Chapter XVIII
_I Break a Promise_
Needless to say that the summer dragged heavily with me. Betty wroteregularly, but her letters were of a strictly impersonal nature, and Itook especial care to answer in the same vein. Luckily, there was littleHugh as a point of common interest, and we made the most of it. Butneither of us offered the least allusion to the real crisis in ourrelations. I was frankly and wretchedly unhappy, and I could only hopethat Betty was no better satisfied with the situation. I kept busy, ofcourse, with the care of the estate. There was a new drainage system tobe installed, and the long neglected acres of "Thane Court" to lookafter. Of Warriner I heard little and saw less. He was busy with hislaboratory work at Calverton, and there was really small opportunity forus to meet. Indeed for months we lived as rigidly apart as though atopposite poles; once I ran across him at a granger meeting in Lynn, andagain on a cold, rainy afternoon in October when I chanced to drop inat "Powersthorp" for a cup of tea. I fancied that there was markedrestraint in his manner as I walked into Hilda Powers' drawing room, butin the presence of an hostess the amenities must be preserved, and wemanaged to rub along for the half hour of my stay. I was annoyed,nevertheless, for I had been hoping for a confidential chat with Hildaabout Betty, knowing that the two corresponded regularly. Illogicallyenough, I charged up my disappointment to Warriner, and disliked himmore hotly than ever. I dare say he divined my veiled antagonism, and Icould see that it made him uncomfortable. As to that I did not care abutton, but I had wanted to hear about Betty, and now her name wasbarely mentioned. I reflected that people were probably wondering overher protracted visit in the North, but no one had ventured to broach thesubject to me, and I would have suffered it least of all from him. Sothe months went on.
Actually it was now Christmas time, and I was still a grass widower.Betty and Little Hugh had come down to the Davidsons at Irvington, andit was evident that she was thoroughly fixed in her resolve not toreturn to the "Hundred" until I was ready to adopt a more "reasonable"attitude. You note that I quote the adjective; at the time I wasstubbornly convinced that I was right in my contention and was notinclined to alter my determination by one jot or tittle.
Pride and anger are delicious morsels under the tongue so long as theycome fresh and hot from the griddle. But how tasteless and unappetizingwhen served cold; how devoid of vital sustenance in the making up of thebill-of-fare day after day, week, after week, month after month! Yet Ichewed savagely upon the tough, stringy gristle of my wrath, and refusedto admit that I was starving for one touch of Betty's hand, one faintestinflection of her beloved voice. But I could stick it if she could and Idid, letting myself go only in the despatching of an extravagantChristmas box; the one item of Betty's sables made Carolina perfectos anunthinkable luxury for months. And all I got in return was a pleasantnote of thanks, little Hugh's photograph, and a handsome set ofEnglish-made razors. I wondered grimly if Betty expected me to cut mythroat, and was not averse to supplying the means for the operation.
Incredible as it seems to me now, Betty's absence continued through thewinter and spring. In May she wrote me that she was again going toStockbridge for the summer. Little Hugh's health could not be the excusethis time, for he had thriven famously during the winter, and was asfine a boy as any father could wish to see. I reflected dourly that Iwould have to take Betty's word for this assertion, there being noopportunity for using my own eyes in the appraisement. However, Bettydid not trouble about explanations or apologies; she took it calmly forgranted that the situation was to be continued indefinitely; she evenhad the exquisite effrontery to refer to the terms of my promise aboutentering the ill-omened library of "Hildebrand Hundred"; she intimatedplainly that I was to be held to the exact letter and bond of thatridiculous agreement. What irony, seeing that she seemed bent uponbreaking every other tie that united us! Of course I ignored the subjectentirely in my reply (I wonder if I have made it plain that I wrote andreceived a letter every single day), and I comforted myself with thereflection that my silence might make her a bit uneasy. It did, but Ipersisted in my standoffish attitude on that particular point ofcontention. What indeed did that matter when compared to the actual gulfthat continued to separate us!
And now I come to the swift-moving, final act of the drama; the centerof the stage is still mine up to a certain point; thereafter, as youwill see, it will be Betty's turn to figure in the limelight, and takethe principal speaking part.
May had come and gone; now it was June again and past the middle of themonth; to be precise it was the morning of Tuesday the nineteenth.
I had been a _sub rosa_ subscriber to the local Stockbridge paper,probably from the secret hope of finding an occasional paragraph aboutBetty and her doings, even if it were but the bare mention of her name.The paper habitually reached me on Monday, but this was Tuesday and ithad but just arrived; some delay in the mails, I dare say. Uponunfolding it I turned at once to the column of personalities, and sawthat among the recent arrivals at the Red Lion Inn was the name of Mr.Chalmers Warriner, of Calverton, Maryland.
Have you ever suffered the unutterable pangs of jealousy, you who readthese words? If so there is no need for me to picture them; if not,there is no possible medium through which I could make them even dimlycomprehensible. But that day I died a thousand deaths.
