He had found out that the best way to amuse or interest Kathleen was to read or sing to her while she lay quietly on the sofa, her arms over her head, her dark, curly lashes drooping over her sad, dreamy eyes. Many a time when he was not looking, the burning tears ran down her cheeks as she thought of Ralph, her dear, lost lover, who was brought so vividly to mind by Chester's poetry and songs.
So she lay very still now while Chester, who really played and sung very well, poured out in the sweet love-song the passion that filled his heart.
"When nightly my wild harp I bring
To wake all its music for thee,
So sweet looks that face while I sing,
To reason no longer I'm free.
I forget thou art queen of the land,
'Tis thy beauty alone that I see!
And trembling at touch of thy hand,
All else is forgotten by me.
"The spell is upon me asleep,
In the region of dreams thou art mine—
I wake, but, ah! 'tis to weep,
And the hope of my slumbers resign.
Ah, hadst thou been less than thou art,
Or I more deserving of thee,
Thou mightst have been queen of my heart,
Thou mightst have been all things to me."
Tears came to the singer's eyes and tears to the listener's, the words were so wildly sad. Chester thought of her, she of Ralph, so strange are love's entanglements.
"Go on," she murmured, unwilling that he should turn and see the burning tear-drops in her eyes, so Chester selected another song:
I've something to ask you to-night, Kathleen,
A secret I fain would know,
Oh, why do you seem so strange, Kathleen,
And why do you shun me so?
Come out on the porch in the starlight, sweet,
And tell me my joy or woe—
Your coldness is breaking my heart, Kathleen,
For, darling, I love you so!
You were never in earnest—were those your words?
Was that what you meant to say?
Your tones were so strangely low, Kathleen,
Yet I fancied I heard you say:
"I never loved you." Was that your voice,
Or the south wind's dreamy sigh?
Kathleen, Kathleen, you are dreaming, love,
Or perhaps it is only I!
Go and forget you? Kathleen, Kathleen,
Your light words were spoken in vain,
The revel was wild, and the wine flowed red,
But it never drowned his pain,
Till under the sod in the autumn days
He pillowed his dreamless head,
With "Twenty" carved on the marble slab
For he was but a boy, she said.
And Kathleen goes on her lightsome way,
And smiles at his simple heart,
And dazzles and lures as she dazzled him
With the coquette's Circean art,
While under the daisy-dimpled turf,
A-sleeping light and low,
Heart-broken molder the lips that sighed
Kathleen, I love you so!