Queenie Hetherton

There was a worn, tired look on Mrs. La Rue’s face next morning, which she accounted for by saying she had not slept well, and that her head was aching. A walk in the crisp autumn air would do her good, she said; and soon after breakfast she left the house, and started toward Hetherton Place. Twice on the causeway she sat down to rest, and once on the bank by the side of the road which led up the long hill. Here she sat for a long time, with her head bowed upon her knees, while she seemed to be absorbed in painful, and even agonized reflection, for she rocked to and fro, and whispered occasionally to herself. In the distance there was the sound of wheels—some one was coming; and not caring to be seen, she arose, and climbing the low stone wall, went up the steep hill-side to the ledge of rocks, where Phil had sat with Queenie and heard his doom. It was the first time Mrs. La Rue had ever been there, and for a moment she stood transfixed with surprise and delight at the lovely view before her. In the clear autumn air objects were visible for miles and miles away, but it was not so much at the distant landscape she gazed as at the scene directly about her—at the broad, rich acres of Hetherton Place, stretching away to the westward, and southward, and eastward, and embracing some of the most valuable land in Merrivale; at the house itself, standing there on the heights so stately and grand, with aristocracy and blood showing themselves from every casement and door-post; and lastly, at the beautiful grounds, so like the parks of some of the old chateaus in France, with their terraces, and winding walks, and pieces of statuary gleaming here and there among the evergreens.

“A goodly heritage truly,” the woman said. “And would she give it all for love? God only knows, and I can only know by trying. If she will see me, I must go forward; if she refuses, I shall take it as a sign that I must forevermore keep silent.”

Thus deciding, she walked quickly across the fields, and soon stood ringing at the door, which was opened by Pierre himself.

“Miss Hetherton was still in her room,” he said, “but he would take any message madame chose to give him;” and his manner showed plainly the great distance he felt there was between his mistress and the woman who, he knew, was born in the same rank of life as himself.

“Tell her Margery’s mother is here, and very anxious to see her,” Mrs. La Rue said; and with a bow, Pierre departed, leaving her alone in the hall.

He had not asked her to sit down, but she felt too faint and tremulous to stand, and, sinking into a chair, leaned her head against the hat-stand, and shutting her eyes, waited as people wait for some great shock or blow which they know is inevitable. How long Pierre was gone she could not guess, for she was lost to all consciousness of time, and was only roused when he laid his hand upon her shoulder and demanded what was the matter, and if she were sick. Then she looked up, and showed him a face so white, so full of pain, and dread, and horror, that he asked her again what was the matter.

“Nothing, nothing,” she answered, sharply. “Tell me what did she say? Will she see me?”

“She bade me tell you she could not see you, but if your errand was very particular or concerned Miss Margery, you were to give it to me,” Pierre replied, and in an instant the whole aspect of the woman changed, the deathly pallor left her face, and the look of dread and anguish was succeeded by one of intense relief as she exclaimed:

“Thank God! thank God! for I could not have borne it. I could not have done it at the last, and now I know it is not required of me. I have no errand, no message; good-morning,” and she darted from the door, while Pierre looked wonderingly after her, saying to himself, “I believe the woman is crazy.”

And in good truth insanity would best describe Mrs. La Rue’s condition of mind as she sped down the winding hills and across the causeway, until the bridge was reached, and then she paused, and leaning far over the railing looked wistfully down into the depths below, as if that watery bed would be most grateful to her. Suicide was something of which Mrs. La Rue had thought more than once. It was the phantom which at times haunted her day and night, and now it looked over her shoulder and whispered:

“Why not end it now and forever? Better to die than live to ruin that young life, and know yourself loathed and despised by the creature you love best. Sometime in your fits of conscientiousness you will tell, as you were tempted to do just now, and then——”

Mrs. La Rue gave a long, gasping shudder as she thought, “What then?” and leaned still farther over the parapet beneath which the waters of the Chicopee were flowing so sluggishly.

“Yes, better die before I am left to tell and see the love in Margery’s face turn to bitter hatred. Oh, Margery, my child. Mine, by all that is sacred! I cannot die and go away from her forever, for if there be a hereafter, as she believes, we should never meet again. Her destiny would be Heaven, and mine blackness and darkness of despair, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched! She read me that last night, little dreaming that I carry about with me the worm which dieth not, and have carried it so many years, and oh, how it does gnaw and gnaw at times, until I am tempted to shriek out the dreadful thing. Oh, God, forgive me, and help me to hold my tongue, and keep the love of Margery.”

She had drawn back from the railing by this time and, gathering her shawl around her, she started for home, where she found Margery in the reception-room alone, busily engaged on a dark-blue silk, which Anna Ferguson had deigned to give her to make, and for which she was in a hurry. She had been there that morning to see about it, and had found a great deal of fault with some trimming which she had ordered herself, and had insisted that the dress must be finished by twelve o’clock, as she was going with Major Lord Rossiter to West Merrivale to see a base-ball match on the Common.

“The match does not come off until four,” Margery said, “and if you can give me till half-past two I shall be so glad.”

But Miss Anna was decided; she must have it at twelve, or not at all, and when Margery asked if she would send for it, as the girl who usually took parcels home was sick, she answered promptly;

“No, it is not my business to do that.”

