The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 4
AT dawn on the following morning Francis found himself on Riverside Drive. He had been drinking heavily all night, but the fresh, cool air from the river sobered him; he knew where he was, although he could not remember how he came to be there. He walked on through the mist with no object in view further than to enjoy the breeze that blew against his hot forehead.
He met no one. Walk, cycle-path, and driveway were all deserted, and it was not until he was well up towards Grant's Tomb that Francis came suddenly upon the solitary figure of a woman seated on a bench.
He did not see her until he was so close to her that she seemed to rise out of the mist like a phantom; nor was she less surprised at sight of him.
The two recognized each other at once, although Bellamy wore conventional evening clothes and Margaret had changed her ball-gown for one of simple black. She had discarded also her mask of pride; her face was white and drawn, her eyes were red from crying, and her whole attitude breathed disconsolate woe. When a quick sob burst from her Francis said roughly,—
"Don't cry for him; he isn't worth it."
"I'm not crying for him," she retorted scornfully; "I'm crying for the faith in my fellow-men he has robbed me of."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Francis. "Because one man has shown himself despicable dosen't prove that all men are like him. There are men who deserve to be believed in; if I can think that, surely you can. Just now you feel crushed and sorely hurt, but time will help all that, and by and by you'll get back your trust again."
"Never!" cried his companion. "Never will I believe in any man again. I'll fight with the whole force of my nature against allowing myself to do so. It isn't fair," she went on, "it isn't just, that such men should be given power to make women believe in them and trust them. I thought Jack Somers"
"You thought him perfect," interrupted Francis; "you idealized him."
"I did not idealize him," Margaret retorted fiercely, "nor did I think him perfect, but I did believe that he longed and tried to fulfil my ideal. He said I was like an angel of light to him, that I seemed always to inspire him to better things. And I—I tried to help him, to make myself worthy to help him. I told him my hopes for him, my plans in regard to the life we should lead: how we would strive to live up to the best that was in us, to be high-minded and noble. I showed him my very soul," the girl cried passionately, "and he seemed to understand me as no one ever had before. He promised—oh, he promised everything."
"And he probably meant to keep his promises—until Violet Dare got hold of him." Francis added the last words in an undertone, but Margaret caught them.
"I don't mind that part so much," she said,—"his going away with her. It's the thought that the man I believed in so implicitly could be capable of dishonesty."
Francis looked towards the river through the lightening grayness. When he spoke it was not to answer her last words.
"As we are upon this subject," he said, "I think I will take this opportunity to congratulate you on the way you carried yourself last night. Your pluck won the admiration of everyone, and I heard your praises spoken on all sides."
"Yes, they were all watching me and wondering how I had courage to be there at all," Margaret replied bitterly. "Why should I hide my head because a worthless lover has deserted me, when I should, rather, be glad that I escaped marriage with him? And I am glad; I regret nothing save the loss of my faith in human nature."
"But all men are not capable of acting as Somers did," ejaculated Francis.
"Perhaps not, but how is one to discriminate, since even the vilest of them assume virtue for the sake of standing well in the eyes of the woman they care for. And they tell you that all the good in them is due to your influence. Well, no one shall ever say that to me again; no one will have power to make me suffer as I have suffered, as I am suffering. Never, as long as I live, will I lift a finger to influence any man."
In her excitement Margaret had risen to her feet. "She is superb," Francis thought; aloud he said lightly:
"Now you challenge my doubt. A good woman with no predilection for reforming men is an anomaly I do not believe exists."
Bellamy's bantering tone seemed to bring to Margaret a realization of the fact that she had forgotten her pride and shared her deepest feelings with one who was almost a stranger, and she instantly retreated behind a barrier of reserve.
"I beg your pardon," she said with quiet dignity, "for boring you with my troubles, or perhaps"—here pride got the better of dignity—" I have amused you."
"No," Bellamy answered, "you have interested me."
Margaret held out her hand. "I must go now," she said, "back to the life that seems robbed of all its zest, but first I want to thank you for understanding—for helping me to show my friends that I could bear their whispered curiosity, their sudden silences, when I approached, and even their looks of pity without flinching."
Francis had not taken the hand she offered him; now as she stopped speaking he stepped back. "No," he said, "I will not treat you as Somers did. I'm not fit to touch your hand, and I won't."
After Margaret had gone away Bellamy sat down on the bench she had left, ashamed of his speech. "I couldn't have been more melodramatic if I'd been acting the part of a villain in a play," he muttered to himself as he rose, and, going to the wall that borders the Drive on the west, looked out over the gray water which the rays of the sun, just risen in the east, had not yet touched.
"In God's name, why was I chosen to see the anguish of that woman's soul?" he cried aloud.