A PLAINT OF PAIN.
Cherokee was sad; what wife is not who has a drunken husband? Drearily
broke the winter days, and drearily fell the winter nights. One by one,
she often watched the neighboring lights go out, and human sounds grow
still. When the phantom-peopled dark closed around her companionless
hours, then would come the frightful waiting--in the watches of the
night.
Waiting in that awful hush that stifles the breath of hope; then, day
after day of longing; can you imagine it? Forever busy at the one
unending task of dragging through the weary hours, from the early,
painful waking of dawn, alone with sorrow, to the tardy, feverish,
midnight sleep--alone with sorrow still.
Like a good woman she sought to hide her husband’s faults, and keep the
watch alone; but Marrion was like one of the family; he was there at
any and all hours, and she could not keep the truth from him; he was
sorry for her, and had such a sweet, gentle way of ministering. To the
anguish of her face he often made reply, “Yes, I know how you feel
about it, and I will try to help you if there is a way.”
Cherokee had somehow learned to expect everything from him. She looked
to him for advice and assistance. At first she could see no harm in
his guidance--his help. But Marrion had that vivid, intense nature
which gives out emotional warmth as inevitably as the glow-worm sheds
its light when stirred. She had discovered this, and had endeavored to
cool the relationship, but the tingling feeling was there, and in both
herself and him she had detected a sense of mutual dependence.
His voice and step thrilled her, and her smiles were brighter when he
came about. He always had an amusing story, a ready reminiscence; for,
having been the world over, he had gleaned something from everywhere
that had possibly escaped the eyes of others.
To Cherokee he seemed the most original person, acquaintance with him
being like the doorway of a new life--to another world. Such was the
dangerous channel into which they had drifted, neither discovering
their peril until escape seemed almost impossible.
“What shall I do?” she questioned herself, so many countless, maddening
times. Her determination arrived at again and again, was to fly from
the glowing thistle that might stunt all Life’s roses, and make them
come to the dropping at half blow. About Marrion Latham she was insane.
“Insane?” you say. That’s a harsh word isn’t it? But in love are any
of us particularly sane? Something said to her, “try to realize that
happiness is not for woman, but as years go on you will not mind that.
Only be true to your sense of right and you will find sweet peace, and
a great content will be sure to come at last.”
She felt that the best plan for her was to take her husband away from
his associates, herself away from hers, and let time and change bring
about a reformation, and, in spite of the warning, she hoped that the
old fond love would come to them again.
There is no period in life when we are more accessible to friendship
than in the interval which succeeds the disappointment of the passions.
There is then, in those gentler feelings, something that keeps alive
but does not fever the affections. Marrion had influenced himself to
believe that such was his interest in Cherokee, but he was never more
deceived.
Cherokee’s trouble in regard to her husband, and her fear of the
growing regard for Marrion were not her only annoyances; occasionally
she met Willard Frost.
She could not avoid treating him politely, her duty towards her husband
forced her to do that; but she regarded him with veritable repugnance.
One evening, Robert had invited Marrion to dinner, and the latter had
arrived before her husband. As he and Cherokee sat waiting, the maid
entered with a package. It was an exquisite surprise. Though it was
well into March, winter’s keen blast had not so subdued the spring
warmth as to keep it from bringing into quick bloom the pansies and
jasmines.
“Robert knows how dearly I love flowers; he has sent them on to make me
happier and announce his coming, the dear boy,” she exclaimed with a
touch of her old time impulsiveness. She kissed them, and questioned if
they had brought back her lost faith--her girl’s joy in loving.
“I wish I could keep them alive always,” she sighed, sweetly.
While she began to arrange them in the vase, her maid, whose eyes
appeared like leaves of dusty mullein, stared at her because she had
kept her waiting.
“What shall I say to the messenger?”
“Tell him there is no answer.”
“Here is his card, madam.”
Cherokee stared wildly, as if a serpent had wriggled around her feet.
“It is from Mr. Frost--this gift,” and she ventured an imploring glance
into Marrion’s face.
“What would you do with them?” he asked.
“Do? What can I do but send them back.”
As Marrion watched her admiringly, and saw her take each flower and lay
it carefully back into the box, he felt that his quiet friendship was
tottering above a molten furnace.
“I trust you approve of my course, Mr. Latham?” she queried, as Annie
took the box away.
“It would make me perfectly happy if I were the husband.” He
supplemented the impulsive words with a decided blush, in which
Cherokee could not choose but join. Then he cried:
“Why didn’t we meet before, you and I?”
She didn’t answer this, for, hearing steps in the passage, she ran out
to meet her husband; whether he was drunk or sober she never failed in
her little tenderness, that should have brought to him an over-payment
of delight.