The Yakima herald. [volume] (North Yakima, W.T. [Wash.]) 1889-1914, 1894-04-19

verny building and took . cheaper
suite Of rooms on Irving place, one Of
the bivouacs Of Bohemia. Delatole and
he had parted in 9 silence that was sul.
try.
his plunges in Wall street kept him
well supplied with money for the time
being, and Of the future he thought but
little.
The secret had changed its aspect. He
no longer cared TO face IL. II was now
monstrous fear maddening him with
whispers Of hundred possibilities, prod
ding him, sending out false alarms and
slowly chilling his assurance into an
ever present premonition. Since the day
Felix Dawson left him with the declara-
ton, "Oh, yes, I'll have it bach, /" he had
not seen nor heard Of him. This abso-
lutte withdrawal was more significant
than threats. Suppose he had incon-
testable proof, after all? What IL he
lied when he said he had no copy? What
II he could produce witnesses to prove
he had written the play? Would this
man some day appear again, relentless
in his quiet way, and hurl the bomb
shell that would bring his false life in
ruins about his ears?
His rupture with Delatole-that, too,
made him uneasy. Oh. It was load
from his heart to have told him the truth.
to have seen the sullen surprise deepen
into stolid hatred in his horrid eyes. Il
was q relief, balm, but IL brought q
danger in its wake. Suppose they met,
these two who for different reasons
would rejoice in his overthrow. Then
indeed might he shudder. a. ,latole would
follow the scent insatialT. He would
come like vulture to pick his bones.
Even IL proof were not possible he would
80 damn him with suspicion, so besmear
him with the trail Of his innuendoes, 90
riddle him with the darts Of his acrid
humor, his prestige would be lost for
ever. Delatole had the power, the CD
portunity and the answering patience
to write an enemy down and out Of ex.
istence.
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 u him as no
living voice could. Mystic and person.
al, 1t came from his soul. Conscience,
like the giant of fairy lore. sometimes
awakens refreshed and hungry from a
seven years sleep. In this interval of
inaction it was impossible for Tom to
look back on the short life he had 90
quickly and completely degraded and
feel no pang.
The he ,rtburning, the anxiety, left
their haggerd marks upon his face. He
grew thin. he became morose and mel
His world lost sight of him,
but hidden in some corner Of the crowd
ed theater, driven there by restless fas-
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 he was thief.
His nights were sleepless and filed
with fears--intolerable links betw~--,
morbid, feverish days. He drank neavi-
ly, trying to find in the flaming odors Of
brandy an assuagement for the ache in
his heart.
This was Toms life now. And across
this waste, like pale ray trembling
from pure, open skies, came a longing,
persistent as a 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 undeservlng
Of 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 q thing could
only be possible in a 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, ruffled 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 see him? He hardly knew
whether he most longed for or dreaded
her glance. How would she look il she
knew the truth about the play she
watched SO earnestly? What would her
eyes say then?
A GOODNESS began to steal over him. q
desire to shrek. His head was whirling.
Was he going mad? This dull, inarticu-
late grief prcying upon his heart-oh. II
he could sigh it awayi
j.
q ~