The Bottineau courant. (Bottineau, Bottineau County, N.D.) 1895-1929, 1922-09-21
CHAPTER l..

WILL AS rlckeCy, OlO-IaSnlOneQ Iurnl-
ture-and it's memorfes-was now de-
serted, except for Robert Fairchild,
and he was deserted within 1t, wan
dering from room to room staring at
familiar objects with the unfamiliar
gaze Of n whose vision suddenly
has been warped by the visitation Of
death and the of loneliness that
it brings.
Loneliness, rather than grief, for it
had been Robert Fairchild's promise
that he would not suffer in heart for
n who had longed to go into a peace
for which he had waited, seemingly in
vain. Year after year, Thornton Fair
child had sat in the big armchair by
the windows, watching the days grow
old and fade into night, studying sun
set after sunset, voicing the vain hope
that the cleaning might bring the twi-
light of his W existence-a silent
man except for this, rarely speaking of
the past, giving to the son who
worked for him, cared for him, wor-
SHIPPED him, the slightest inkling Of
what might have happened in the dim
days of the long ago to transform him
into a beaten thing, longing for the
fnal ~surcease. And when the end
came, 1t found him in readiness, wait
ing In the big armchair by the win
dows. Even now, a book lay on the
frayed carpeting Of the old room,
where it had fallen from relaxing fin
gers. Robert Fairchild picked it up,
and with a sigh restored it to the
grim, TUNED oak case. His days Of
petty sacrifices that his father might
while away the weary hours with
reading were over.
What had been the past? Why the
silence? Why the patient, yet fmpa-
tient wait for death? The son did not
know. In all his memories was only
one faint picture, painted years be-
fore in b%abyhood: the return of his
father from some place, he knew not
where, a long conference with his
mother behind closed doors, while he,
In childlike curiosity, waited without,
seeking in vain to catch some expla-
nation. Then a sad-faced woman who
cried at night when the house was
still, who faded and who died. That
was all. The picture carried no ex-
PLANTATION.
And now Robert Fairchild stood on
the threshold Of something he almost
feared to learn. Once, on a black,
stormy night, they had sat together,
father and son before the fire, silent
for hours. Then the hand of the
white-haired man had reached out
ward and rested for a moment on the
young mans knee.
81 wrote something to you, Boy, a
day or so ago." he had said. "That
little illness I had prompted me to
do 1t. II thought it was only fair
to you. After I'm gone, look in the
safe. You'll find the combination on
a piece of paper hidden in a hole cut
in that old European history in the
bookcase. I have your promise, I
know-that you'll not do it until after
I'm gene"
Now Thornton Fairchild was gone.
But a message had remained behind;
n which the patient lips evidently
had feared to utter during life. The
heart of the son began to pound, slow
and hard, as, with the memory of that
conversation, he turned toward the
bookcase and Unmatched the paneled
door. A moment more and the hol-
lowed history had given up its trust,
q bit Of paper scratched with numbers.
Robert Fairchild turned toward the
stairs and the small room on the Sec
ond floor which had served as his ia
theirs bedroom.
There he hesitated before the little
iron safe in the corner, summoning
the courage to unlock the doors Of a
dead mans past.
The safe had not been opened in
years; that was evident from the
creaking of the plungers as they fell,
the gummy resistance of the knob as
Fairchild turned it III accordance. with
the directions on the paper. Finally,
a great wrench, and the bolt was
drawn grudgingly back a strong pull,
and the safe opened.
Fairchild crouched for a moment,
staring, before he reached for the
thinner of two envelopes which lay
before him. A moment later he
Strengthened and turned toward the
light. A crinkling of paper, a quick
drawn sigh between clenched teeth;
it was a letter; his strange, quiet,
hunted-appearing father was talking
to him through the medium of ink and
paper, after death. He read:
my Son:
Before I begin this letter to you l
must ask that you take no action
whatever until you have seen my at
torney-he will be yours from now on.
I have eve mentioned him to you
before; it was not necessary and
would only have brought you curiosity
which I could not have satisfied. But
now, I am afraid, the doors must be
unlocked. I am gone. You are young,
you have been a faithful son and you
are deserving of every good fortune
that may possibly come to you. I am
praying that the years have made a
difference, and, that Fortune may
smile upon you as she frowned on me.
Certainly, she can injure me no longer.
My race Is run; I am beyond earthly
fortunes. r. w. y 49,.
Therefore, when you have finished
with this, take the de. : inclosed In
the larger envelope and . - st.
Louis. There, look up Henry +. b.>;<a-
ish "a 4ley-at-law, in the Princess
building. He will explain them to you.
Beyond this, I fear, there is little
that can aid you. I cannot find the
strength. now that / face IL. to tell