In Jeopardy
the hall; according to our simple country fashion supper was invariably
scheduled for midnight, and was preceded by the principal waltz number
of the dance program.
There it came at last! the opening bars of Strauss's "On the Beautiful
Blue Danube." Why is it that smiles and tears lie so close together in
the lilt and swing of a fine waltz tune? And, by that same token, the
saddest music in all the world to-day is that same "Blue Danube," the
last, faint exhalation of an old regime that, however rotten at its
core, continued to present a lovely and gracious exterior. At least
there were no war-brides and greasy Israelitish profiteers on the
polished boards of the ancient Hofberg when Maestro Johann raised his
baton, and his incomparable band, in their gay Hussar uniforms, breathed
out the intoxicating melody which the great Brahms himself would not
have been ashamed to have composed, the veritable apotheosis of the
dance.
Gone, all gone! and this old, gray world, albeit made safe for
democracy, has yet lost something of perennial beauty and enchantment
that can never be renewed--a broken spell, a vanished vision. The wax
candles have guttered to their sockets, the shimmering waves of color
are graying under the merciless white light of a proletarian dawn, the
haunting violins have sobbed themselves to sleep; and of all that
brilliant, bewildering, phantasmagoric past there remains but one
poignant and exquisite echo--the "Blue Danube."
I watched Betty as she circled past me held close in the hollow of
Warriner's arm; she was looking up at him, her eyes intent and her
cheeks glowing. I pushed through the throng and caught them temporarily
halted in a re-entrant swirl of dancers. "I'll take the rest of this
turn," I announced, with small pretense of civility. Warriner would have
been fully justified in resenting my rudeness, for this was no ordinary
case of give-and-take cutting in; but he instantly relinquished his
claim, and I whirled Betty away to the farther end of the great hall.
"We won't wait for supper," I said curtly. "You know Hilda well enough
for that, and she won't mind. Or I don't care if she does." Betty's
lower lip went out and her eyes flashed. But a woman, in an emergency,
can summon a control over her nerves that mere man may only wonder at.
"As you like, Hugh," she said with quiet composure. "I'll just slip up
to the dressing room, and you can have the motor brought around to the
side door, where it won't be noticed."
We exchanged only a few, indifferent words on the way home, since Zack
was acting as chauffeur and sat within easy earshot.
Betty confronted me under the swinging hall lantern of "Hildebrand
Hundred," her small figure straight and tense as a grenadier on parade.
"Well?" she said briefly.
"You know what I mean," I evaded weakly enough. But she only continued
to look at me, and I had to come out in the open.
"I object to your dancing with that man," I growled.
"What man?"
"Chalmers Warriner, of course."
"Chalmers Warriner! Why----" Betty bit her lip and choked back the
coming words.
"Go on!" I demanded, instantly alert to the possible significance of
that suddenly checked utterance.
But Betty only shook her head--mutinously so as I chose to think in my
green-eyed madness.
"You won't tell me?" I persisted hotly.
"I can't."
"Then I've nothing more to say except just this: You are my wife, and so
long as you continue to bear my name you are to have no communication of
any kind with Mr. Warriner."
Betty made no reply, and we parted without another word.
I had to be in Calverton all the following day on some law business; and
I had left the "Hundred" before Betty appeared at the breakfast table.
When I returned, late in the afternoon, the house was fairly upside down
with hurried preparations for a departure; everywhere trunks and
handbags were being packed for the journey, and the station car was
already in waiting at the front door. Betty met me as usual in the lower
hall. I lifted my eyebrows interrogatively.
"You know little Hugh has been feeling the hot weather of late," she
answered steadily, "and Doctor Marcy strongly advised a change to a
Northern climate."
"Where are you going?"
"To my Aunt Alice Crew's in Stockbridge. We can stay there through
August and September."
"And then?"
"Probably to the Davidsons at Irvington-on-Hudson."
"For how long?"
"That depends on you, Hugh." Betty was actually smiling as she looked up
at me, and that made me angrier than ever.
"You mean until I am ready to trust you," I blurted out.
"If you like to put it that way."
The discussion had let us into an _impasse_; there was nothing more to
be said. I accompanied Betty to the Crown Ferry station, and saw my
little family party of wife, baby, and nurse safely aboard the sleeper.
Even at that last moment I should have dropped everything and gone
along had Betty given me the smallest opening. But she said no further
word, and I could not conquer at once my masculine pride and my jealous
fear. I watched the red tail lights of the train disappear around a
curve, and told myself that I was the unhappiest man and the biggest
fool on God's green earth.
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.
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