University of Virginia Library

HIS SECRET LOVE-LETTER.

Yes, married Brown's Boys. You will see them in
every large city and at every watering-place—men married
to suffering, neglected wives, but flirting with
scores of young ladies.

Yesterday a young lady, Miss Ida —, at the
United States Hotel, received a letter from one of these
married Browns' Boy flirts at the Clarendon. Miss Ida
carried the letter all day, and accidentally dropped it
in the ball-room last night. The writer is a handsome
man, the husband of a devoted wife, and the father
of beautiful children, and this, alas! is the heartless
letter which he writes to one of our young ladies to-day:

I will try and see you to-night in the piano corner
of the big parlor—at eight. Manage to be there with
Lizzie and Charley, for they are
spooney and we can “shake” them,
and they will take it as a kindness.

I send you my photograph. How
do you like it? Do send me yours.
You are in my mind constantly—
day and night. You say you “don't
think I can be true to you and

have a wife at the Clarendon.” Have I not told
you, dearest, that I have no wife? To be sure, we
are married, but she is not my wife. I do not love
her as I love you. She belonged to a very rich
family, and had a good deal of property—Boulevard
lots. She laid no claim to being aristocratic. My
family were aristocratic. There is no better blood in
the Knickerbocker Club than he has who has so
often confessed his love to you. She married me for
my aristocratic connections, and I married her, alas!
I am ashamed to confess it, for her great wealth. We
are married, but not mated. Then, after she nursed
me through a long spell of sickness, she looked haggard
and worn. Then I told her I could not love
her unless she looked fresh and beautiful. She looked
sad at this, and turned her head away. Foolish woman.
Then I resolved to get a divorce. This was before
I saw you, my dear, sweet girl—before Miss S. presented
us at the last ball. Didn't we have a sweet
time? Then, when we rode over to the lake, and
sauntered out along the willow banks, Mrs. C. thought
I was at the races. That night I loved you so wildly
that I had a fearful headache. I knew it was that.
I threw myself on my bed at the Clarendon. Mrs. C.
insisted on bathing my head with camphor. She said
the races were too much for me. I tossed and rolled in
a delirium for hours, and then finally went to sleep. In
my sleep I dreamed of you, my dear Ida. I called your
name aloud several times—then I awoke. It was three
o'clock, but Mrs. C., haggard and worn, was still sitting
over me. When I cried your name, dear Ida, she said:

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 627EAF. Page 152. In-line Illustration. Image of a pretty young lady looking at a photograph. The caption reads, "HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?"]

“Why, darling, have you forgotten my name? My
name is not Ida.”

How stupid! In the morning I gave her a scolding
for making a fool of herself. She looked so forlorn
after this that I told her to stay in her room, and I
came down and spent that happy evening with you.

In one of your notes, dear Ida, you say your papa
asked you if I was not married, and that you blushed
and said “Of course not.” That's right. I never take
out Mrs. C., and no one knows that we are married
but our intimate friends.

I shall soon have a divorce,
when I will let her go with a
dowry. It is quite funny to
think that the very money
which I propose to pay her
dowry with, she herself gave me
when we were married. But if
I give her a small dowry, then
we will have enough to keep
our carriage and live handsomely.
Won't we, pet? You
say, darling, that you could
never be happy without a carriage. Well, you shall
have one, if I have to sell Minnie's diamonds to buy
it. Minnie won't want diamonds when she is living
on a dowry.

You ask me how I became acquainted with Minnie?

Well, it's a funny story. We first met at Newport.
Her father came up with the Vintons—coach and four.
Minnie was beautiful then. She had golden hair and

great brown eyes, like you, pet, and an arm as plump
and white as Lizzie's; but she has worried herself so
about me when I've had neuralgia and headache after
big dinners at the Club, that she's only a shadow
now.

Well, as I was saying, we were at Newport together.
One day we were out rowing—clear out by the lighthouse.
I stood up in the boat to light a cigar—a gust
came and over I went into the surf. I thought I was
done for, and I did sink twice, but the third time
Minnie rowed the boat up to me, caught hold of my
clothes, and held me till some men put out from the
shore. I ought to be very grateful to Minnie—and I
am. I'm going to allow her a large dowry—for her—
$1,500 a year, and we'll take care of Freddy ourselves,
won't we? I suppose she will want Freddy—all mothers
are foolish about their children; but he's a boy,
and of course I can take him. Then he won't bore us
much, as we can trudge him off to boarding-school.

Now, my darling Ida, you see how much I love you.
So keep this evening for me and all the round dances
on your card. Those United States fellows wouldn't
make such a sacrifice for you as I would—would
they? Tell your father that I'm a vestryman in Dr.
Morgan's church. I'm not, you know, but they did
speak to me about it once, and it's the same thing.

With kisses and love, dear Ida, I am all thine till I
see you.