_I Break a Promise_
Needless to say that the summer dragged heavily with me. Betty wrote
regularly, but her letters were of a strictly impersonal nature, and I
took especial care to answer in the same vein. Luckily, there was little
Hugh as a point of common interest, and we made the most of it. But
neither of us offered the least allusion to the real crisis in our
relations. I was frankly and wretchedly unhappy, and I could only hope
that Betty was no better satisfied with the situation. I kept busy, of
course, with the care of the estate. There was a new drainage system to
be installed, and the long neglected acres of "Thane Court" to look
after. Of Warriner I heard little and saw less. He was busy with his
laboratory work at Calverton, and there was really small opportunity for
us to meet. Indeed for months we lived as rigidly apart as though at
opposite poles; once I ran across him at a granger meeting in Lynn, and
again on a cold, rainy afternoon in October when I chanced to drop in
at "Powersthorp" for a cup of tea. I fancied that there was marked
restraint in his manner as I walked into Hilda Powers' drawing room, but
in the presence of an hostess the amenities must be preserved, and we
managed to rub along for the half hour of my stay. I was annoyed,
nevertheless, for I had been hoping for a confidential chat with Hilda
about Betty, knowing that the two corresponded regularly. Illogically
enough, I charged up my disappointment to Warriner, and disliked him
more hotly than ever. I dare say he divined my veiled antagonism, and I
could see that it made him uncomfortable. As to that I did not care a
button, but I had wanted to hear about Betty, and now her name was
barely mentioned. I reflected that people were probably wondering over
her protracted visit in the North, but no one had ventured to broach the
subject to me, and I would have suffered it least of all from him. So
the 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, and
it was evident that she was thoroughly fixed in her resolve not to
return to the "Hundred" until I was ready to adopt a more "reasonable"
attitude. You note that I quote the adjective; at the time I was
stubbornly convinced that I was right in my contention and was not
inclined to alter my determination by one jot or tittle.
Pride and anger are delicious morsels under the tongue so long as they
come fresh and hot from the griddle. But how tasteless and unappetizing
when served cold; how devoid of vital sustenance in the making up of the
bill-of-fare day after day, week, after week, month after month! Yet I
chewed savagely upon the tough, stringy gristle of my wrath, and refused
to admit that I was starving for one touch of Betty's hand, one faintest
inflection of her beloved voice. But I could stick it if she could and I
did, letting myself go only in the despatching of an extravagant
Christmas box; the one item of Betty's sables made Carolina perfectos an
unthinkable luxury for months. And all I got in return was a pleasant
note of thanks, little Hugh's photograph, and a handsome set of
English-made razors. I wondered grimly if Betty expected me to cut my
throat, and was not averse to supplying the means for the operation.
Incredible as it seems to me now, Betty's absence continued through the
winter and spring. In May she wrote me that she was again going to
Stockbridge for the summer. Little Hugh's health could not be the excuse
this time, for he had thriven famously during the winter, and was as
fine a boy as any father could wish to see. I reflected dourly that I
would have to take Betty's word for this assertion, there being no
opportunity for using my own eyes in the appraisement. However, Betty
did not trouble about explanations or apologies; she took it calmly for
granted that the situation was to be continued indefinitely; she even
had the exquisite effrontery to refer to the terms of my promise about
entering the ill-omened library of "Hildebrand Hundred"; she intimated
plainly that I was to be held to the exact letter and bond of that
ridiculous agreement. What irony, seeing that she seemed bent upon
breaking every other tie that united us! Of course I ignored the subject
entirely in my reply (I wonder if I have made it plain that I wrote and
received a letter every single day), and I comforted myself with the
reflection that my silence might make her a bit uneasy. It did, but I
persisted in my standoffish attitude on that particular point of
contention. What indeed did that matter when compared to the actual gulf
that continued to separate us!
And now I come to the swift-moving, final act of the drama; the center
of the stage is still mine up to a certain point; thereafter, as you
will see, it will be Betty's turn to figure in the limelight, and take
the principal speaking part.
May had come and gone; now it was June again and past the middle of the
month; 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 about
Betty 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 it
had but just arrived; some delay in the mails, I dare say. Upon
unfolding it I turned at once to the column of personalities, and saw
that 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 read
these 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 dimly
comprehensible. But that day I died a thousand deaths.
