answered. "Barbara is a creature of moods, She was quite exaltée all the morning; now she will be correspondingly dull, until a fresh wave of excitement raises her spirits."
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At this moment the signal for the ladies to withdraw was given. After their departure, Carleton and Randall found themselves sitting close together. I noticed that neither man spoke to the other, and also observed that after a time Carleton deliberately changed his seat for one at a distant part of the table.
We did not sit long over wine, and when we came into the drawing-room a lady was playing some classical music with precision. and sufficient brilliancy to attract several musical men to the vicinity of the piano. Her place was quickly taken by the droll man of the party, who entertained the company with comic songs. The evening dragged on in the usual manner. For some unaccountable reason no one seemed quite in good spirits. As for me, I found myself constantly looking in the direction of the door. I heartily wished that either Carleton or Randall would come in—I acknowledged to myself that the presence of one at least of these gentlemen in the room would give me relief.
An hour and more passed away, however, and neither of them appeared. I glanced towards Miss Farnham. She was standing near the piano, idly playing with a large feather fan. I thought I read both solicitude and expectation in her eyes.
The funny man was trolling out a sea-song to which a lively chorus was attached. Brabazon came up and touched my arm.
"When that is over," he said, in a low voice, "I will ask Barbara Farnham to sing."
"Can she sing?" I asked.
"Can she!" he reiterated. "Yes, she sings," he replied, emphatically. "Wait—you will hear her in a moment. Her voice is the most absolutely sympathetic I have ever listened to."
Soon afterwards Miss Farnham went to the piano. She played her own accompaniment. One grand sweep her hands seemed to take of the instrument, as if they meant to embrace it, and then a voice, high, full, sweet, magnificent in its volume of melody, rose on the air and seemed to fill the room.
Brabazon was right. Barbara Farnham could sing. As the words fell from her lips, there was no other sound in the listening room.
I jotted those words down afterwards from memory—they seemed to me to be a fit prelude to the scene which was immediately to follow:—
With a drink divine that glows,
With the bloom that is flowing up
From the heart of the folded rose.
The grapes in their amber glow,
And the strength of the blood-red wine,
All mingle and change and flow
In this golden cup of thine
With the scent of the curling wine,
With the balm of the rose's breath—
For the voice of love is thine,
And thine is the Song of Death!
The voice of the singer sank low as she approached the end of her song. The final words were in a minor key. I looked full at Miss Farnham, and her dark eyes met mine. They were full of apprehension. A kind of premonition of coming sorrow might well have filled her breast from the look in their depths.
