Queenie Hetherton

When Reinette left the cottage that morning she drove to the office of Mr. Beresford, to whom she communicated the result of her interview with Mrs. La Rue, telling him the reason given by the woman for her silence, and professing to believe it.

“It was very foolish in her, of course,” she said, “for, if possible, I love Margery the better now that I know who her mother is, but there is no accounting for the fancies of some people. Christine seems very much broken, and does not wish to be questioned, as she would be by grandma and Aunt Mary if they knew what we do, so we must keep our own counsel. I can trust you, Mr. Beresford.”

The lawyer bowed and looked searchingly at her to see if no other thought had been suggested to her by her interview with Christine. But if there had she gave no sign of it, and her face was very bright and cheerful as she said good-by and was driven home, where she sat down to write to Phil, who had left Rome and was journeying on toward India, where she was to direct her letter.

It was four o’clock by the time the long letter was finished, and as the rain by this time had ceased, and there was a prospect of fair weather, Reinette determined to take the letter to the office herself and then call upon her grandmother, and possibly upon Mrs. La Rue.

Christine’s pale face had haunted her all the afternoon, and she longed to see her again and assure her of her faith in and love for her.

Depositing her letter in the office, and bowing to Mr. Beresford, who happened to be passing in the street, she drove next to her grandmother’s, but was told by the girl that Mrs. Ferguson had gone to see Miss La Rue more than an hour ago, and had not yet returned.

“Very well, I will go there, too,” Reinette said, and her carriage was soon drawing up before the cottage where the doctor’s gig was standing.

“Dr. Nichols here? Mrs. La Rue must be worse. I am glad I came,” Reinette thought, as she went rapidly up the walk and entered unannounced.

“How is Mrs. La Rue, and where is Margery?” she asked of a woman whom she met in the hall, and whom she recognized as a neighbor.

“Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? Margery has had an apoplectic fit, and is dying,” was the woman’s reply, and with a shriek of terror and surprise Reinette fled past her up the stairs to Margery’s room, where she paused a moment on the threshold to take in the scene which met her astonished view.

By the window, which was raised to admit the air, the doctor stood, with a grave, troubled look, while near him sat Mrs. La Rue, with a face which might have been cut from stone, so rigid and immovable was every feature, while her eyes, deep-set in her head, with dark circles around them, seemed like coals of fire as they turned upon Reinette, who shuddered with fear at their awful expression. At sight of her the woman’s lips moved, but made no sound—only her fingers pointed to the bed where Margery lay breathing heavily, but with no other sign to show that she was living. She looked like one dying, and had looked thus since the moment she fell to the floor at the end of her mother’s story.

For a few moments Mrs. La Rue had been as helpless and almost as insensible as her daughter; then, rousing herself with a great effort, she knelt beside the unconscious girl, and lifting her head covered the white face with kisses and tears, and called upon her by every tender epithet to open her eyes and speak, if only to curse the one who had wrought so much harm. But Margery’s ears were deaf alike to words of love or pleading, and she lay so still, and looked so awful, with that bloody froth about her lips, that, at last, in wild affright, her mother called for help, and the woman who lived next door was startled by a succession of cries, each louder than the preceding, and which came apparently from Mrs. La Rue’s cottage. Entering at a rear door, and following the direction of the sounds, she came to the chamber where Margery still lay upon the floor, with her mother bending over her and shrieking for aid. To lift Margery up and carry her to bed, and send for a physician, was the woman’s first work, and then she tried what she could do to restore the insensible girl, who only moaned faintly in token that she knew what was passing around her. When questioned by the physician, who was greatly puzzled by the case, Mrs. La Rue said that Margery had not seemed well for some time—had overworked, she thought, and that she had fallen suddenly from her chair while talking to her after dinner. This was all the explanation she would give, and, more perplexed than he had ever been in his life, the physician bent his energies to help the young girl who, it seemed, even to him, was dying, for the most powerful restoratives and stimulants failed to produce any effect, or to move so much as an eyelid.

