Part 22 (1/2)
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 b.u.t.ton, 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 gra.s.s 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”
att.i.tude. 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 t.i.ttle.
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 a.s.sertion, there being no opportunity for using my own eyes in the apprais.e.m.e.nt. 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 att.i.tude 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 princ.i.p.al 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 gla.s.s 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s so as to ensure their correct replacement. Among the smaller bits were a dozen or more bullseyes of purple gla.s.s simulating a cl.u.s.ter of grapes. They seemed to be all of the same size, each enclosed in a diminutive leaden ring.
”How about it, Jem?” asked the a.s.sistant 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 craftsmans.h.i.+p, for by six o'clock the damage had been repaired and the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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?”