Chapter XIX
The Seat Perilous
Wednesday, the twentieth of June, was the blackest of all black days. When Betty's letter came I found it very unsatisfactory reading. Warriner had been making the most of his opportunities; that was certain. He had been over twice for five-o'clock-tea, and a number of pleasant affairs were in prospect—a water party on the Bowl, a day's golf at Pittsfield, a masked ball at Lenox; so it went. Apparently Betty was in for a royal good time, and she had no compunction in making me aware of the fact. My intrusion upon the forbidden ground of the library was, it seemed, a matter of no importance; not even mentioned. Later on, I realized that she could not have received my communication on the subject—but never mind; I felt aggrieved, and the black dog of jealousy heeled me wherever I went that long, beautiful June day. Surely, I was the most miserable man alive, and it is not surprising that I diligently continued the digging of the pit into which I was so soon to fall.
Thursday, the twenty-first, brought a number of business matters to my attention, and under the pressure of these imperative duties I half forgot about my troubles. Again Betty's letter was non-committal and made no references to my doings or delinquencies. I should have enjoyed calling it evasive, but that was hardly possible seeing that Warriner's name was mentioned three or four times; the fellow was assuredly making hay. After my solitary evening dinner I thought it wise to keep my mind at work, and, accordingly, I started in on a big batch of farm accounts.
I had heard the trampling of a horse's hoofs on the gravel drive, but had paid no attention; now a heavy step echoed along the black-and-white chequers of the great hall, and I became conscious that Marcus, the house-boy, stood at the door in the act of announcing a visitor. I looked up and saw John Thaneford.
Amazement held me speechless for a moment; then I found my feet and blurted out some form of greeting; I can't be sure that we actually shook hands, but this was my house and he had come as a guest; I must observe the decencies.
"Black Jack" had changed but little in the two years since I had seen him. Perhaps a trifle broader in girth, while the cleft between his sable eyebrows was deeper than ever. Apparently, he was quite at his ease, and I fancied that he took a furtive and malicious pleasure in my embarrassment. Now we were seated; I pushed the box of cigars to his hand, and waited, tongued-tied and flushing, for the conversational ice to be broken.
"So we meet again, Cousin Hugh!" he began, with perfect aplomb. "You don't appear to be overjoyed."
"Why should I be?" I retorted. "But I don't forget that you are under my roof. Naturally, I am somewhat surprised."