Manifestly Warriner had come to Stockbridge for a purpose, and it wasunthinkable that he should have done so without a direct invitation frommy wife. So Betty had made up her mind; she had taken an irrevocablestep, and the die had been finally cast. What was I to do? Twice Iordered out the motor, intent upon taking the first train to the North,and as often I sent it back. I had just sense enough left to realizethat I must wait for something more definite; that much I owed to thewoman who was the mother of my child; perhaps the post would bring me aletter of enlightenment.
But when the ten o'clock delivery came over from Calverton I foundmyself as completely in the dark as ever. Betty's letter was full ofHilda Powers, who had arrived on Saturday for a stay of ten days. Whatdid I care about Hilda Powers! And then in a postcript: "ChalmersWarriner is registered at the Red Lion, and I suppose that we shall seehim by this afternoon at the latest." Now all the authorities agree thatthe significant part of a woman's letter is the postscript.
Fortunately, a matter of pressing importance had been brought to myattention. Zack reported that he had noticed, from the terrace, aninward bulge of one of the stained glass windows of the library. Hethought that the leading might have become weakened, and if so, animmediate repair would be necessary. To determine the question heproposed that we should make an examination from the inside of the room.
I give you my word of honor that, for the time being, my promise toBetty had gone clean out of my head. All I could think of was thatsomething of the dignity and beauty of the house--my house--was injeopardy; and I, the Master of the "Hundred," must look to it ereirremediable damage were done. I got the key from my writing desk and,together with Zack, hurried along the corridor, unlocked the door, andentered the well-remembered room.
The apartment had the dreary aspect of long untenancy. The books, mostof the furniture, and even the tapestries had been removed, and the airwas dead and musty; there were cobwebs in the corners, and the dust laythick on the oaken floor. But this was no time for sentimentalities, andI incontinently dismissed the crowded recollections that flooded mymind. "Where is it?" I demanded impatiently.
Zack pointed to the third (running from left to right) of the longwindows that flanked the great fireplace. If you recall my earlierdescription of the library, the window in question represented theflight of the Israelitish spies from the land of Canaan, bearing withthem the gigantic cluster of grapes.
"Dere it am," answered Zack, pointing to the upper part of the paintedscene, the depiction of an arbor from which depended bunches of theglorious fruit as yet unplucked.
True enough, there was a significant inward bend at this particularplace, and it was evident that the leading
of the tracery had partiallygiven way. It was imperative to make repairs at once, and, fortunately,there was a stained glass manufactory in Calverton, and skilled workmencould be obtained there on short notice. I telephoned my request, and,an hour later, a couple of men were on hand to do the work.
Apparently the weakness was comparatively trifling, and it was onlynecessary to remove a small portion of the upper half of the window. Themen were experienced and intelligent; they knew their job, and after thetemporary scaffolding had been erected they took out the injuredsections, carefully numbering the separate pieces of glass so as toensure their correct replacement. Among the smaller bits were a dozen ormore bullseyes of purple glass simulating a cluster of grapes. Theyseemed to be all of the same size, each enclosed in a diminutive leadenring.
"How about it, Jem?" asked the assistant workman. "They be alike as peasin a pod."
"No call to number 'em," decided Jem promptly. "It's all the same in thepicter, so don't bother about marking the bullseyes."
I, listening to the colloquy, commended Jem's dictum as being eminentlysensible, particularly in view of the fact that the weather wasthreatening and time was of value in getting the window in proper shapeto resist a blow. The purple bullseyes were tumbled into a basket, andthe work went on.
It was rapid and clever craftsmanship, for by six o'clock the damage hadbeen repaired and the glass had been replaced; to my way of thinking, asstrong as ever. I said as much, but Jem, to my surprise, shook his head."All that tracery work ought to be gone over," he said, "to make the joba good one. You can see for yourself," he went on, "that a lot of themain leading is none too solid--look here; and there!" and he pointedout several places where indeed the glass seemed very insecure in itssetting.
"I don't want to run any risk," I said, "How about coming back to-morrowto make a thorough job of it?"
"Sorry, Mr. Hildebrand, but me and my mate are due at Baltimore in themorning, setting a chancel window at S. Paul's. I don't think your workcan be managed before the first of next week."
"Then I'll have to take the risk?"
"I'm afraid so. But we've put the really bad place in decent order, andI don't see why the glass shouldn't stand any ordinary wind. Just got tochance it, sir."
Of course there was nothing further to say, so I thanked the men anddismissed them. Yes, there was no alternative; I should have to chanceit.
When I wrote my usual nightly letter to Betty I told her of thecircumstances which had caused me to break the letter of my promiseabout entering the library. I dare say I nourished a secret hope thatthe news would upset her; that it might even have the effect of inducingher to make a hasty return to the "Hundred." But that would imply thatshe still cared for me, and the cold fact remained that, at this verymoment, the name of Chalmers Warriner stood inscribed upon the registerof the Red Lion Inn at Stockbridge.