The play was a great success, and often the reading of the suicide’s letter was punctuated by actual sobs from the audience, instead of those from the mother.  Young club-men used to make a point of going to the “Saturday Funeral,” as they called the “Alixe” matinee.  They would gather afterward, opposite to the theatre, and make fun of the women’s faces as they came forth with tear-streaked cheeks, red noses, and swollen eyes, and making frantic efforts to slip powder-puffs under their veils and repair damages.  If glances could have killed, there would have been mourning in earnest in the houses of the club-men.

One evening, as the audience was nearly out and the lights were being extinguished in the auditorium, a young man came back and said to an usher:—­

“There is a gentleman up there in the balcony; you’d better see to him, before the lights are all put out.”

“A gentleman? what’s he doing there, at this time, I’d like to know?” grumbled the usher as he climbed up the stairs.  But next moment he was calling for help, for there in a front seat, fallen forward, with his head on the balcony rail, sat an old man whose silvery white hair reflected the faint light that fell upon it.  They carried him to the office; and after stimulants had been administered he recovered and apologized for the trouble he had caused.  As he seemed weak and shaken, Mr. Daly thought one of the young men ought to see him safely home, but he said:—­

“No, he was only in New York on business—­he was at a hotel but a few steps away, and—­and—­” he hesitated.  “You are thinking I had no right to go to a theatre alone,” he added, “but I am not a sick man—­only—­only to-night I received an awful shock.”

He paused.  Mr. Daly noted the quiver of his firm old lips.  He dismissed the usher; then he turned courteously to the old gentleman and said:—­

“As it was in my theatre you received that shock, will you explain it to me?”

And in a low voice the stranger told him that he had had a daughter, an only child, a little blond, laughing thing, whom he worshipped.  She was a mere child when she fell in love.  Her choice had not pleased him, and looking upon the matter as a fancy merely, he had forbidden further intercourse between the lovers.  “And—­and it was in the summer, and—­dear God, when that yellow-haired girl was carried dead upon the stage to-night, even the grass clutched between her fingers, it was a repetition of what occurred in my country home, sir, three years ago.”

Then Mr. Daly gave his arm to the old stranger, and in dead silence they walked to the hotel and parted.

Once more the play had reflected real life.

CHAPTER IV

“MISS MULTON” AT THE UNION SQUARE_

Mr. Palmer had produced “Miss Multon” at the Union Square, and we were fast settling down to our steady, regular gait, having got over the false starts and breaks and nervous shyings of the opening performance, when another missive of portentous bulk reached me.