Pawtucket tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 1890-189?, 1894-04-13

WIN reckldos lhukn. III koeeih8 coAF
timental. Poufi I'll settle accounts with
. six shooter II l can't get rid OF these fan
cies any other way It's too late to hark
back"
The day of the matinee came. The play
was called Opal, A" from the legend OF that
beautiful stone that IL giows bright while
the love of the wearer for the givsr 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 acquaintances In
England were, at present, not many. He
looked carelessly over his programme and
bit his lips for moment, with quick
drawn breath; his tongue almost whisper
ed the name Of the heroine, Margaret. But
the name Is common enough. He listened
to the clatter Of the people about him
mostly professionals-not because IL had
any interest for him, but because he hail
ed anything that took his attention away
from trospeotion--anything that drove
the ghosts little farther away.
The curtain rose; the play began. Les
lie listened at first with languid indfffer-
ence of the blase playgoer. By and by he
became interested; be 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 VIII
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; 20 was he-Wil-
mot Leslie He scarcely heard the sp-
plause. He never lifted a hand-how could
her For this was not play, IL was reali-
A.- tuh
all-through unfaith and desertion and
all his piled up sins against her. BAIL IL
Is a play, a 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 aot,
where the husband Is prevented from CON-
mitting the crime he meditates, and In
the end, In a beautifully written scene
which alone, said the critics afterward,
ought to make the fortune Of the play
Margaret forgives the man who has 30 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 a
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 Ike this, fingered, and
presently Mrs. Clsvering appeared at the
wing to bow her thanks. The face flashed
for a second upon Leslie's startled gaze;
the next his eyes were blinded by scarlet
mist-he saw nothing. heard nothing,
knew nothing. He groped 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 wey-and
there he flung himself down. with a great
and exceeding bitter cry, Margaret. Mar
garetr
"a gentleman, ma'am, asks to see you. "
"What name, Janeti" said Alix CLAW
ering, putting aside pile of morning pa
pers, all of which more or less praised the
new play, though some said that MarRs-
ret's love was too nearly divine to be pos
sible in real life.
"He said you would not know IL,
ma'am. He would not detain you long"
"still, suppose he has name. Well.
show him up"
The servant retired, and In a minute
opened the door again. A tall man came
in, just a 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 month
past ! did not know that you called your
self Clavering. No matter-I should not
have troubled you, only He paused
1t might have helped him II be had seen
her face but he did not see it; he dared
not lift his eyes to hers. He went on, with
an effort: ~ saw your play yesterday, and
/ saw-you-. The woman-Margaret-
that was not-yout Only-a beautiful
play-isn't that iti"
"No," she said slowly. She did not move,
but clasped her hands tightly over her la
boring heart. "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 oncei So,
when he came back TO her, casting all the
evil years behind him, she forgavei"
mo, no" the man cried, trembling In
every limb. "Shs could not forgive such
wrong The message was for me, Marga-
ret; it was only playp'
ut was deep calling unto deep" she
said. at was my heart calling to yoursI"
She stretched out her hands toward
him, and he looked mp and saw the light
In her eyes. He staggered forward, with
broken cry, and fell down at her feet, and
she laid her arms a bout his neck and drew
his head against her. "My husbandr she
said.-Omaha World Herald.