Manifestly Warriner had come to Stockbridge for a purpose, and it was
unthinkable that he should have done so without a direct invitation from
my wife. So Betty had made up her mind; she had taken an irrevocable
step, and the die had been finally cast. What was I to do? Twice I
ordered 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 realize
that I must wait for something more definite; that much I owed to the
woman who was the mother of my child; perhaps the post would bring me a
letter of enlightenment.
But when the ten o'clock delivery came over from Calverton I found
myself as completely in the dark as ever. Betty's letter was full of
Hilda Powers, who had arrived on Saturday for a stay of ten days. What
did I care about Hilda Powers! And then in a postcript: "Chalmers
Warriner is registered at the Red Lion, and I suppose that we shall see
him by this afternoon at the latest." Now all the authorities agree that
the significant part of a woman's letter is the postscript.
Fortunately, a matter of pressing importance had been brought to my
attention. Zack reported that he had noticed, from the terrace, an
inward bulge of one of the stained glass windows of the library. He
thought that the leading might have become weakened, and if so, an
immediate repair would be necessary. To determine the question he
proposed 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 to
Betty had gone clean out of my head. All I could think of was that
something of the dignity and beauty of the house--my house--was in
jeopardy; and I, the Master of the "Hundred," must look to it ere
irremediable damage were done. I got the key from my writing desk and,
together with Zack, hurried along the corridor, unlocked the door, and
entered the well-remembered room.
The apartment had the dreary aspect of long untenancy. The books, most
of the furniture, and even the tapestries had been removed, and the air
was dead and musty; there were cobwebs in the corners, and the dust lay
thick on the oaken floor. But this was no time for sentimentalities, and
I incontinently dismissed the crowded recollections that flooded my
mind. "Where is it?" I demanded impatiently.
Zack pointed to the third (running from left to right) of the long
windows that flanked the great fireplace. If you recall my earlier
description of the library, the window in question represented the
flight of the Israelitish spies from the land of Canaan, bearing with
them the gigantic cluster of grapes.
"Dere it am," answered Zack, pointing to the upper part of the painted
scene, the depiction of an arbor from which depended bunches of the
glorious fruit as yet unplucked.
True enough, there was a significant inward bend at this particular
place, and it was evident that the leading of the tracery had partially
given way. It was imperative to make repairs at once, and, fortunately,
there was a stained glass manufactory in Calverton, and skilled workmen
could 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 only
necessary to remove a small portion of the upper half of the window. The
men were experienced and intelligent; they knew their job, and after the
temporary scaffolding had been erected they took out the injured
sections, carefully numbering the separate pieces of glass so as to
ensure their correct replacement. Among the smaller bits were a dozen or
more bullseyes of purple glass simulating a cluster of grapes. They
seemed to be all of the same size, each enclosed in a diminutive leaden
ring.
"How about it, Jem?" asked the assistant workman. "They be alike as peas
in a pod."
"No call to number 'em," decided Jem promptly. "It's all the same in the
picter, so don't bother about marking the bullseyes."
I, listening to the colloquy, commended Jem's dictum as being eminently
sensible, particularly in view of the fact that the weather was
threatening and time was of value in getting the window in proper shape
to resist a blow. The purple bullseyes were tumbled into a basket, and
the work went on.
It was rapid and clever craftsmanship, for by six o'clock the damage had
been repaired and the glass had been replaced; to my way of thinking, as
strong 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 job
a good one. You can see for yourself," he went on, "that a lot of the
main leading is none too solid--look here; and there!" and he pointed
out several places where indeed the glass seemed very insecure in its
setting.
"I don't want to run any risk," I said, "How about coming back to-morrow
to make a thorough job of it?"
"Sorry, Mr. Hildebrand, but me and my mate are due at Baltimore in the
morning, setting a chancel window at S. Paul's. I don't think your work
can 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, and
I don't see why the glass shouldn't stand any ordinary wind. Just got to
chance it, sir."
Of course there was nothing further to say, so I thanked the men and
dismissed them. Yes, there was no alternative; I should have to chance
it.
When I wrote my usual nightly letter to Betty I told her of the
circumstances which had caused me to break the letter of my promise
about entering the library. I dare say I nourished a secret hope that
the news would upset her; that it might even have the effect of inducing
her to make a hasty return to the "Hundred." But that would imply that
she still cared for me, and the cold fact remained that, at this very
moment, the name of Chalmers Warriner stood inscribed upon the register
of the Red Lion Inn at Stockbridge.