The Lifting of a Finger/Chapter 6

ONE afternoon, shortly after the call upon Mrs. Westlake, Bellamy's card was brought to Margaret. She stood for some moments with the piece of pasteboard in her hand, considering what to do; her mother being out, there was no one to go to for advice.

Margaret disliked to refuse curtly to see him, and yet, if she merely sent down her excuses, might not the call be repeated? She decided to see Bellamy and let him understand that she considered his visit an intrusion. And an intrusion she did consider it. How had he dared to come uninvited? she asked herself as she descended the stairs.

Francis laid down the bit of carved ​ivory he had been examining and came forward as she entered the drawing-room.

"I suppose you wonder at my presumption in daring to invade your home." he said, smiling.

There was no trace in his bearing of the gentleness he had shown on the night of his sister's dance or during the interview on Riverside Drive; now both face and manner reflected the man's careless, conscienceless nature.

As she looked at him Margaret's dignity became hauteur.

"Since you have invaded it, will you tell me why?" she asked.

Francis smiled, whether at her displeasure or his own thoughts she could not tell, and, stepping back a little to watch the effect of his words, said coolly:

"I came to ask you to marry me. ​Oh, I expected you would be surprised," he went on in the same tone, "but if you will sit down and let me talk to you a few moments, I think I can convince you that my plan isn't half a bad one."

Without replying, Margaret took the chair he drew forward for her. She was for the moment too startled even to feel anger.

"Upon first thoughts," Francis began, seating himself near her, "there may not seem to be any reasons why you should marry me; but have you considered what you are to do with the rest of your life? No, don't speak yet," as Margaret was about to utter an angry rejoinder. "You were going to tell me, I have no doubt, that this is not my affair, but your reproaches will keep ​until I've said what I came to say. If you belonged in a different social sphere, you might forget your trouble in work, but I suppose your long line of grandparents would turn in their graves at the thought, so there isn't anything left for you except a brilliant social career or a life devoted to charity. I understand you well enough to know that you must find something to occupy your mind, and that before long, or one of the retreats will have a new inmate."

"Oh, you are right," cried Margaret with a white face. "I must stop thinking or I shall go mad."

"And it wouldn't suit your pride, would it, to have the world believe that Somers's desertion had turned your brain?"

"No, no," moaned Margaret. His ​words were so true that she could not resent their brutality.

"Well," continued Francis, "charitable work will never wholly engross your thoughts, and a brilliant social career takes money."

"All that you say is true," replied Margaret, who had recovered her composure, "but I fail to see why, after having been placed in a most pitiable position by a faithless lover, I should make matters worse by marrying a worthless husband."

Francis seemed to find her frankness amusing.

"Might not a worthless husband who would let you do as you please be better than a worthy mother who——"

"How dare you!" cried Margaret.

Bellamy put out a hand, as though ​to soothe her. "I was going to stop anyway," he said. "There was no need for me to finish the sentence. In spite of your very proper indignation, what I began to say is echoed in your heart."

"Mr. Bellamy," said Margaret quickly, "your impertinence is beyond pardon. Your motive in making this astounding proposition may have been a kind one; you have shown me on former occasions a good deal of consideration, and I am ready to believe that you mean to be kind now. But you have said enough. No inducement you could offer would make me consent to marry you, and I must ask you to remember that my unfortunate plight does not put me quite at your mercy. I have a father and a brother who would punish your audacity if I told them of it." As she stopped ​speaking Margaret moved towards the door.

"Miss Winthrop, do you know that your father is on the verge of failure?" Bellamy inquired.

Margaret sat down again, pale and trembling. "You must be mistaken," she whispered.

"Ask him," said Bellamy shortly.

Nothing more was said for some moments, during which Margaret stared at the wall with unseeing eyes and Bellamy watched her.

"The magnificent wedding you were to have is doubtless the cause of the smash, which I assure you is not far off," Bellamy broke the silence by saying pitilessly. "The money he spent on preparations for that would have tided him over all right, but now nothing can ​save him except a large loan. This is why I flattered myself you would agree to marry me. If you do, I shall settle half my fortune, which is not a small one, upon you at once, thereby enabling you to lend your father the money he needs; or you can give it to him, as you prefer."

Margaret appeared to be thinking deeply while she listened; when Francis had finished she turned her gray eyes upon him and said:

"Mr. Bellamy, you have been frank in giving me what you consider good reasons for my agreeing to marry you. Will you be equally frank in telling me why you want to marry me?"

