The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 21

DARKNESS had fallen but no stars were shining, and the air was damp and chill when Bellamy went into the house again. He found Margaret in the library seated before the woodfire. But for this fire the room was in darkness.

She had not heard him come in, and Francis paused a moment on the threshold to watch the picture she made in the wavering light, which now and then fell on her face as the flames leapt and danced, intensifying the gloom in the corners beyond their reach.

Francis dropped the curtain and crossed the room to where his wife sat. "Margaret," he said quietly, "do you ​know that you have made a man of me?"

The woman he addressed did not raise her eyes as she answered in a cold, clear tone: "You are mistaken. You have perhaps made a man of yourself; I do not know. But I have done nothing."

"You have done nothing!" echoed Francis. "Do you think because you have not consciously tried to reform me that your goodness, your sweetness, your generous nature, and noble life have not been potent influences? Could anyone be near you, I wonder, without becoming better, worthier? You believe you have kept the vow you made that day on Riverside Drive; you think it in your power to withhold your gracious influence. Can a flower, by will​ing, prevent the air around it from being sweeter for its fragrance? Can the frozen earth out there remain impervious to the subtle forces of spring that silently but surely do their work until the earth that seemed dead and desolate breaks forth in nature's resurrection?

"I struggled against your influence—the more shame to me. I fought it with all the strength of my will, but, Madge, the powers of light were stronger than the powers of darkness. In spite of myself I became, because of you, a better man. You would tell me, I suppose, that you have not so much as lifted a finger to bring all this about. Well, then, without the lifting of a finger you have done the work."

Bellamy stopped speaking and looked ​down at his wife. As he talked a change had come over her face: it had grown softer, tenderer, but even now she did not raise her eyes as she said simply,—

"I am glad; more glad than I can tell you."

Bellamy started to go to her, but paused half way to say roughly, "Madge, you love me."

His wife sprang to her feet and faced him, in her eyes a look of frightened wonder. Francis went to where she stood and took her in his arms.

"Let me go," she murmured with passionate vehemence, and struggled to free herself, but his hold was firm.

"I shall never let you go," he whispered. "You love me. I overheard your story to that child this after​noon. Do you think I will let you go now?"

The woman in his arms ceased to struggle and became very still. Gently Francis drew her head to his shoulder and lifted her face until her eyes must meet his or close; then he let her go.

Margaret drew herself away and stood with bent head and crimson cheeks. Her husband had seen her in moments of anger splendidly controlled, of scorn given free rein and of sorrow proudly borne, but never had she looked so lovely as now, when, confronted by his accusation of the love she had hidden and tried to banish, she stood, shy and trembling, not knowing what to do or where to turn.

Francis moved a trifle nearer, but he ​did not touch her again. "When did you first love me?" he demanded.

"I scarcely know," Margaret said softly and shyly.

"When those people were here? Did you love me then? Were you thinking of me and not of Somers when you answered that question in the game?"

Margaret hid her face in her hands, and when Bellamy took the hands away, upon his shoulder.

"Yes, I loved you then," she murmured at last in desperation.

Francis was pitiless. "The night I kissed you," he said,—"did you love me then?"

Margaret released herself from his embrace. "I will answer no more questions," she cried, her voice half laughter, ​half tears. "It was that night I first knew that I loved you," she added a moment later.

Bellamy looked at the distance that had widened between them.

"Come here," he commanded.

Why is it that the man whom a woman can wind about her finger as lightly and easily as a skein of silk always loves, in jest, to order her about?

Margaret obediently came back to her husband's side, and this time made no remonstrance as he took her in his arms, a transformed, radiant woman.

With his lips close to hers Francis hesitated. "You have forgiven me that other kiss, my shameless wager—everything?"

He could not hear the "Yes" her lips framed.

​"Ah, Madge," he said softly when he had kissed her, "it isn't by trying to make them good that women like you help men; it's by being what you are yourselves."