The evening tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 189?-190?, 1897-08-04
POSSESSION.

saised tho window shade at dawn after his
arrival In Denver. Their grAyncss cOlored
his feelings. Ho seemed ~ lose cOurngs
IN bis quest for his wife. Tho mountains
rose ns wall, which be felt she could
never havo surmountcc In her flight from
him. II sbc were not In Denver inelf,
and be began to doubt the trail. sbe, the
light hearted, wonld have been repciIcd by
80 gloomy a barrier between her and tho
freedom Of tho vast wastes beyond.
After all, IL was not freedom she had
wanted. ho realized now, but stir, gayety.
life He gnzed and gazcd. No; tho vast
and melancholy had not attracted her.
she had left that field TO him.
He spent hours caoh morning before tho
reluctant time OF searching began In qucs-
tionipg the mountains. The tiny, new
room In which no lodged had one large
pancd window. His heart seemed to DO
drawn out, out, from the high slope where
no was, across the lower lyipg city be-
tween, over the bit Of plain, ovcr tho foot
hills, up, up, and then whats
A question met bim--a darkness, a
blank The question did not take form.
but 1t became troublesome. Then, as the
days wore on and no impulse came To
Laurence to turn to seek new trails, tho
no stay therey
When it was dark and Laurence did not
sleep, he wns thrown back into his
thoughts, his past. He felt the noun
tnins, but they did not draw him. He
could think of Fannie ns she had been, of
their old life, for IL was far away; their
homo among the tame scenes Of a small
Iowa town; their cozy beginning, their
petty interests, his little drug business.
Even the remembrance of the suffering
of his little Fannie at the birth of their
lost baby did not give him the pnng he felt
once. His heart had been wrung mt tho
cruelness of motherhood. He had felt It.
without doubt. more consciously than she
had. His memory skirted the two great
events of thoir past, tho marriage and the
birth. 1t fingered outside, troubled by
numberless former happenings too mean
ingless to dwcli upon.
A year ago, and he was part of that
life A month ago the shock had come,
and his wife, instead Of returning to Lau
renee after visit to friends, had melted
away into tho unknown west She had
not gone alone, but Laurence had nevor
heard of the person whose name appeared
on various hotel registers through which
he had traced her.
Now cano nights Of brilliant light, and
the mountains never left him. Their line,
that strange line that was almost n men
ace was scarce dimmed In the moonlight.
60 Laurence did not sleep, except some.
times in the afternoon, when the sunshine
palcd the range into dusty pearl. The line
then swan IN the clear heat. 1t was not
ominous.
But after the red glare of sunset had
left the yellow shade of the shutterless
window in shadow Laurence awoko. The
great hills lowered black then, their out
line fierce and strange. 1t must mean
something, that line What could 1t mcans
After the moon had vanished he got a
| little more rest. Yet the nights were
| made up OF half conscious fear-a fear
| that Laurence grew TO dread more than
his misery. He was tormented, too, by the
knowledge that the days were creeping on
! to the fuller moon again. Then he would
| get no rest from them at night, and he
| was afraid.
One day his heart gave bound when
| he saw In the street q woman walking
ahead of him. 1t was Fannie. She was
going to save him. He had found her.
He hurried on, forgetting pain, jealousy,
the rage to avenge. A doubt came over
him, but It was she-the same light brown
hair In loose coils, the figure not tall, but
| soft and full. He came near enough to
hear her laugh. It was Fannies laugh,
and he saw her companion. Laurence
grew blind with wrath. At the same in
slant the young woman turned her head
and he realized that he had deceived him
| self. 1t was not his wife.
That night the moon was beginning to
throw faint illumination over the wide
space between the city and the hills, but
the outline was not clear. Laurence had
been sharply moved by the false sight Of
Fannie. He lay on his bed facing the
open window, his mind shocked into sense
Of his grief once moro.
He slept and dreamed Of the little drug
store; of his cottage near-a dream Of
common details. He was not distressed,
and he awoke calmer, but 1t was all to
live over again-the frantic departure, the
wearing journey, the nightmare of hotels,
and heat and strange, hard faces.
He was again at the door Of the noun
tains asking for her. They oonfron ted
him again, ominous, overbearing. He
was afraid of them, for his eyes could not
leave them, and the queer line meant moth
ing that he could understand, but 1t for
bade and 1t beckoned at once.
What muet he dor Laurence knew there
was q clew, an answer. He knew that the
question the crazy line was asking Of him
must be answered. Why else was the out
line now sharp, In zigzaRs, now oddly
softerS Never was Il In the lines of beauty,
always erratio. What did 1t spell in Its
gigantic writing? He could not bear the
uncertainty. He must find out.
So the idea fixed itself In his mind. He
made his plan with nicely. He wrote
letter to q near relative, assigning tho
store to his charge for the time. He OBJ
liberated all marks by which hc could be
identified and destroyed papers and cloth
Ing. He dressed himself In tho simplest
straw hat, a flannel shirt, light coat
Ho was careful to leave word he was going
back to Iowa. Ho even bought ticket.
II was nightfall. He was free. Fannie
was gone, and no thought of her only as
part of the question that the far, shadowy
bills were asking. Her real look was not
In his visunl mind. Tho pain was not
sharp-there was only a confused trouble