Corvallis gazette. [volume] (Corvallis, Benton County, Or.) 1900-1909, 1901-04-19
PHINEAS HARDEN'S
INHERITANCE


ton. Phineas had never passed out of
his pew without stopping and speaking
to Lorinda. Tonight he looked up with
his usual smile; she was just beside
him, her hand resting on the railing of
the old pew that stood between them.
Something in her face arrested him;
he stopped and took her hand.
what is it, Lorinda? Is anything
the matter"
She looked for full minute into his
kind, inquiring eyes before she spoke.
mo, nothing's the matter. I only
thought that, perhaps-perhaps, we
might walk home together"
He dropped her hand, and the color
flashed to his face. But the blood moves
more slowly at forty than at twenty,
and he only said:
why, yes, Lorinda, of course"
The night was clear and beautiful.
1t was strange how the man noted each
to another June night long ago, when
he had walked over this same road
with the woman beside him. He looked
at her face; even in this soft half-light,
it was hard and cold. There was some
thing pathetic in the silent walk of
these two old lovers. They were almost
| at her door now, and she turned her
face toward him. If he could have
known it, there were two bright spots
on her cheeks; as it was, he felt great
pity for the lonely woman. He did not
know that they were two players in
''the tragedy Of what might have been"
but he dimly felt that she was trying
had come between them. He remem-
| bered something of the feeling he had
| once had when she was beside him,
and wave of longing. not for her, but
| for the love that had gone. came over
him. He almost forgot the woman in
his remembrance Of the love which
she had once awakened.
As the memory of the old emotions
came over him his heart softened and
he turned toward her with ready words
on his lips. But they had reached her
door. and she was holding out her
| hand.
"Good-night, Phineas. haven't any
idea but that you think strange of what
I've done tonight. but whatever you
think I know l can trust you to keep
still Perhaps there's things we all re-
| gret. l don't know how you feel,
but" She had opened the door now
and had stepped just within the shop
''but won't be busy Saturday night
and If you want to come I'll be at
home" And before he had time to an
swer, the door had been shut and he
was alone.
1t had been hot week for so early
in the season. Phineas felt tired and
spent as he drove home from town on
Saturday afternoon. AS he neared his
house its loneliness struck him as some
thing new. The heat of the day, and
his struggles with the question which
he had been evading, and which kept
him calling for an answer, depressed
him. He longed for quiet and peace;
whether the old quiet life or the possi-
BILE peace of a new one, he did not
know. But his house was not so lonely,
after all; for, as he came nearer, he
saw the old doctors sulky beside the
gate. He had always liked the cheer.
full, sensible old man, and he hailed him
now with even a note of relief in his
voice:
Hello, Phineas; thought you'd be
along if waited a minute"
Phineas got out and stood by the side
of the doctors sulky.
''It's about the bill, s'pose," he said.
Il meant to see about it before,
but"
''See here, Phineas Harden, did YOU
ever know me to drive people on my
bills? 1t isn't bill this time, but some
thing that ought to have attended to
as soon as your mother died, but it
clean slipped my mind. and that's the
only excuse I have to offer. 1 don't
know whether you've ever thought
much about your father; he died when
you We're pretty young. He was one
of the best friends I ever had. They
said he died of consumption; 1 said
SO myself, and 1 suppose he did; but If
| WI q Alclu ulcO VI lOuClluOSS anu Wdut
of sympathy it was Dick Harden. Just
before he died he gave me letter to
give you. He told me to keep it as long
as your mother lived, and at her death
to give it to you if you were still un-
married; so, since you're a blooming
old bachelor like myself, here it is. And
whatever is in it, just remember that
your father was good man, and lived
better than most men die"
In the afterglow of the sunset Phin.
eas sat turning the letter over in his
hand. The fading light was too din
for the faint, indistinct writing, and be
lighted the lamp.
He looked at the date and it gave him
curious feeling to know that his
father had been younger than he him
self was when he had written the let
ter. 1t was true that he had thought
of his father but little, and perhaps
nothing in his life had ever touched
him as did this letter. which seemed al
real to him as though it were his faith
er's voice coming down to him through
the years.
The writing was stiff and cramped
He read the lines again and again, see
ing his father through each word:
To My Dear Son-Whether you vii