“Don't ask me,” said Barney. “I should forbid it were it anyone else.”
“But it isn't anyone else,” persisted Iola, “and my doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack.”
“Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and such frills.”
She took her guitar. “I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother,” she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang the Highland lament, “O'er the Moor.”
“O'er the moor I wander lonely,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
Where are all the joys I cherished?
With my darling they have perished,
And they will return no more.
“I loved thee first, I loved thee only,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
I loved thee from the day I met thee.
What care I though all forget thee?
I will love thee evermore.”
And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, “You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you.” And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little song that described so fittingly her own experience, “My Heart's Rest.”
“I had wandered far, and the wind was cold,
And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old,
When the Master came to close His fold
And saw that one had strayed.
“Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill,
And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till
The Master's voice searched vale and hill:
I heard and fled afraid.
“Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on.
And the stars went out, and the day was gone,
Then the Master found, laid me upon
His bosom, unafraid.”
A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate.
“I feel as if I could sleep now,” said Iola. “Barney, carry me.” Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. “Good-night, dear friends, all,” she said. “What a happy evening it has been.” Then, with a little cry, “Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping,” she locked her arms tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. “Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own love,” she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. “How good you are to me—how good to have you. Now kiss me—quick—don't wait—again, dear—good-night.” Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her head sank upon his breast.
“Iola!” he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down into her face. He carried her to the open window. “Oh, my God! My God! She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!”