THE CUP OF WRATH AND TREMBLING.
With the first mail that Marrion Latham received after reaching New
York was a letter which bore the postmark of the small railway station
in Kentucky from which he had lately departed so hastily. He opened it
first, for it was the most important to him. The letter ran:
“MR. LATHAM:
I have trusted you above all other men, yet you have proven to
be my most hurtful enemy. I was surprised that you would sell my
friendship, my future, and, above all, your own manhood to Willard
Frost.
From this time on I am done with you--we are strangers. Enclosed
find check, as I prefer not being in your debt for services
rendered.
ROBERT MILBURN.”
Marrion laid the letter down with a moan; but the cruel injustice of it
aroused no resentment--he was only stunned by it. After awhile, he felt
tired and sick, so he lay down across the foot of his bed and finally
went to sleep. In his sleep nature had her way--was no longer held in
check by his will, and so, when his weary brain, his sad, unresting
heart cried out they could no longer endure, she came and gave them
rest.
Two hours afterward found him somewhat refreshed, but he was sorry to
have awakened; he should have liked to sleep--that was all. That most
vexing question kept repeating itself to him. “Why are the best motives
of our lives turned into wolves, that come back, ravenous, to feed upon
our helpless and tortured selves?”
Willard Frost’s letter had made so slight an impression upon him that,
until this reminder, he had quite forgotten it; had carelessly dropped
it down, never thinking of it again until now.
It looked hard, that he had come away to save that home, and then,
to have the head of that home confront him with a pen picture of a
scoundrel placarded “Marrion Latham.”
It was an unexpected experiment, and an astounding shock. With hands
clasped behind him Marrion restlessly paced the floor, trying to
determine what was the best thing for him to do.
He could board the next train and go back; but no, Cherokee had his
promise that he would stay away. Besides, she had borne and sacrificed
enough for Robert.
He could write; but how could he express it on cold paper; he could
wait a few days and see him in person, for he knew Robert expected to
return when the bloom of the year was passed. That would be soon, for
it was now time for the woods to be full of ghosts who gather to make
lament, while winds sob in minor key, and trees are bowed in silent
woe, and leaves, like tears, fall fast.
This was best; so he decided upon it to wait and see him in person.
His new drama lay on the desk before him; it was in this one Cherokee
figured. What better way to forget the slow, creeping time, than to go
to work; he had often said he wished he were poor, for the poor have
small time for grieving.
He did go to work in earnest; each night found him brain-weary after a
hard day’s arduous task; it was the best thing he could have done. The
very first morning he saw an announcement of Milburn’s return to the
city he dropped him a line:
“MY DEAR MILBURN:
I have an explanation--an apology to make--then let us be on the
old footing; for without you I am a lonely man. Appoint a place
for an immediate interview and let me assure you that Frost had
nothing to do with my leaving you.
I return check.
Yours very truly,
MARRION LATHAM.”
He dispatched this message, and paced the floor in a fever of anxiety
until the answer came. Quickly he snatched the envelope, as a starving
man breaks a crust of bread.
This is what the letter said:
“My time is now entirely occupied.
Respectfully,
ROBERT MILBURN.”