Chapter XVIII
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.