The Corvallis gazette. [volume] (Corvallis, Or.) 1862-1899, 1885-11-20
THE MESSAGE.

/.
1t was midnight, and two women
awaited different messengers under one
roof. To the elder, the slow-paced
hours were bringing death; to the
younger a bridegroom. The faded mis-
tress of the rich parvenu's home had
lain down to die, facing the doom of
all with the stoicism of the neglected
and unloved. Ready to take her place,
impatient to clutch at the gauds the
other despised, and to parade a
triumph which should have been her
dishonor, was her rival.
She was young woman of course.
Subtler feminine charms than bright
eyes, rosy lips always parting in smile,
a slender figure, and audacious, girlish
ways, were hardly likely to fascinate a
man of John Harden's characters
man who had risen from the meanest
ranks of life, spent his years in
money-getting, and Stunned rather
than sought good company in the true
sense of the word. To be put out of
countenance by no one, had been a
leading maxim of the money-maker's
career; whilst therefore surrounding
himself with all the glitter of opulence,
he remained the blunt, plainspoken,
homely John Harden of early days.
He was just sixty, and the girl busted
with such affectation of occurrences
on some foolish boarding-school bead
work, could hardly be twenty. The
pair sat opposite to each other by the
fire, only interchanging a word from
time to time, betraying nothing of
their secret thoughts to chance caves
droppers at the door. Yet despite
such guarded speech, quick observer
must have seen at q glance how it
stood with both; the girls flushed
cheek and sparkling eyes, the mans
look of suppressed satisfaction, told
their own story. The dread messenger,
whose name is Death, as he passed
through this hushed house, made way
for a. joyous successor whom, under
various guises, men call Love.
The hand of the costly time piece on
the mantel-shelfpointed to twelve, and
the mere sign seemed to chill the air.
Mr.. Harden rose to make up the fire,
as he did so, letting one hand fall on
his companions. "It is growing late
and cold. Better go to bed, Con-
stance" he said in a voice of tender
concern.
The girl, SHOWING herself for a mo-
ment to be carried away by impulse,
leanedforward, her bright brown curls
just touched his scant gray locks, her
softly rounded cheek just came in con-
tact with his own, lined and corrugat-
ed with care. 'Should I leave you
alone at such a timer" she whispered.
He said nothing, but kneeling before
the fire, making it up after methodical
fashion, contrived at the same time
to transfer from his waistcoat pocket
to her not unwilling fingers, a minute
box of crimson leather lined with vel
vet. Within cleaned wedding-ring,
and as Constance Emery gazed upon
it furtively, her lovers face showed
exultation equal to her own.
To this shallow girl, the first glimpse
of her wedding ring meant everything
that life itself could mean. She was
nothing, possessed nothing; the ring
would give her all she set store by, and
render her exactly what she wished to
become. 1t would throw theresponsi-
bility of her own existence upon an
others shoulders, relieve her from the
odious burden of bread-winning afford
ease, luxury, ialpower, and the kind
of sway over an ordinary nature that
by such women is made to do duty for
affection. The ring, in short, was to
open wide the portals of a career after
her own heart, without it, unattaln-
able as crown. To the man also the
ring symbolized the aspect of life most
agreeable to him. In one respect,
money-making had not rendered him
callous. To his mind, a certain femi-
nine type ever remained irresistible.
OF ideal lovliness, of spiritual or intel
lectual beauty, it was not at all likely
that he should have the remotest con-
ception; but he owned the sway of
frolicsome girlhood, the easy assur-
ance of young, handsome, reckless
women. To surface charms oflook or
manner, he was ever ready to do
homage. But the ring had other and
graver meaning for him. His first
marriage had been childless. The
enormous wealth amassed so labori-
ously lacked an heir. Might not a
young wife make him the prond father
of blooming children.
The tiny box consigned to it's hiding
place, Mr.. Harden fetched from the
lobby close by, a carriage cloak lined
with rare fur, and bestowed it care
fully about the girls shoulders. He
next went to the sideboard, and half
filling glass with wine, "Do not let