"Oh, dear Father!" cried Mrs. Barrett, "what did not Lawrence suffer for Joe! knowing what his agony would be when he knew all—but we could do no more. The funeral took place. White as marble, Lawrence sent us all home, and himself waited till the last clod of earth was piled upon the grave; then waited till the men had gone, waited to kneel and pray a moment before leaving the old mother there alone. And as he knelt he noted how nearly dark it was, and thought he must not linger long or the gates would be locked upon him. As he rose from his knees, he was startled to see, through the dusk, a tall form coming toward him. It would dodge behind a monument, and after a moment's pause would come a little nearer. Suddenly the drooping, lurching figure became familiar to him. With a groan he hid himself behind a tombstone and waited—waited until suspicion became certainty, and he knew that the bent, weary funeral guest was his brother, Joe!
"He held his peace until the wanderer found his way along the darkening path to that pathetic stretch of freshly broken earth, where, with an exceeding bitter cry, he flung his arms above his head and fell all his length along the grave that held the sweetest and the holiest thing God had ever given him, an honest, loving mother, and clutched the damp clods in his burning hands, and gasped out: 'Oh, mother! I have hungered and I have tramped with the curse upon me, too; I have hungered and tramped so far, so far, hoping just to be in time to see your dear face once more, and now they've shut you away from me, from the bad boy you never turned your patient eyes away from! Oh, mother! whatever can I do without you, all alone! all alone!'
"At that child-like cry from the broken man, prostrate on the grave, Lawrence Barrett's heart turned to water, and kneeling down he lifted to his breast the tear-blurred, drink-blemished face of his brother, and kissed him as his mother might have done. Thus they prayed together for the repose of the soul of their beloved, and then, with his arm about the wanderer, to steady his failing steps, Lawrence led him to his little home, and, as they entered, he turned and said: 'Joe, can't you take back those words, "all alone," can't you?' and Joe nodded his head, and throwing his arms about his brother's neck, answered: 'Never alone, while my little brother Larry lives and forgives!'"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH
I play "Marie" to Oblige—Mr. Barrett's Remarkable Call—Did I Receive a Message from the Dying or the Dead?
From the time when, as a ballet-girl, I was called forward and given the part of Marie in "The Marble Heart," a play Mr. Barrett was starring in, to the then distant day of that really splendid combination with Mr. Edwin Booth, I never saw the former when he was not burning with excitement over some production he had in mind, if not yet in rehearsal. Even in his sleep he saw perfect pictures of scenery not yet painted, just as before "Ganalon" he used to dream of sharp lance and gay pennon moving in serried ranks, of long lines of nobles and gentlemen who wore the Cross of the Crusader.
His friends were among the highest of God's Aristocracy of Brains—'twas odd that sculptors, artists, poets, thinkers should strike hands with so "cold" a man and call him friend!
I remember well the dismayed look that came upon his face when I was ordered from the ballet ranks to take the place of the lady—a hard, high-voiced soubrette, who was to have played Marie, had not a sore throat mercifully prevented her. But at my first "Thank you—I'd rather go—yonder—," pointing to the distant convent, his eyes widened, suddenly a sort of tremor came to his lips. He was at my side in an instant, telling me to indicate my convent as on the opposite side, so that my own attitude would be more picturesque to the audience. Between the acts he said to me: "Have you any opinion of Marie, Miss er—er?"
"My name's 'just Clara,'" I kindly interjected.
"Well," he smiled, "'just Clara,' have you formed any idea of this Marie's character?"