“Now, now, Cora! Is it right you should talk like this when you have but just finished telling of the love of your Owen and the happiness you have brought to him?” Cora put her hand to her head.
“You confuse me,” she said. “To hear you speak like this causes me to doubt my senses. I do not understand.” Imelda smiled.
“But you will understand, by and by, when you know all. Now I am waiting to hear the rest of your story.”
“The rest of my story? Would that it ended there; then, maybe, I might still have some faith that my life is not all in vain. But to return and finish. My dream was too bright and beautiful to last. Such intense bliss is not for this world. I ought to have told you before how I lived. Owen had furnished a small house for me in princely style. It was far up town and stood in a grove of trees and isolated from the neighborhood. A most beautiful garden was attached to it with richly scented flowerbeds and vines and ivy-covered arbors. Certainly a lovely spot and a perfect lovers’ home. From the windows I could see the blue waters of the Hudson and often I watched the stately steamers proudly sail up and down its silver-hued bosom. As I stated once before, Owen had procured a nurse to attend me in my hour of trial, a faithful colored woman, and she had lived with me from that time on, keeping my nest a bower of beauty. She always thought I was Owen’s wife and he said nothing to dispel that belief. She probably often thought it queer that during all that year he had spent only a few hours in the evening of each day with me, but she never said anything.
“One day when I was more happy, if that were possible, than usual, a carriage drove up to my little heaven. A footman opened the door and a richly attired lady stepped therefrom and slowly came up the shaded path. Old Betty met her at the door; I heard them speak but could not understand what was said. The old woman led the lady into our cosy little parlor and then came to me in my own pretty bed chamber upstairs. She brought me a card upon which I read, ‘Mrs. O. Hunter.’ She was a woman of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty years of age, very tall, a decided brunette with flashing black eyes. Her features were sharp, and a look indicating that her tongue could be as sharp. I looked helplessly at her and then at the card in my hand.”
“‘Mrs. Hunter?’ I said, bowing—but her stiff head never inclined. In a haughty, heartless manner she spoke,
“‘If you are able to read you ought to find that correct. Mrs. Owen Hunter,’—with a decided stress upon the ‘Owen.’ I was beginning to feel dazed. ‘Mrs. Owen Hunter’! My Owen’s name. Who could she be?
“‘Well?’ I asked.
“‘Well!’ she repeated. ‘Does not that speak for itself? If not I will endeavour to be still more plain. I am tired of having my husband spend his nights away from home. I warn you, girl! Owen Hunter is my husband, and the father of my children. If I still find, after this, that he continues coming here, I shall find means to put an end to it, and to make it go hard with you!’
“I was as if stunned! My head swam, as I listened to this threat. My Owen the husband of this woman! Impossible! Surely, surely, there is some terrible mistake here. Not for one instant did I permit myself to believe the cruel accusation that had been hurled at me, but without deigning me another look she turned in haughty scorn to leave the room when her eye caught sight of a crayon picture—Owen’s picture, my most especial pride, which had been placed upon an easel. A look like a thunder cloud passed over her face, and before I could think what her intention might be she had swooped upon it, knocked it down, and setting her foot upon it crushed the glass into a thousand pieces, cutting and hopelessly ruining the precious picture. With a cry of dismay I stepped forward, but it was too late, and with a mocking laugh she swept from the room, leaving me in a heart-broken condition.