Picture-Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

I 12 PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY that he had proven in business. His love was reciprocated, and it was not long ere the wedding bells were chiming. On his wedding eve his fatherin-law had made him a mutual partner in the construction company. Henchford's friends pointed to him as the successful business man. He had come to America practically penniless. He had fought and struggled, until now he was honored and respected by all who knew him. ■ "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Are you ill?" • "I am all right, Elizabeth. The acting was so realistic that, for a moment, I was carried away." His looks, however, belied his words. His face was drawn and tense, and in his eyes there was a haggard expression. It was an effort for him to sit through the remainder of the play. That night, with weary steps and slow, he made his way to his bedroom. How Henchford rose in his chair overcome by fear, as the vision before him became more vivid. At the theater an all-star cast was presenting "Oliver Twist." His wife had arranged a box party. Listlessly he watched the actors and actresses portray their roles. Finally the curtain was rung up on the third act. Before him he saw the squalid room of brutal Bill Sykes and Nancy. The great, hulking Sykes was accusing Nancy of betraying him to the police. His rage gradually increased to murderous ferocity. He clutched her by the throat and bent her back over the rough deal table. In his free hand he grasped a heavy, gnarled stick. The bludgeon rose and fell, and there was the sickening impact of wood against bone. Henchford half rose in his chair. Before him flashed a vision of that scene in the lonely Valley Road. Vividly every detail of his crime was recalled to mind. The other members of the box party leaned forward in their chairs. His wife gently touched him on the arm, immediately recalling him to himself. different was this room, with its thick, heavy carpet, its artistic furniture, and its rich hangings, from the mean little whitewashed room he had occupied in the cottage at Rexford Terrace. His thoughts were wandering far afield. Wearily he drew his hand across his brow, and a low, moaning sigh escaped him. All the night through he moaned and tossed. In his dreams he lived over again that awful night of years before. Once again he was tying the rope across the Valley Road ; the hoofbeats of Lord Rexford's mount sounded in his ears. He heard the loud whinny of the horse as it struck the rope, and the impact of its rider's body as he struck the road. With a start he woke from his troubled sleep, perspiration oozing from every pore. "There is no God !" he muttered. "There is no such thing as conscience." He rolled over, but to sink again into troubled slumber. On every side he saw the ghastly face of Lord Rexfon Spasmodically the troubled man's fir gers clutched the bed covering. "There is no God V he moaned thick ly. "There is no such thing as cor science." Before his mind's eye there spread vision of the Valley Road. At the sp< where horse and rider had gone dow stood a white-robed figure. "I am your conscience," spoke tr white-robed thing. "I am with you a ways, Martin Henchford. You ha\ tried to evade me, but I am with yo Sooner or later all men recognize m Many men deny me, but I am ever v/v them." Slowly the specter raised its arm. ar beckoned him. Once again it spoke. "Come back to Rexford Terrace. Mja tin Henchford." it said. "Down on yoi knees, and pray God to forgive you tl sin that I cannot." The wretched man was awaken i from his slumber by the sound of 1: own voice, repeating : "There is a God ! There is a God Recovering himself, he glanced abo the room. He was alone. No one h: heard his cries. Down on his knees went the man w! had denied his Maker. "Oh, God !" he raised his voice in su plication. "Forgive me, a sinner!'* When the first gray streaks of da\' filtered into the room, Martin Henc ford was still on his knees, his he bowed on his arms. His wife looked up, and a little shri" of dismay burst from her lips, a f< hours later, when her husband shambl into the breakfast room. His face w pinched and drawn. His eyes were he gard. and in their depths there burn the flickering gleam of a soul bor down with woe. His hands trembi like one afflicted with palsy. "Oh, Martiii, what is it?" cried 1 wife. "Nothing is wrong, dear." he repl: in a voice that was strained and has! "Last night's play was a bit too rat for my tired nerves." Tenderly and affectionately he kis? her on the brow. He seated himself at the table, voice seemed to be incessantly dinn the one word "Expiation" into his ea until the word was written in his br in letters of fire. In front of the house a limous