The Portland daily press., 1894-04-04

ed through the growing dawn to his chang
hers, cut the ghosts that fitted along by
his SIDE all the way followed him in and
kept their silent watch-ghosts of evil
deeds and misspent hours. There was one
ghost that came nearer to him than the
others and looked at him with eyes full OF
unutterable pain and sorrow. He covered
his face, but he sale these eyes all the
same. He called himself fool and cursed
his nervous mood" but the specters new
er stirred, and the sad eyes grew sadder-
that was all.
''I'll have done with it alp he cried,
with reckless laugh. I'm getting SEN
timental. Poufl I'll settle accounts with
a six shooter if I can't get rid of these fan
cies any other way. It's too late to bark
back"
The day of the matinee came. The play
was called tOpal, " from the legend of that
beautiful stone that it CLOVIS bright while
the love of the wearer for the giver burns
clear and strong and grows dim when
love falters and fails. Leslie's stall was
in the last row, and he knew none of the
people near him. His acquaintance in
England were, at present, not many. He
looked carelessly over his programme and
bit his lips for moment, with a quick
drawn breath; his tongue almost whisper
ed the name of the heroine, Margaret. But
the name is common enough. He listened
to the chatter of the people about him
mostly Professionalism because it had
any interest for him, but because he hail
ed anything that took his attention away
from rospection-anything that drove
the ghosts little farther away.
The curtain rose; the play began. Les
g. L.,
ence of the blase playgoer. By and by he
became interested; he watched and listen
ed intently; he held his breath when the
hero flung his wife from him and went
out. 1t was the close of the act, and the
people in front applauded, all except Will
mot Leslie. He did not stir,
In the second act the interest deepened;
the man in the stalls with the handsome,
reckless face was inthralled. The fellow
in the play was haunted; SO was he-Wil-
mot Leslie. He scarcely heard the ap-
plause He never lifted hand-how could
he? For this was not play, it was reali-
ty. Margaret loves her husband through
although unfaith and desertion and
all his piled up sins against her. Bah! 1t
is a play, woman's sentimental notions.
Let the author be tried. She would not
keep the opal bright. The man wasn't
worth one tear of hers. Let him be cast
out and forgotten, as he deserved
And now came the third and last act,
where the husband is prevented from COM
uniting the crime he meditates, and in
the end, in beautifully written scene
which alone, said the critics afterward,
ought to make the fortune of the play
Margaret forgives the man who has SO Bit
terly wronged her. Wilmot Leslie, white
as death-yet otherwise masking, for
pride's sake, the agony in his heart-lis-
tened to the words, every one of which
stabbed him with mortal blows. A play
yes, only a play-but, oh, that there
could be for his wasted, sinful life such
last act as this!
The curtain was down and the house
applauding and calling for the author
Wilmot Leslie, eager to see the woman
who could write like this, fingered, and
presently Mrs. Clavering appeared at the
wing to bow her thanks. The face flashed
for second upon Leslie's startled gaze;
the next his eyes were blinded by a scarlet
mist-he saw nothing, heard nothing,
knew nothing. He CROPPED his way out to
the lobby. Some one spoke to him. He
gave no answer. He had not heard He
reached his own rooms-going on through
the streets in the same dazed way-aud
there he flung himself down, with a great
and exceeding bitter cry, margaret, Mar
garetp'
"a gentleman, ma am. asks to see you
"What name, Janet?" said Alix CLAY
ering, putting aside pile of morning pa
pers, all of which more or less praised the
new play, though some said that Marga-
ret's love was too nearly divine to be pos
sible in real life.
"He said you would not know it,
ma'am. He would not detain you long"
''Still suppose he has name. Well,
show him up"
The servant retired, and in minute
opened the door again. A tall man came
in, just step beyond the threshold, and
paused there, the door closing behind him.
Mrs. Clavering rose to her feet, trem
bling, paling, and they stood face to face
after seven years-husband and wife
Seventy times seven years of wrong be-
tween them.
The man spoke first, his head bent, his
voice hoarse and broken, the sentences fall
ing from his lips in disjointed fragments
81 have been in England for a month
past. did not know that you called your
sell ClaVef1ng. NO maUUof-I SnouIu Hot
have troubled you, only''- He paused.
1t might have helped him if he had seen
her face, but he did not see it; he dared
not lift his eyes to hers. He went on, with
an effort: 81 saw your play yesterday. and
I saw-you-. The woman-Margaret--
that was not-you3 Only-a beautiful
play-isn't that it?"
''No," she said slowly. She did not move,
but clasped her hands tightly over her la
boring heart. 1.-THE woman Margaret is
my heart. She loved him all through
though his sins were scarlet, he was her
husbandi And he had loved her oncel So,
when he came back to her, casting all the
evil years behind him, she forgavel"
"No, mol" the man cried, trembling in
every limb 'She could not forgive such
wrongl The message was for me, Marga'
ret; it was only playl" 3
''It was deep calling unto Deep" she
said. sit was my heart calling to yoursl"
She stretched out her hands toward
him, and he looked up and saw the light
in her eyes. He staggered forward, with
broken cry, and fell down at her feet, and
she laid her arms bout his neck and drew
his head against her. "My husbandp' she