Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1888 — CHARLIE'S LETTER. [ARTICLE]

CHARLIE'S LETTER.

BY JEFFIE FORBUSH HANAFORD.

It was a letter that caused all the trouble; a little inoffensive-looking epistle, and yet it nearly drove the man who found it mad with misery and pain. It read as follows: My dear Charlie—You can not imagine how much I would like to see you. I can not bear to think how far apart we are. You said when I was married I would forget you. But this letter will prove how mistaken you are, for I love you as much as ever. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” you know. I will write, you a long letter soon. I have much to tell you, but my lime is limited to-day. Do write soon, and tell me how much you miss me. Yours, with love, Irene Hunter Desmont. It was summer time. The golden sunshine poured in through open window, the breezes stirred the grass, and the sweet periume from the flowers was wafted into the room. The man with the letter in his hand stood as if turned to stone, trying to realize what he had just read. There was his wife’s name in full, “Irene Hunter Desmont.” "What could it mean? Who was Charlie? What a fool he was to think there was such a thing as perfect happiness in this world.

He remembers having read in a paper that very day—yes, scarce two hours ago —a few lines that at the time caused quite a little discussion. The lines come back to him how with a new meaning: “Do not flatter yourselves with hopes of perfect happiness, there is no such thing in this life. ” He remembered reading it alond, and some one spoke np, and said, “Exactly my sentiments, * and how indignant he had felt as he made reply. He remembered glancing at his wife and meeting her fond look of love. He was convinced there was “perfect happiness" in this life, and confident that he could spealc from experience, and now Hark! What was that? His wife’s voice, calling him. Laying the letter down on tbe desk as he had found it, he took from the back of a chair a little black silk and lace affair, called a “wrap,” and stepped quickly through the low French window leading on to a veranda. In a very few minutes he had descended the steps, and joined a party of ladies and gentlemen on the lawn. “Hello, Phil! Your wife has just gone into the house to look for you. She thought perhaps you could not find her wrap; here she comes now.” Philip Desmond glanced at his wife as she approached. How pretty she looked in that soft dress of crimson cashmere; she had the sweetest face imaginable, lit up by a pair of soft blue eyes that went straight to your heart every time they rested upon yon, and beautiful rippling hair, shining in the sunlight like gold. “It is very easy for a man to love her,” thought Philip, as he folded the wrap around her slender form. .Should he tell her what he had read? No, not yet. He would wait and watch her closely; if she mailed the letter there would be an answer, and he must see that, find out the man’s name, and then—he was not sure what he would do then, but for the present he would wait. **** + * * Six weeks ago Philip Desmont and Irene Hunter were marked in the little parlor at Irene’s home. Under a beautiful floral bell composed entirely of rosebuds they were pionounced man and wife, and received the hearty congratulations of their many friends. Irene loved her husband as only such affectionate natures can love. She was only nineteen and Philip thirty-two. Immediately after they were married, Philip had taken his bride to their future home, some three hundred miles distant, and there proudly introduced her to his friends. Irene had always appeared perfectly happy; she was young, naturally joyous in disposition, and a general favorite with all who knew her. There were several young married people living near them, and they all contrived to make the summer, Irene’s first among them, pass pleasantly. On this afternoon they bad arranged for a game of tennis, and as Philip’s lawn afforded the best tennis court, they had met there for the purpose. After the first game, Philip had gone into the house for his wife’s wrap, as she felt slightly chilly after so much violent exertion. Then it was that he had discovered the letter that seemed destined to ruin all his happiness. The smile of gayety is often assumed, while the heart may ache within. And it was so in Philip’s case. He managed to play through a game of tennis very creditably. But he felt relieved when it came to an end, and time for their friends to depart. The next morning Philip was up long before Irene was awake. He could uot sleep and decided a walk before breakfast would do him good. Thus it happened that he entered the breakfast room before Irene. He paced the floor impatiently until he heard her step on the stairs. Then the door opened and Irene entered. She was dressed in a charming morning robe of delicate blue, and Philip thought she had never looked so innocent and sweet before. His heart ached as he folded her in his arms and kissed her again and again. “Oh, Irene, my darling, say you love me.” “Love you? Why, Philip', you know I love you—that I never knew what it was to love until I met you.” “Are you sure you never loved any other man, Irene?” “Sure, Philip? How strangely you talk. Of course I am sure. ” After they had finished breakfast Philip, instead of going at once to his office, as was usually his custom, lingered by the window,gazing out in an abstracted manner. Irene had always been in the habit of giving him her letters to mail, and this morning she had not mentioned having any. As Philip stood looking out of the window, he was thinking of this. At last, taking up his hat, he said, carelessly. “Any letters to mail this morning, Irene?”

To his surprise Irene jumped to her feet, exclaiming: “Charlie’s letter! How could I be so forgetful? Wait just a minute, Phil.” And she hurried out of the room. “Charlie’s letter.” Philip could not believe his ears. Evidently, there was a mistake somewhere. Presently Irene returned with a letter in her hand which she was folding ready for the envelope. “I am so glad you mentioned letters, Philip, for yesterday morning I wrote to my old school chum, Charlotte Tracy, or “Charlie,” as we always called her, and forgot to give it to you. ” How easily it was all explained. Philip had made himself miserable for nothing. How happy he was to prove it all a mistake. Some time he would tell his wife all about it, Put not now.

“Have you seen papa’s new dog Carlo?” she asked, as they sat in the parlor. “Yes,” he replied, uneasily, “I have had the pleasure of meeting the dog.” “Isn’t he splendid?GHe’s so affectionate!” “I noticed that he was very demonstrative,” returned he, as he moved uneasily in his chair. “He is very playful, too. I never saw a more playful animal in my life.” “I am very glad to hear you say that.” “Why?” “Because I was a little bit afraid that when he bit that piece out of me the other evening he was in earnest. But if he was only in play of course it’s all right. I can take fun as well as anybody.”—San Francisco Post. A Norton (Mass.) man says that he was born just before breakfast, so “cannot sleep after daylight.” Most women die happy feeling that the bustle of the world’s behind.