In Jeopardy
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.
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."
"At my return, or because I am seeking you out at the 'Hundred?'
Possibly, you have forgotten that I no longer possess even the apology
of a shelter that was once 'Thane Court.'"
"You can hardly hold me responsible for the fire," I said, feeling
somewhat nettled at his tone.
"Oh, surely not," he assented, flicking the ash from his cigar with an
airy wave of his hand--that well remembered, big hand with its
black-tufted knuckles.
"As for the property, I bought it in at public sale to protect myself.
You can have it back at any time for the price I paid. And no interest
charges."
"Very good of you, Cousin Hugh, and later on I may hold you to your
offer. I may say that I am in quite the position to do so," he added
with a boastful flourish.
"Glad to hear it," I said shortly. And in my heart of hearts I did
rejoice, for I had an acute realization of what this man's heritage in
life might have been had Francis Graeme and I never met. Somehow the
whole atmosphere of our foregathering had suddenly lightened, and I
experienced a feeling of hospitality toward Thaneford which was
certainly cordial and almost friendly. "By the way, have you dined?" I
asked. "The cook has gone home, but I dare say Effingham could find some
cold meat and a salad."
"I had supper at the hotel in Calverton, but a drop or two of whiskey
wouldn't go amiss. The prohibition lid is clamped down pretty tight
around here."
I rang for Effingham. "Bring a bottle of 'King William,'" I ordered. "Or
perhaps you would prefer rye or bourbon?"
"Scotch suits me right enough," he answered carelessly. He rose and
began pacing the room. "I heard something in Calverton about your
closing up the library," he said abruptly.
"It was Mrs. Hildebrand's wish. You can understand that Miss Trevor's
death was a great shock to her."
Not a muscle in his face moved, but he stopped short in his tracks.
"Eunice dead!" he ejaculated. "When and where?"
"In June two years ago. She was found dead, sitting in the library."
John Thaneford drew a long breath. "I wondered that her letters ceased
so suddenly," he said coolly. "But Eunice was always doing something out
of the common, and I laid it to some queer slant in her mind. You never
can tell what a woman will do or won't do."
The callous selfishness of the man was still rampant, and it disgusted
me. Doubtless, he had no idea that I was well aware of the relations
that had existed between him and the unfortunate girl. And then, to my
astonishment, a new note of softness, of regret even, stole into his
voice. "Do you mind opening up the room?" he asked. "So much for
remembrance," he added in an undertone that I barely caught.
This time my promise to Betty did occur to my mind, but already the
covenant had been broken, and further infraction could not greatly
signify.
We walked down the corridor, and I unlocked the door and pushed it open,
calling to the house-boy to bring in a lamp.
"So you've cleaned everything out," remarked Thaneford, as he glanced
around. "That is, about everything but the big teak desk, the leather
screen, and the swivel-chair."
"The desk was too cumbersome for use in the other room," I answered. "As
for the chair you see it is riveted down into the floor--not even
screwed in the ordinary way. I fancy it would be a job to get it free."
"And no object either. Poor Eunice, you say, died here?"
"Sitting in that very chair."
"Like Francis Graeme before her," mused Thaneford.
"Yes, and before him four other men, all masters of 'Hildebrand
Hundred'--Yardley, and Randall, and Horace, and Richard. But perhaps you
know these things even better than I do."