The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 14

XIV

SHORTLY before Christmas Margaret told Bellamy that she expected a guest who might remain the greater part of the winter. "Gertrude Weldon was a school-mate of mine," she said. "Her father has lately died, leaving his affairs much involved, and until they are settled Gertrude will have no home and almost no money. She writes to ask if she may come to me for awhile."

"Have her come, by all means," Bellamy said absently, and went out.

He returned late the same afternoon to find the street lined with carriages and a canopy before the door. He had been drinking a good deal during the day, but, having been out-of-doors most of the time, had felt no ill effects from the liquor. Now the warm, flower-scented air of the house caused his brain to become confused and set everything whirling before his eyes. A babel of voices came from the drawing-room, but he met no one as he mounted the stairs.

In the upper hall he encountered his wife, radiant in an imposing gown of white velvet. Upon seeing his flushed face and unsteady gait she started and turned pale, and Bellamy's intoxicated condition did not prevent him from noting the look of disgust on her face. His mind was too blurred, however, to retain the impression long.

"I'm just in time for your party, my dear," he said thickly. "Come downstairs and I'll sing for the pretty ladies. You didn't know I could sing, did you? Well, I can. Oh, you don't know half my accomplishments."

His wife looked at him in horror, and Bellamy returned her gaze with admiration in his eyes.

"You're a beauty!" he exclaimed. "A beauty, but too much like a statue. Do you know, I've never kissed you. You owe me a kiss too."

He lurched forward and would have taken her in his arms, but Margaret, eluding his grasp, went swiftly past him and opened the door leading to her rooms.

"Come in here," she said.

"In there!" cried Francis,—"in your own private sanctum? This is the first time I've been honored with an invitation."

Margaret moved aside as Bellamy stepped from the brilliantly-lighted hall to the twilight of the room beyond. A moment later the door closed and a key was turned in the lock.

With an oath he looked about him for a way of escape. There were two doors leading to other rooms, but these proved to be locked also. As Francis stood considering what to do, he heard the strains of a waltz the orchestra was playing on the floor below.

He turned towards the door through which he had come in and started to cross the room, muttering savagely, "I'll get out of here or rouse the house in the attempt," but in his journey he stumbled over a couch, and, instead of carrying out his intention, threw himself down and fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke it was dark and the house was quiet. The events of the afternoon were dim in his memory, but his wife's face, as she had looked at him in the hall, remained persistently before him.

Taking a match from his pocket, Bellamy lighted the gas and looked about him. He was in his wife's sitting-room. The place was unlike any other room in the house, and seemed to possess, in addition to its atmosphere of charm, something approaching a personality.

Francis felt for perhaps the first time in his life a sense of shame, and he longed to get out of the room; it seemed to him that his presence must contaminate it. It was not long before he heard the door unlocked, but when he went into the hall there was no one in sight.

When Bellamy awoke at noon next day his remorse had vanished, but he still wished the meeting with Margaret over. He dressed and went downstairs to be told that his wife had gone out.

His breakfast finished, he read the papers and then wandered from room to room, not feeling inclined to go out and yet not knowing what to do with himself in the house.

Finding himself presently in the large hall, he walked to the little bower at the left of the stairs, where the sunshine streamed in through the white curtains. Margaret's embroidery basket lay on the window seat, and on top of the basket was a letter.

Bellamy sat down, and his roving eyes wandered aimlessly about, now here, now there, noting a picture that was hung slightly awry and a pigeon hopping about on the flagging outside the window, but look where he would, he found his gaze returning persistently to the letter.

After awhile he picked it up. It contained several sheets of paper and was written in a sprawling, girlish hand. He opened and read it.

"My dear, dear Madge: I shall be with you day after to-morrow. I can scarcely make it seem true that I am really to visit you and see your home and your husband and your dear self. I am extremely curious about my visit, for you have told me little of your home and nothing about your husband except (after I had asked you three times) that he is very good-looking. I do not even know whether you are rich or poor, but that does not matter much, does it, when one is happy? Ah, Madge, my dear, you, with your home and your husband, cannot know what it is to be lonely. Since papa's death I have been so tossed about that I know, better than you can, how fortunate you are.

"Do you remember how, when we roomed together at school, we used to lie awake at night and plan visits to each other after we were married, and described the sort of husbands we wished to have? You were always more emphatic than any of us in declaring that love was the 'greatest thing in the world;' no amount of luxury, you said, could compensate for a loveless life; with love, the barest existence could be rendered happy. I think your ideas were colored by reading so much poetry.

"Your ideal, I remember, was little short of a god, his one human attribute being that he was a bit of a tyrant. I know that the real husband cannot come up to your girlish dream,—no human being could,—but I hope he is worthy of you.

"I must stop now and do my packing. Do not think, because of this letter, that I have lost all my spirits. When you see me you will find that I am still, on the surface at least, the same old

"Gertrude."

Bellamy folded the letter and laid it back where he had found it, then turned and looked out of the window, his mind dwelling on the contrast between his wife's girlish dream of a husband and the reality. There flashed through his brain also a vague idea of suggesting to Margaret that they form a conspiracy to deceive her friend. He had read of such things. And what a joke it would be for them to play for awhile at being a loving couple!

Suddenly he roused himself with a start. He was a fool, and the woman who had written the letter was a fool too for remembering so much nonsense. Girls always talked a lot of twaddle that ought to be forgotten with their teens. One thing was certain, however; he had behaved shabbily to his wife, and he would apologize to her.

His opportunity to do this came a little later, when Margaret returned. The wind had deepened the color in her cheeks and she wore a set of becoming furs. As she advanced to the fire her husband thought he had never seen her look so lovely. He stationed himself opposite her.

"I wish to ask your pardon for that episode yesterday," he said; "I promise you it will not occur again."

Bellamy's words were apologetic; his manner was that of a man accustomed to winning forgiveness easily when he chose to ask it.

"What are you thinking?" he added as his wife did not reply.

"That you may find promising easier than keeping your promise," Margaret said, speaking with evident reluctance. "The habit of drinking——"

"Drinking is not a habit with me," Bellamy interrupted haughtily. "I am not a slave to my own will. When I drink it is because I wish to, not because I must; and I can stop when I choose."

Margaret made no answer to this, and her silence roused her husband's anger. "Why don't you say something?" he cried in a sudden burst of passion. "Rake me over the coals if you like; I'm curious to hear the opinion a saint like you must have of me."

Still Margaret did not speak. Not until Francis leaned forward to look into her face did she raise her eyes, and then, to his astonishment, he saw that they were full of unshed tears.

Without more words he turned away and left her, and next morning a servant informed Margaret that her husband had gone out of town and might not return for several weeks.