hearing--brief, to be sure--but he should have it.

"Speak!" The command brought the Gibsons to their feet, but Jim was paralyzed and dumb. After a long pause, he took all the responsibility for my folly and pleaded:

"I wrote it, Gabrielle--and forgive me."

"Then you must leave this house at once. You go your way and I shall see you no more. I know it all now. This letter from the nurse--Mr.

Hopkins--my father--they were right. I have been blind. You have deceived me, just as you deceived this poor woman, whose awful fate I know. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson and Nellie"--she turned, grasping her chair--"you have been kind friends. If I have imposed on your hospitality, you will forgive me--"