Morris tribune. [volume] (Morris, Minn.) 1880-2000, 1881-02-17
THE WIFE'S SECRET.

beside the bed, her arms upon it, her face
hidden upon them; can l bear it? can 1
bear it?"
Then her own heart answered, You can,
for if he does not love you, you love him.
And she arose and stood beside her baby's
cradle, and saw its fathers eyes LOOK up at
her from this, his tiny miniature, and took
upon her gentle shoulders a burden she had
never thought to bear.
That morning a letter had been brought
to her-an anonymous letter, accompanied
by packet. The letter ran thus:
Madam: A friend who does not wish to
see you imposed upon sends you these to
show you what man may be. They have
been stolen from the person to whom they
were written, but the good intention sane
titles the means used 10 further it.
AWELL WIsHER.
The wife of two years reads this, and had
opened the packet. There she found love-
letters, written to some woman addressed as
Olivia, and dated one year before her own
marriage-letters that told of q passion
warmer than it was pure, for she who had
awakened it was evidently a wife-letters
such as George Chesterfield had never writ
ten to the woman who now reads them.
Following them came this, dated on the
very day before their wedding:
Dear Olivia, Dearest Olivia: l shall write
no more to you. I shall never say a word
of love to you again, for am about to place
myself in a position which makes it my
duty to appear to forget you. am to be
married tomorrow. l have done this to
tear myself more completely from you.
You have Gifted told me that l should. You
are right. A man in love cannot trust him
self. For my sake-may l say for yours
also, Olivia?-I take this step.
n 8 oo,,rca 7 do not Iowa This oirl. Init she
she is pure, good woman, and I respect
her They call her beautiful, but only your
face can be beautiful to my eyes.
It rises before me as l say adieu. 1t
will haunt me always, but here part from
it. Farewell-farewel, as though I were
dying.
Perhaps in heaven we shall meet again,
and there we shall be all in all to each 9TH
er.
Yours forever. GEORGE CHESTERFIELD.
Helen Chesterfield read this through,
knew it to be genuine, and cried out in
great agony: "Oh, why did l not die upon
that happy wedding night? Why did I live
for this?'
Then for two long hours she knelt beside
her pillow, struggling with herself, her heart
gave her the answer we have already writ
ten down:
Yes, you can bear it, for though he does
not love you, you still love him."
Then the poor wife tore into fragments
these passionate love letters, and that final
one which seemed her death wound-the
whole cruel packet that had brought her to
SO much woe-and burned them to ashes
in her hearth, and vowed that while she
lived her husband should never know that
she had read them.
"For he has not deceived me, she said to
lao1 +,-1,o 70
BILE to me. That he has been sorely wound
ed should not make me hate him, and he
shall never know, if l can help it, how l
suffer He is always kind-oh, God. pity
me!-always kind that must suffice mel"
And so she met him, with her babe in
her arms, as calmly as she pa.ted from him.
He never saw the great change in her.
He never knew that from that hour life lost
its beauty for her; that even the brightness
of her love for her babe had faded, because
she knew that its father had not loved her.
No one knew anything save that the round
ness left her cheek, that her eyes lost half
their sweetness, that she never INDUCED in
those moments of reposeful reverie of which
she had once been so fond. Work was her
refuge, and she dared not pause to think.
People called the Chesterfelds a happy
couple. Women envied her, for he seemed
a model husband. She locked her skeleton
carefully up, and gave no one peep at it.
Years flew by. Two other babies took
the first baby's place. George Chesterfield
grew rich. She had helped him to become
so by frugality and usefulness, and now it
was pleasure to him to give her the means
of doing good among the poor. Helen
Chesterfelds carriage was oftener found
waiting at the door Of some wretched tene-
ment house than at those of her fashionable
friends. She was happy in doing good,
happy in her children; but still the great
craving emptiness was at her heart-the
burden of her life song was, "He never
loved me-" A word of tenderness from a
laborer to his wife would awaken it, the
words of love song, the blush on girls
cheek. She had suffered untold agonies
for ten bitter years, had awakened in the
night to wet her pillows with her tears be-
cause of it, and yet had kept her secret,
when one day a woman in the most wretch
ed haunt into which she carried her pure
presence spoke to her of another lying ill
in the next room.
''She's been a lady, maam," she said,
''but she's come down dreadful. think
you'd do her good.
And Helen Chesterfield followed her in
to room, where, upon bed, lay wreck
of the loveliest woman on whom Helen's
eyes had ever rested-a blonde, with black
eyes, whose golden hair swept over the pill
low down upon the floor as she lay-a crea-
ture with white hands and snowy throat,
and with "lost" stamped upon her features
as though it had been written there.
She looked at Helen angrily. "More
tracts?" she asked, in harsh, ruined voice.
"Take them away then. It's too late for
them with me-"
But Helen was not one of those who sat-
iufx- cto oh d,o
What she said or did hardly matters. 1t
it was what was most needed No pharasaical
pride made her shrink from contact with a
fallen sister. There was food and wine
and decent linen in that poor room before
many hours were over; and she did not ev-
en- ask the woman's name. 1t mattered not
who she was to Helen She suffered-this
was enough for charity.
So for days and days she ministered to
this poor creature, who grew to yearn for
her coming; who prayed her to stay longer
when she came, but who often looked at
her in strange way, quite unaccountable
to Helen; who sometimes began to speak,
and paused and said, Another time" as
though she postponed some conference
the story of her life, perhaps. Only God
knows what it might be-
SO the autumn wore away. Winter came
and went; and in the spring the little life
In that poor creatures breast was shoulder
ing out Helen knew that she must die. II
seemed right tell her SO; but the task was
q woeful one.
She sat beside her, thinking of this one
day, when the poor soul caught her hand
Il shall go soon, shant II" she asked
Il know it is SO. But promise me that when
Ihave told you my story you won't leave
me-that you will still be kind to me- and
not turn from me. Promise"
II promise, said Helen.
You are George Chesterfeld's wife? ]
know it. You need not answer You re-
member ten years ago receivingletters writ
ten to Olivia?D