The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 2

THE two men moved forward to Margaret's side. "Miss Winthrop, may I present Mr. Bellamy, the brother of our hostess?" Stanton put the introduction in the form of a request.

Francis looked into the girl's eyes and smiled, his former sneering expression replaced by one that was frank and winning. He could be charming when he chose, and his face on the rare occasions when the mockery left it had the guileless look that appeals to women and often causes them to pin their faith to the blackest scoundrels that walk the earth.

Bellamy's gaze brought no answering smile to Miss Winthrop's face, ​nor did it cause her to lower her eyes; she continued to look at him gravely, while Stanton stood by, ill at ease.

"Mr. Stanton tells me you dance the minuet," Francis said, breaking the pause that followed the introduction.

Stanton held his breath and cursed the other's folly. Was the man crazy, to speak of that dance to her, to let her know they had been discussing her? But Margaret did not flinch. Her gaze was unwavering, her voice steady, and her hand even relaxed its tight hold on her fan as she answered:

"Yes, I promised your sister I would dance it to-night, but the gentleman who was to be my partner is not here, and it is a dance few people know."

"And I happen to be one of the few," said Francis, "so why may I not take ​your absent partner's place? Will you dance a minuet with me?"

"I will, with pleasure." Margaret smiled as she spoke, and Stanton felt as though he were on solid ground once more, after being suspended dizzily in the air.

"Then I will see you after supper." Francis bestowed upon Miss Winthrop one of his charming smiles and strolled away.

When he sought his partner some time later he found her seated at one of the small tables that were scattered about the room in which supper was being served. He stood for a moment near the door-way and looked her over, studying each feature much as he would have noted the good points of a horse.

"A little too thin for her height,", his ​inventory ran; "still, if she were stouter she wouldn't be so graceful; stunning gray eyes and a complexion that couldn't be bought at any price, or I know a dozen faded females who would have one like it."

Bellamy's roving eyes took in these details in a series of apparently careless glances in Margaret's direction. He saw something else too—that she was winning the admiration of those around her by the way she conducted herself in her difficult position. A stranger, coming into the room, would not have picked her out as the woman whose happiness had just been wrecked and her pride humbled in the dust. Nor did she overdo the matter; if her gayety was feigned, it had not the effect of being forced.

​Presently a servant announced that the dances in the dining-room were about to begin, and Bellamy set down his glass and started in Margaret's direction. He knew that by this time he had been pointed out to most of those present as "Mrs. Westlake's scapegrace brother," and that the sight of a daughter of the Winthrops upon his arm would create no small sensation.

When he reached her side Margaret rose at once and, with a word of excuse to those she was leaving, took Bellamy's arm, and the two moved away, leaving a sudden silence behind them.

In the dining-room a crowd had already assembled. This apartment was the finest in a house which lacked nothing that money and taste combined could supply. The furniture was of ​black Venetian oak, heavily carved; the hangings and the tapestries covering the walls were of rich Gobelin blue. From the lofty ceiling depended a mammoth chandelier set with myriad glass pendants, which saved the room from being too sombre in effect, and high in the walls electric lights glowed, jewel-like, through round shades of opal glass.

"My sister was delighted when I told her you had consented to dance with me," Francis said to his companion as they paused beside a cabinet of china. "I understand she had counted on this dance as the feature of the evening."

"Thank you," said Margaret, but what she meant to thank him for, whether for telling Mrs. Westlake or for understanding that it would be a ​solace for her to dance the minuet, Francis did not know.

"There is to be a quadrille first, and our dance comes after that," he remarked.

The room was now filled, with the exception of a space before the fireplace which had been left clear for the dancers.

Suddenly the rainbow brilliance of the chandelier vanished, leaving the room lighted only by the dull glow of the lights along the walls and the fitful glare of the log fire. A moment later the quadrille began to form and the music of a violin was heard.

"They make a pretty picture," observed Francis as the figures in the set bowed and moved forward in a stately fashion. "Who is the darky with the fiddle?" he added.

