The Vancouver independent. (Vancouver, W.T. [Wash.]) 1875-1910, 1883-07-12
CONSTANCE'S STORY.

CONSTANCES SIUk1.
When my husband, Roscoe Arnold,
asked me to marry him, felt it neces-
sary to tell him that did not love him
as he loved me-that understood his
devotion, because I had felt it for an
other-that other, Ivan Grey--that to
my husband had only to give a CRATE
full affection. Would that suffice?
He said that it would. He told me
afterward that, through my weeping, he
did not catch the name; that he thought
1 said also that my lover had died.
The subject was not q pleasant one
we did not refer to it afterward.
From the first Roscoe was good hus-
band. If did not appreciate him then,
was not unhappy. had q bright, beau
tiful home, which Roscoe named Hes
perides. The library was extensive, the
conservatory luxurious. Books and
flowers being my ruling passion, my
husband had taken especial pains to
crafty me. To day never smell hello
trope or tuberoses without the memory
of those first lovely years coming back
to me.
After our boy was born, and every
body pronounced him most healthy
and beautiful child, Roscoe said to me:
Constance, are you happy now?"
l looked straight into his honest
brown eyes as I truly answered, Eyes,
Roe"
He bent and kissed me with delight
l had never seen him show before.
e.- Dearest, you are mine" he MUIR
' INJURED.
That was all he said.
1t was just two years after our mar
riage.
A few days later he received letter.
asked whom it was from.
my sister" he answered.
II never knew that you had sister,
1 said, in surprise.
mo, l have never spoken to you OF
Ora. When my parents died in my boy
hood, Ora was baby, and was taken by
an aunt down to New Orleans, where she
was raised with her children. l have
only seen her once since. She is very
pretty. This letter tells me she is to be
married"
He gave me the letter to read. 1t was
written on delicate, fragrant paper, the
penmanship easy and graceful, bat
rather too fine; rather brief communi-
cation, prettily expressed, asking us to
come to the wedding.
ITO New Orleans in July! l am
afraid to take baby, and l could not
leave him"
~ see that we cannot go. 1t is i'm.
practicable. I will write and tell Ora. "
"And give her my love. Say that l
hope she will be very happy"
| had been present at bu. one wedding
in my life, and that was my own. ] was
y six and twenty. 1t was very different
from what thought it would be when l
was eighteen. At eighteen l had been
betrothed to Ivan Grey; at twenty.six l
married Roscoe Arnold.
Tho suggestion Of another wedding
brought back the past to me- When l
was alone, and baby asleep in his basket.
l went to q drawer in u private cabinet
and took out package of letters and Il
photograph.
The latter was vignette-a face as
handsome ms Greek gods, with a per-
lection of contour that must ever be fas-
cinating. As looked at it. the peace Of
nv heart fed away. The breath Of the
past, fragrant, new, spring like, swept
over me; the warm. imperious impulses
OF youth started to life IN my blood. All,
that only was happiness! That was
brigh. morning-this was sultry mid.
day.
''As starlight unto sunlight, as water
unite wine," murmured.
l sat there on the rich carpet before
the rosewood cabinet, the panorama OF
the past sweeping before me, while the
sunshine crept along the pearly wall
slipped across my lap, and illuminated
my baby's little rosy face.
II woke him at last. He reached his
bits Of hands into the golden sunshine
and lay cooling.
I looked at the letters, but did not
open them. There was no need. l had
learned each one by heart years ago. The
packet was small, and l sat with it be-
tween my palms for nearly half an hour.
But put away letters and pictures at
last, and sat down by the open window,
swinging the baby's basket to and fro.
The gladiolus famed crimson on the
lawn, old elms empowered the deepest
shade, my pansies made . purple shadow
along the paths beneath. A white but
terfy, fluttering from the rose-vine at