The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 11

KEEPING step to the impressive music of Wagner's "Wedding March," Bellamy and his best man reached the altar. Jack Winthrop stood very straight, his young face set in stern lines, but Francis turned with cool self-possession and took in the details of the picture, a sea of curious faces and, back of the faces, stained-glass windows and flower-trimmed walls.

In the front row of pews on Bellamy's right sat Mrs. Winthrop with a look on her face which seemed to say, "This marriage is not of my arranging, so don't blame me if it does not turn out well." On the other side of the aisle were Mr. and Mrs. Westlake, the ​latter's gaze fixed with conscious pride upon her handsome brother. Bellamy's eyes swept across the intervening pews to the bridal party, and in the course of the journey caught a glimpse of the white, unhappy face of Hatfield.

At length the little procession reached the altar, the lines of ushers parted, and Bellamy saw his bride. She was quite composed, a good deal more so, he thought, than on the night he had first met her. Now her outward steadiness hid no inward trembling, and she made her responses clearly and calmly.

She had been right in predicting that her friends would flock to see her married. The crowd that repaired to Mrs. Winthrop's house after the ceremony was over filled it to overflowing. It was still early in the evening when ​Margaret drew her husband aside and said,—

"I want to avoid any fuss when we leave, so father has promised to have a carriage for us at the servants' entrance by the time I have changed my gown."

"All right; I'll be there," responded Bellamy briefly.

A little later he reached the appointed place and found Margaret sobbing in her father's arms. When Mr. Winthrop caught sight of the bridegroom he dried his daughter's tears with his handkerchief and turned to Bellamy.

"My son," he said brokenly, "of her own will this child has left my care and is now in yours. Be good to her; be good to her."

"I shall not beat her," Francis said,—lightly, but with a smile that robbed ​the words of brusqueness. The two men shook hands, and Bellamy offered his arm to his wife.

"Come, Margaret," he said.

In the carriage a silence fell on the newly married pair which Francis was the first to break. "Confound the luck!" he exclaimed as he drew a crumpled telegram from the pocket of his overcoat. Margaret had seen the despatch handed to him earlier in the evening.

"Confound the luck!" Francis said again. "Why did I let them persuade me to leave her out there? I might have known they would not half take care of her."

"What is the trouble?" Margaret asked. She had never before seen him show so much genuine feeling, for there ​was undoubtedly grief mingled with his impatience.

"The trouble is that I ought to start for Chicago to-night."

"Why don't you?" Margaret asked gently.

Her husband turned round to stare at her. "Why don't I what?" he demanded.

"Start for Chicago to-night. You can see me comfortably settled in a hotel and still have time to catch the midnight train."

Bellamy did not at once reply: he seemed to be reviewing his wife's astonishing proposition in his mind. "By Jove, that's not a half bad plan," she heard him mutter. "It would be a queer thing to do, though."

Margaret smiled. "Yes, it would be ​a little odd," she admitted; "but does that matter, if your business is important?"

"It is important," Bellamy declared. "I wouldn't lose——" He broke off abruptly to ask, "do your people know where we are going?"

"No," responded Margaret. "It is not fashionable at present to tell where one expects to spend one's honeymoon, so I can stay quietly in the hotel until you get back, and no one need be the wiser. I told them at home that I might not write."

"I shall not be gone more than a week, perhaps not that long," said Bellamy, when he had given an order to the driver. "You might come part way to meet me; then you could have your family at the station on our return ​and we could make a dramatic entry into the city together."

"No," replied Margaret decidedly; "I will figure in no more tableaux. I told mother I should probably not let her know when we expected to come back, but would send her a note as soon as we arrived. On your return we can drive to the house in a hired carriage and no one need know——"

"That we spent our honeymoon apart," finished Francis, laughing. "Perhaps it is shabby of me to leave you like this," he continued, "but it is, I may almost say, necessary that I should go. And I don't flatter myself that my presence would add greatly to your happiness."

"It wouldn't," said Margaret quickly. "And to tell you the truth, I shall be ​glad to stay in town and spend the time resting instead of taking the trip we planned."

"You do look as though a rest would do you good," Bellamy admitted. "How sensible you are always. Here we are," he continued, as the carriage stopped; "I'll see that they give you decent rooms and then I must go. I will have to head off your trunks at the station and have them sent here. I sha'n't have any too much time to catch my train."

The splendor of the apartments to which Margaret was presently shown indicated that she was to be served royally during her stay in the hotel. The most devoted lover could not have provided more carefully for her comfort than Francis did.

​On opening the door of her parlor in answer to a knock, Margaret found her husband on the threshold. He came in and looked about him critically.

"I see they've given you comfortable quarters," he said. "You are to have flowers every morning and the papers. I wonder why it is, by the way, that when a man has been treating his wife shabbily he always gives her flowers. Let me see, was there anything else? Oh, yes. There is a book-store just across the street, so you can send for what you want, and a maid for you will be here presently. I must be off at once," concluded Bellamy.

Margaret rose and came towards him. She had taken off her hat and gloves, and the glitter of her wedding-ring, conspicuous in its newness, caught his eye.

​"Good-by," she said; "I hope your trip will be a pleasant one."

"And I trust you will be comfortable," Francis replied, and looked at her a brief space in silence before he added softly: "Good-by, Mrs. Francis Bellamy. I used sometimes in the days of my youth to wonder how the woman would look who would bear that title. Good-by. I'll telegraph you when to expect me back."

A moment later he was gone. He did not remember until he lay in his berth, speeding westward, that his wife had not asked the nature of the business that took him away from her.

After Bellamy's departure a small package on the table attracted Margaret's attention. It proved to be a roll of money enclosed in a crumpled yellow ​paper, evidently left there for her by her husband. As she was wrapping the money up again to give back to Bellamy on his return, she saw that the paper was the telegram that had called him away, and without intending to do so, she read in a flash the words written upon it: