St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1895-01-30

! them would be slight to the wishes or
| the dead.
He remembered that he must send
! the announcement of her death to the
papers. 1t was horrible to write such
! lines here where everything spoke her
name-"dearly beloved wife of Paul
Weguelin''-he had done it, and every
year he would send an in memoriam
notice-every year on the anniversary
| of her loss.
The child was no comfort to him.
| The baby seemed to the husbands
! grief responsible for what had hap
nurse, and often, when he returned
from the city, and the little chap was
asleep, he did not go up stairs to
| look at him.
Yes. indeed, it had been a love match,
and PauPs heart seemed buried in
Ethel's grave. For months he lived
the life of an automaton, performing
his duties mechanically, thinking Of
nothing. caring for nothing, but the
past which could never be rekindled
or revived.
Once, when he came home, he found
that the play had been sent back by
the manager as useless to him. He
scarcely noticed it. He glanced at the
rejection form indifferently, and tossed
the manuscript into a drawer among
the limbo of forgotten things.
| One day was so like another, the
months so void of event, that it came
| upon him with a shock one night to
realize that Ethel would soon have
been dead year. Was it possible?-
twelve months ago. Yes, on the 22d,
and it was now the 2lst. He went
-, no
had sat before, and wrote the in me-
moriam notice he had vowed to write.
1.-THE dearly beloved wife Of Paul We
| guelin!' The tears ran down his face.
| EVERY year, sweetheart" he muttered
huskily, every year till we meet each
other again.
People commented on his faithful
ness to a memcly-so few msn are
| faithful to the living. In the Office
| he was sometimes invited to spend
an evening at friends house. or at
a theater. He invariably declined. Ile
still wore deep mourning. Acquaint-
ances began to call it affectatfon, but
| they wronged him. He hal but one re-
| Taxation, and that had come to him
rather than been sought. AS the boy
grew an affection that surprised him
| self aWoke in Paul Weguelin's breast,
and the only hours in which he re-
| gained something Of his former cheer
| fuIness were when he was playing
| with his child
From one step to another When the
| youngster was two years old Paul came
| by chance upon the play he had
| thrown aside in despair. He took it
up and reread it. 1t was good-good.
little of his old interest in it sprang
into being again. Supposing he were
| to submit it somewhere else?
He forwarded it to a theater the fol-
lowing day. 1t came back month lat
| err, but he was in earnest again now,
| and he sent it to another house.
The latest management was long
| time replying but when an answer did
come, it was, to some extent, favor
| able. Assuming that certain altera-
| tons were made in it, the drama might
possibly be put on.
| He was not excited; he was dismayed
at himself in perceiving how dull ana
| inert the prospect left him. He con-
| traSted his absence of emotion with
what he would have felt at the time
when Ethel was with hinl-Ethel, who
| had died crying that she would not live
to see the play produced. Nevertheless
| he went to see the manager, and had
the suggested amendments definitely
explained. They took several weeks to
| effect, and when they were completed,
some changes in the managerial inten
| lions left the fate of the play doubtful
still
1t remained doubtful while summer
merged into autumn and autumn
turned to winter SHOWS. And then at
last it was accepted absolutely. Paul
| Weguelins name began to creep into
the newspapers. The drama went into
rehearsal The authors pulse beat a
shade more quickly and his fellow
clerks wrung his hand and asked for
orders with establishment writ
large on their countenances.
Great Scot old fellow! You dra-
matist! You did keep it close. Well, I
congratulate you, I'm sure. 1 suppose
you'll be chucking the city directly
and be a heavy swell up west?"
! 1t was pleasant. He could not deny
that he enjoyed it; his tobacco tasted
| better; he knew at last what it was to
| be excited again. The rehearsalS when
| he was able to attend them, even ban
ished the memory of Ethel from his
| mind. But this distressed him when he
| observed it, and he made pilgrimage
to her grave which was for the first
| time perfunctOry.
When the curtain went up on the first
| night he stood at the back of the dress
| circle with ashen cheeks and a heart
| that thumped as if it would suffocate
| him. His lines-his lines-Were being
spoken on the stage, and the audience
| laughed and clapped their hands at
them. The act drop fell; it rose; the
applause grew more vociferous. The
piece was a success, an unmistakaDle
triumph. He was called at the end and
loudly cheered.
He asked no more of fate; his cup
| was full.
Someone insisted on carrying him off
with a party to supper. There were
champagne and merriment. He made
a speech; it was a witty speech; every
body banged the table. Perhaps he
| had drunk little more than he was
| accustomed to, but-What did it mat
ter? The champagne was good, and
the play was good, too By jove, they
were all good-all good fellows togeth-
err. Just as he made the last remark
| his tongue changed, and with a brief
| word he sat down hastily.
It occurred to him at this moment
that the date was the 22d. The third