"Is there?" I broke in.
Tears rose in her eyes. "Y-y-yes," she stammered, "there is something
here that will interest--rather that will grieve you, but if you would
please take your coffee!"
I caught up the cup and emptied it at a draught, then held out my hand.
Mother gave me the paper and left the room; as her first sob reached my
ear, I read: "Sudden death of the actor, Joseph Barrett." I sat staring
stupidly, and before I saw another word there came to my ears the
shivering of leaves, and a grave voice, saying: "It is a message from the
dying or--the dead--believe that."
"What," I asked, dully, "what is a message?" and then the blood chilled
at my heart as I recalled "the lament," Joe had said: "It is a message
from the dying--or the dead."
After rehearsal, Mr. Daly wished to see me in his bit of a
staircase-office in front of the house. He desired help in deciding about
several scenes he meant to have built from old engravings. Suddenly he
came to a stand-still. "What's the matter with you?" he cried; "where are
your splendid spirits? you have been absent and heavy all morning--what's
the matter?"
"Oh, nothing much," I began, when he angrily interrupted: "For heaven's
sake, spare me that senseless answer. If you won't tell me, say so.
Refuse me your confidence, if you choose, but don't treat me as though I
were a fool by saying _nothing_, when you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"
"Oh, don't!" I cried, and astonished my irate manager by bursting into
tears. He instantly became gentle, and forcing a thimbleful of
_Chartreuse_ (which I loath) upon me, he once more asked what was the
matter.
And then I told him of the dying emigrant--of Joe's feeling for me--of
the singing of "the lament," and at Joe's words: "It's a message from the
dying, or the dead."
Mr. Daly's fingers trembled like aspen leaves, his eyes dilated to
perfect blackness, and almost he whispered the words: "Well,
child--well?"
I told of the song, begun in sleep, continued in wakefulness to its
wailing end, and then lost--utterly lost! And leaning his pale face
eagerly toward me, Mr. Daly exclaimed: "He proved his words, good God!
don't you see that--that air was his message to you? a message from the
dying or the dead!" his fingers nervously sought the little amulet he
wore.
"But," I objected, "he had been dead many hours before the song came to
me?"
When, with the utmost conviction, he instantly answered: "Think how far
you were asunder--what a distance he had to come to you!"
Being a very practical young person, a smile was rising to my lips, but a
glance into his earnest eyes, that had become strange and mystic, checked
it.
"I shall tell Father D----y of this," he said, half to himself, then,
looking at me, he added: "The man loved you greatly, whatever he may
have been, for you have received his message--whether it came from the
man dying or the man dead. Go home, child; never mind about the scenes
to-day--go home!"
And with that weird idea firmly fixed in his mind, he dismissed me.