And Margery bore the girl’s insolence quietly, and promised that the dress should be done, and put aside Mrs. Col. Markham’s work to do it, because she knew Mrs. Markham was a lady and would not insult her if she chanced to be disappointed. But she felt the ill-bred girl’s impertinence keenly, and her cheeks were unusually red, and her lips very white, when her mother entered the room, and, bending over her, kissed her with a great, glad tenderness as we kiss one restored to us from the gates of death.

“You look tired and worried, ma petite,” she said, “and you are working so fast. I thought that dress was not to be finished till to-morrow.”

“Nor was it,” Margery answered, “but Miss Ferguson has been here and insists upon having it at twelve, and she was so overbearing, and found so much fault, and made me feel so keenly that I was only her dressmaker, that I am a little upset, even though I know she is not worth a moment’s disquietude.”

“Poor Margery! It is to the caprices of such people as she that you are subjected because you are poor,” Mrs. La Rue said, caressing the golden head bent so low over Anna’s navy-blue, on the sleeve of which a great tear came near falling. “You ought to be rich, like Miss Hetherton. You would be happier in her place, would you not, my child?”

“No, mother,” and Margery’s beautiful blue eyes looked frankly up into her mother’s face. “I should like money, of course, but I am very happy as I am except when people like Anna insult me and try to make me feel the immeasurable distance there is between themselves and a dressmaker. I like my profession, for it is as much one as that of the artist or musician, and if I were rich as Queenie I do believe I should still make dresses for the love of it. So, mother mine, don’t bother about me. I am very happy—happier far, just now, than Queenie, who, though she may have riches in abundance, has no mother to love her, and care for her, and pet her, as I have.”

“Oh, Margery, child, you do love me, then you are glad I am your mother, unlike you as I am?” Mrs. La Rue cried in a voice which was like a sob of pain, and made Margery look wonderingly at her, as she said:

“Why, mother, how strangely you act this morning. Of course I am glad you are my mother—the dearest and kindest a girl ever had. I cannot remember the time when you would not and did not sacrifice everything for me, and why should I not love you?”

“You should, you ought,” Mrs. La Rue replied, “only you are so different from me that sometimes when I think how refined and lady-like you are, and then remember what I am—an uneducated peasant woman—I feel that I am an obstacle in your way, and that you must feel it, too, and wish you were some one else—somebody like Miss Hetherton—but you don’t, Margery, you don’t.”

“Of course I don’t,” Margery answered, laughingly, “for if I were Miss Hetherton, don’t you see, Anna would be my cousin, and that would be worse than a hundred peasant women; so, little mother, don’t distress yourself or bother me any more, for my Lady Anna must have her dress by twelve, and it is nearly eleven now.”

Taking the girl’s lovely face between her hands Mrs. La Rue kissed it fondly, and then left the room, while Margery wondered what had happened to excite her so. Such moods, or states of mind, in her mother were not unusual, and since coming to Merrivale they had been more frequent than ever, so Margery was accustomed to them, and ascribed them to a naturally morbid temperament, combined with a low, nervous state of health.

“I wonder why she asks me so often if I love her and am happy? Maybe I do not show her my affection enough. I am not demonstrative, like her; there’s very little of the French gush in me. I am more like the cold Americans, but I mean to do better and pet her more, poor, dear mother, she is so fond and proud of me,” Margery thought, as she kept on with her work, while her mother busied herself in the kitchen, preparing the cup of nice hot tea and slice of cream toast which at twelve she carried to her daughter, who could not stop for a regular meal.

The navy-blue was at a point now where no one could touch it but herself, and she worked steadily on until after one, when Anna again appeared, asking imperiously why the dress was not sent at twelve, as she ordered.

“Because it was not done,” Margery replied, adding, “It is a great deal of work to change all that trimming as you desired.”

“It ought not to have been made that way in the first place,” Anna rejoined, and then continued, “I must have it by two at the latest, and will you bring it yourself, so as to try it on me and see if it hangs right?”

“Yes, I’ll bring it,” Margery said, and an hour later she was trudging along Cottage Row with a bundle almost as large as herself, for the dress had many plaitings, and puffs, and bows, and must not be crushed by crowding into a small space.

But Margery did not feel one whit degraded or abased, even though she met Mr. Beresford fade to face, and saw his surprise at the size of the bundle. Mr. Beresford was the only man who had ever interested Margery in the least, and she often wondered why she should feel her blood stir a little more quickly when she saw him. He was so proud, and dignified, and reserved, though always a gentleman and courteous to her, and now he lifted his hat very politely, and, with a pleasant smile, passed on, thinking to himself how beautiful the French girl was, and what a pity, too, that she had not been born in the higher ranks of life, with such people as the Rossiters, and Hethertons, and Beresfords.

Miss Anna was waiting impatiently, and all ready to step into her dress, which fitted her perfectly, and was so becoming, and gave her so much style that she condescended to be very gracious and familiar, and as she looked at herself in the glass, she said:

“Why, La Rue, you are a brick; how lovely it is! I have not a word of fault to find!”

“I am glad if it suits you. Good-afternoon, Miss Ferguson,” Margery said, quietly, and then walked away, while Anna thought:

“If she were a grand duchess she could not be more airy. I wonder who she thinks she is, any way? Queenie has just spoiled her with so much attention, and she only a dressmaker!”