"I will, with pleasure," replied Francis, smiling. "In the first place, I want to please my sister. Like most people ​without a pedigree, she worships 'family.' Then too she is anxious to see me safely married because she fears I may be entrapped into a union with some designing, undesirable person. And I'm not sure that her fears are groundless," Francis went on. "In my sober senses I defy anybody to entrap me, but then, you see, I'm not always sober. Reason second: I do not like living in apartments. I want a house in town, with plenty of room to be comfortable, and a place in the country to which I can invite my friends to hunt and fish with me. To keep these houses up properly I need, well, something between a wife and a housekeeper, a person who will not interfere with me in any way, and yet will look after my interests."

"And in return for these services ​you would give——" queried Margaret.

"Half my fortune and absolute freedom," returned Bellamy. "I should not trouble you at all; in fact, you need seldom see me. You are right in the belief I see you entertain that my offer is not prompted by any feeling for you personally. To be quite outspoken with you, we are equally indifferent."

"Then why have you chosen me——" began Margaret.

"Because," interrupted Francis, "you declared so emphatically that morning on Riverside Drive that never again would you try to influence any man. Now, while I wish for my sister's sake to marry a good woman, I do not want to run any risk of tying myself to one ​who will try to reform me. I want a wife who will let me severely alone."

Margaret listened like a woman in a dream, her mind dwelling alternately on her burdened father and the useless wedding finery laid away upstairs. It was Francis who took up the conversation again.

"You see, there are advantages on both sides," he said. "I have had the matter in my mind some days and have thought it over carefully. We could be married on the first of June."

Margaret started. "The first of June!" she faltered. "Why, that is——"

"Yes, I know. It is the day you were to have married Somers. That is why I suggested it. Why not give that prodigious pride of yours a chance ​to flaunt itself by having your wedding just as you intended, but with me as the bridgroom instead of Somers? I am quite as good-looking as he, and will be as much of an ornament to the occasion. Now isn't my plan a good one?" ended Francis, leaning back in his chair with the air of a person who feels that his arguments are unanswerable. "If you consent to it, your family will be saved from—well, something approaching poverty; you will have a home of your own, plenty of money, and freedom from a tyrannical—pardon, I forgot; your trousseau won't be wasted, and your friends will be so electrified that they will forget to pity you. Miss Winthrop, I ask you again, will you marry me?"

"Yes," replied Margaret, "I will."

​Bellamy rose. "If I were in your place," he said, "I should make that wedding an elaborate affair. I rather like fuss and ceremony myself, and if the church survives the shock of my presence, everything ought to go off smoothly. If you need to consult me, send a line to the Bachelors' Club."

Margaret smiled faintly; she was looking wan and tired.

"I am afraid I may have to trouble you," she said. "There will be a good many details to arrange."

"Yes," responded Francis. "We want the affair to run smoothly. I hope it will be as much of a success as our first appearance in public."

Bellamy had started for the door, but he came back now and looked down at Margaret. "Miss Winthrop," he said, ​and his voice reminded the girl of the morning on Riverside Drive, "I haven't any idea that we shall be very great friends; there isn't any necessity for that; but then, on the other hand, there isn't any reason why we should be enemies."

Margaret rose and came towards him with her hand out.

"I believe you mean to be kind to me, Mr. Bellamy, and I thank you," she said.

Francis looked at the hand she offered him, but he did not take it, and the gentleness vanished from his manner, leaving him his accustomed mocking self.

"I wonder what your mother will say," he remarked with a laugh as he turned towards the door again.

​As if in answer to his words the peal of a bell was heard, followed by a rustle of silk, and a moment later Mrs. Winthrop entered the room.

"James told me I should find you here, Margaret," she was beginning, when her eyes fell upon Bellamy.

At sight of him Mrs. Winthrop drew herself erect, and going to the wall pressed an electric bell, presumably to summon a servant to show him out, after which she faced Francis again.

"Mr. Bellamy," she said in tones that would have chilled the blood of anyone less indifferent to other people's opinions and with the manner, had she but known it, of a burlesque tragedy queen, "may I ask why you are here?"

Francis did not attempt to conceal his amusement, but smiled broadly ​as he answered with elaborate politeness:

"You may ask and I will answer. I came, Mrs. Winthrop, to request your daughter to marry me, and she has done me the honor to promise to do so."

With these words Francis went swiftly out, without waiting for the servant to escort him.