"A servant in our family," Margaret ​answered; "my mother loaned him to your sister to play for these dances. He was a slave of my father's before the war, and his grandfather belonged to my great-grandfather."

"How far back can you count your grandfathers?" queried Francis lightly.

Margaret laughed, but did not take the trouble to answer. While the last figure of the quadrille was in progress Mrs. Westlake came up to them.

"Miss Margaret, my dear, it is most kind in you to do me this favor," she said, laying her hand on the girl's arm.

Miss Winthrop smiled. "You should thank your brother," she said. "He has my gratitude too for enabling me to show off the new gown I had made expressly to wear to-night."

"You mean for enabling you to ​exhibit a stock of pride bigger than your pretty self," thought Francis. What he said aloud was: "Both of you had better reserve your thanks until the dance is over. I may disgrace you by tripping over this precious sword and falling headlong."

Mrs. Westlake laughed. "For goodness' sake, don't do that, Frank," she exclaimed; "you would make yourself too ridiculous."

Although she could not help loving him, her brother was a trial to Mrs. Westlake, and she had been secretly uneasy over his presence at her dance. There were people in the house who would never recognize him, and she had dreaded the introductions she might be called upon to make. But fortunately for her, Francis had asked her to present ​him to no one, but had roamed about by himself.

The quadrille came to an end with a triumphant flourish of the fiddle, and the dancers courtesied and separated in couples.

"Your dance comes next," Mrs. Westlake said.

As the old colored man began the slow, quaint music of the minuet Francis gave his arm to his partner, and together they moved to the centre of the open space before the fire.

When Margaret saw the bending of heads and craning of necks, as a stir went through the crowd, and those farthest away leaned forward, the hand on Bellamy's arm stiffened a moment, then relaxed.

The dance was a slow, graceful one. ​There was no chance for Margaret to relieve the tension of her feelings by quick motion; every movement must be steady, every gesture calm.

No sound could be heard save an occasional rustle of silk as the two figures moved forward and back in the firelight that danced on polished floor and tapestried walls. Now the silver on the sideboard gleamed; now the scabbard of Bellamy's sword became a flaming blade: one moment Margaret's brown hair was turned to gold; a second later she courtesied in the heart of a red patch of wavering light.

Francis went through the dance with the grace and self-possession he lent to everything he did. He had had no fears for himself; he was aware of his good looks, and he knew that he danced ​well, but he had been somewhat afraid that his partner's inward nervousness might make her awkward.

He need have had no anxiety. Margaret danced with the noise of the sea in her ears, and the gayly-clad forms on all sides of her were a many-colored blur, but she danced with the ease, the grace, the dignity of a princess.

For the most part her face was grave, but each time their hands met she gave Francis a slow, charming smile, and towards the end of the dance she infused into her manner a trace of dainty, old-fashioned coquetry that lent an added charm to her dignity and grace.

The watchers drew a long breath as the music stopped and Francis bent low over the hand he held, then stood erect and gave his arm to his partner. As ​the pair went back into the crowd someone near the door started to applaud, and a moment later the room echoed to the clapping of hands. Wondering whether she meant to acknowledge this applause, Bellamy turned to Margaret; she evidently divined his thought, for she said coldly,—

"Do they think they are in a theatre?"

Just inside the door-way leading to the hall the two were met by a tall woman in black velvet, whose face was pale with anger.

"We shall go home at once," this personage said to Margaret, ignoring Francis, whom the girl was about to introduce. "Get your wraps as quickly as you can."

Margaret took her hand from Bellamy's arm. "Pray excuse me," she ​said, and went away with the other, leaving Francis looking after them with an amused face.

"That is her mother," he thought, "and she's in a towering rage because the girl danced with me. I'm glad I'm not Miss Margaret during her drive home. I wonder if the worthy dame has it in for Alice too. I think I'll stroll out to the hall and see the end of this tragic comedy."

Mrs. Winthrop made her adieux to her hostess in an icy tone.

"Yes, Alice is in for a bad quarter of an hour," muttered Bellamy to himself as he made his way up to the smoking-room.