CHAPTER XIX. 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.