Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1893-11-16

These dangers lay in wait for him at
some turning in the darkness beyond his
vision. But there was something more
terrible-a voice that spoke to him as no
living voice could. Mystic and person
al, it came from his soul Conscience,
like the giant Of fairy lore, sometimes
awakens refreshed and hungry from
seven years sleep. In this interval of
inaction it was impossible for Tom to
look back On the short life he had 50
quickly and completely degraded and
feel lno palg.
The heartburniRg; the anxiety, left
their haggard marks upon his face. He
grew thin. he became norose and mel
ancholy. Ills world lost sight of him,
but hidden in some corner Of the crowd
ed theater, driven there bya restless fas-
cination, by the same resistless impulse
which forces the murderer to feast his
shrinking eyes upon his victim. he night
ly watched the play that told him in
every line lie was thief. eaa ~ +s
His nights were slcepless and filed
With ears--intolerable links between
morbid: feyerish days. He drank heavi-
ly, trying to find in the flaming odors of
brandy an assuagement for the ache in
his heart. A
This was Toms life now. And across
this waste, like a pale ray trembling
from pure, open skies, came longing,
persistent as thirst, to see Virginia.
He could not account for it. It was
not that he fancied their friendship
might be in any degree renewed, indeed
he never seemed farther from her than
at this period, never more undeserv1ng
Of a glance from her eyes. But the de-
sire was there, not forcible enough to
send him seeking her, yet with him al
ways. While fearing, half expecting to
come face to face with Dawson, he was
unconsciously looking for her on the
streets, in shops and at the theater.
Two years had passed, and he had new
er CHANGED upon her. Such thing could
only be possible in city like New York,
where interests lie so widely apart and
life rushes in great circles, one within
another, never meeting. Virginia was
scarcely mile from him. yet not seek
ing each other they could not have been
more separate had they lived in different
towns. Bohemia and Chelsea square are
antithetic-the one all fever, struggle,
laughter, frailty, the other somnolent in
an odor Of sanctity. ruffied only by trem-
ulous chimes as the days walk demurely
on.
Yet, SO strange is the affinity between
thought and sequence, Tom felt scarcely
any surprise when one night at the thea
ter he lifted his languid eyes and saw
Virginia in a lower box.
There she was as he had so often pic
tured her through these useless, feverish,
fear haunted days. His sick soul ragged
with yearning, and in all the crowded,
half lit house he only saw her face. He
scarcely seemed to breathe. His eyes
devoured her. The dear facet There
was no other like it in the world.
The light was in her eyes, the red in
her arching lips, the soft fire Of expect
ing, exulting youth not one whit
dimmed. 1t is only in books women
show upon their faces when they, have
passed the first milestone on the path of
pain.
Would she sec him? He hardly knew
whether he most longed for or dreaded
her glance. How would she look if she
knew the truth about the play she
watched so earnestly? What would her
eyes say then?
A coldness began to steal over him, a
desire to shrek His head was whirling.
Was he going mad? This dull, inarticu-
late grief preying upon his heart-oh, if
he could sigh it awayl