The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1894-04-06

to England about month ago.
81 can't tell you-story out of the beat
en- track, they say, again. l shall be able
to send you a stall if you care to CO. You
needn't sit it out if you're too much
bored"
Wilmot Leslie was already a favorite
with the men who knew him. In this top
By turvy world it often happens that the
least worthy people are the most attract
i've.
Thanks, " Leslie answered, 81 shall be
very pleased to go. A trial matinee is
something of novelty to me, you know.
One doesn't have them abroad"
mo, thank heavenr' groaned the actor
manager, and Leslie laughed, but his
laugh was not mirthful. 1t would not
strike you that he was happy man. Per
haps, like good many, he was trying to
live down his conscience. Some one sug-
gested cards, and move was made to the
cardroom There Leslie proved 'plun-
ger" but he generally won, and keen OBJ
server of human nature might have noticed
that there was something fictitious in his
excitement-as If he were keeping up the
steam, as 1t were, to prevent his thinner
self" asserting itself. At 8 a. m. he walk
ed through che growing dawn To his cham
bers, but 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 saw 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.
"Ill have done with it all!' he cried,
with a reckless laugh. "I'm getting SEN
timental. Pouf! I'll settle accounts with
six shooter if 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 opal, +" 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 a 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 chatter of the people about him
mostly professionals-not because 1t had
any interest for him, but because he hail
ed anything that took his attention away
from ospection-anything that drove
the CHESTS little farther away.
The curtain rose the play began. Les
| 10 aA Lot HHofN uith loD
ence of the blase playRoer 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 It 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
all-through unfaith and desertion and
all his piled up sins against her. BAIL 1t
is play, woman's sentimental notions.
Let the author be tried. She would not
keep the opal bright. The man WASH It
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 a
last act as this
The curtain was down ard the house
applauding and calling for the author
Wilmot Leslie, eager to see the woman
who could write like this, fingered, and
presently Mrs. Claveriug 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-and
there he flung himself down, with great
and exceeding bitter cry, Margaret, Mar
garetn'
ga gentleman, ma am, asks to see you. {"
"What name, Janetg" 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 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, I 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 month
past. did not know that you called your
self Clavering. No matter-I should not
have troubled you, only"- He paused
i