ROBERT’S TRIUMPH.
“Excellent claret, Latham, have a glass with me,” said the artist,
Willard Frost.
“Thanks, not any; I have ordered a meal--been out rowing and it makes a
fellow deucedly hungry.”
It was by the merest accident that Marrion Latham and Willard Frost had
taken seats at the same table, in one of New York’s restaurants.
To the right of them, some distance away, there was a decorated table,
covers laid for twelve. Pretty soon the party came in and took their
seats.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Latham, “I wonder what’s up. There’s Robert Emmet
Cooper, Fred Ryder, D. Kohler, and who is the one at the head of the
table? Well, upon my word, it is Milburn.”
“What does all this mean?” inquired Frost.
“That dinner is given to Mr. Milburn,” said the waiter, “he is one of
the acknowledged artists now.”
“What! you don’t tell me his ‘Athlete’ has been accepted by the
Commissioners of the Art Palace?”
“That, sir, is what the judges decided.”
“Strange I had not heard the good news, but I am certainly proud of his
success,” exclaimed Marrion.
“Well, I am not. I despise him, the accursed Milburn,” Frost hissed
between his teeth. “He crossed me in every path; my luck quails before
his whenever we encounter. I say luck, for he has no genius.”
“There are a number of people mistaken then, for he is rapidly gaining
reputation.” This was harrowing to the vanity of the other.
“Yes, and it will do him more good than he deserves, but he had a big
advantage in this.”
“Not advantage, Frost, more than that which hard work and skill
bestows.”
“Umph! You need not defend him, for he hates you, Latham.”
“That doesn’t keep me from rejoicing with him.”
“Well, tell me, when did the drop in the temperature of your relations
occur?”
“About two months ago we had a slight misunderstanding.”
“About his wife, I presume?”
“About none of your business, if you will pardon brevity,” Marrion
answered, curtly.
“You need not mind a little thing like that. I am in the same boat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I am in love with her, too; I admire her as cordially as I
hate him.” He drained the fifth glass of his genuine Medoc, and went on:
“Did you ever see such a ravishing form; I’ll swear she is divine.”
Marrion appeared not to hear him; he turned his head away as if the
other were not speaking. He heard the wit and gaiety of his club
friends. Meanwhile, everybody’s old acquaintance, the devil, had been
spending a time with Frost, by special invitation. He could only view
the other’s triumph; and there he sat, helpless, consumed with impotent
rage; a look of ungovernable fury distorted his features, already
flushed with madness and wine. His upper lip curled at the corners, and
his eyes blazed like those of an enraged tiger, as he muttered:
“Robert Milburn, you shall pay dearly for this victory.” Then he turned
to Marrion and said:
“I wonder if he would feel so elated if he knew how much his wife
thought of me?”
The other turned sharply and faced him:
“Scoundrel! dare to utter a word against her, and I’ll crush the life
out of your body.”
Frost gurgled a fiendish laugh:
“I know you are jealous, but do not be hasty; I can prove what I say.”
“Then, sir, you will have to do it, and if you have lied, look sharp,
for a day of reckoning will surely come.”
“She is at my studio every Friday at three o’clock. You know which
window looks in upon my private apartments; watch that, and you will
see her pass. Remember the time.”
“That will do,” returned Marrion, coldly, as he arose to leave.
At that moment his attention was attracted toward the banquet scene.
Milburn had been called upon for a speech. As a general thing he was
a man of a few words, but when he was inspired there was no more
eloquent talker than he. He made an individual mention of those who had
substantially aided in this distinction he had attained.
Marrion listened, hoping that he would kindly speak his name, but what
a tumult within stirred him to pathetic, unspoken appeal, as the speech
ended without the slightest reference to his model.
As the enthusiastic friends thronged about him, Marrion could not help
showing that he rejoiced with them.
His unexpected appearance in their midst created a decided sensation.
He extended his hand warmly to Robert, and said most cordially:
“Let me congratulate you, too.”
With a look of intense loathing the artist waved him away, and folding
his arms said coldly:
“Excuse me, sir.”
Some one of the party whispered:
“Don’t mind that, Latham; Milburn has imbibed a little too freely.”