It was just then that Grandma Ferguson came in. She had remembered some directions with regard to the brown silk, which she had failed to give in the morning, and had come again to see about it. Finding no one below, and hearing the sound of voices above, she called at the foot of the stairs:

“Mrs. La Rue! Mrs. La Rue! Where be you all?”

“Hush! Margery is very sick,” the neighbor, whose name was Mrs. Whiting, answered, going to the head of the stairs, and putting her finger to her lips.

At the sound of Mrs. Ferguson’s voice a tremor seemed to creep all over Margery, whose head moved a little and whose eyes partly unclosed as the old lady entered the room, and, in great concern, asked what was the matter.

“I mistrusted something ailed her this mornin’,” she said, “for she did not appear nateral at all, and her hands was just like ice. Have you tried a mustard paste the whole length of her backbone? My Margaret sometimes had such faintin’ spells, and that always brought her to.”

Grandma was standing at the foot of the bed as she talked, and when she mentioned her daughter Margaret, Margery’s eyes unclosed again, and her lips moved as if she would speak. Then she was quiet, and did not stir again until Reinette came in, and at sight of her sprang forward exclaiming:

“Oh! what is it? what is it? Margery, Margery! What has happened to her?”

At the sound of her voice the same tremor which had run through Margery’s frame when Grandma Ferguson came in, returned, and this time with greater intensity. There was a faint, moaning cry, which sounded like “Queenie, oh, Queenie!” and, stepping forward, the physician said:

“Speak to her again, Miss Hetherton. She seems to know you, and we must rouse her, or she will die.”

Thus importuned, Reinette knelt beside her friend, covering her face and hand with kisses, and saying to her, softly:

“Dear Margery, do you know me? I am Queenie. Speak to me, if you can, and tell me what is the matter? What made you sick so suddenly?”

“No, no! oh, no! Go away! I cannot bear it! You hurt!” Margery said, as she tried to disengage her hand from Reinette. And those were the only words she spoke for several days, during which she lay perfectly still, never moving hand or foot, but apparently conscious most of the time of what was passing around her, and always seeming happier when Grandma Ferguson was with her, and agitated when Reinette came in with her caresses and words of sympathy and love.

It was a most singular case, and greatly puzzled the physician, who said once to Reinette:

“It seems like some mental shock more than a bodily ailment. Do you know if anything has happened to disturb her, which, added to over-fatigue, might produce this utter and sudden prostration?”

Queenie hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“She did hear something which surprised her greatly, but I should hardly think it sufficient to affect her so much.”

“Temperaments differ,” the doctor replied, while Queenie thought to herself:

“Can it be possible that Margery takes it so to heart, and does she fear that it will make any difference in my love for her? It shall not, and I will prove it to her.”

After this Queenie took up her abode, for the time being, at the cottage, of which she was really the head, for Mrs. La Rue did nothing but sit by Margery and watch her with a pertinacity and earnestness which annoyed the sick girl, when she came to realize what was passing around her, and made her try to escape the steady gaze of those strange eyes always watching her.

“Do not look at me,” she said at last one day. “Move back, please, where I cannot see you.”

Without a word Mrs. La Rue moved back into the shadow, but did not leave the room, except at intervals to eat and sleep, and thus the whole charge of the cottage fell upon Reinette, who developed a wonderful talent for housekeeping, and saw to everything. Much of her time, however, was passed with Margery, on whom she lavished so much love that her caresses seemed at times to worry the sick girl, who would moan a little and shrink away from her.

“What is it, Margie, darling? Do I tire you?” Reinette asked her, one day, when they were alone for a few moments, and Margery had seemed uneasy and restless.

For a moment Margery did not answer, but lay with her eyes shut while the great tears rolled down her cheeks; then, suddenly raising herself in bed, she threw her arms around Reinette’s neck and sobbed:

“Oh, Queenie, Queenie, you do not know, I cannot tell you how much I love you, more than I ever did before, and yet I am so sorry; but you will love me always, whatever happens, won’t you?”

“Why, yes, Margery. What can happen, and why shouldn’t I love you?” Queenie asked, as she held the beautiful golden head against her bosom, and kissed the quivering lips. “Margery,” she continued, “do you feel so badly because of your mother’s silence! She has explained it to me, and I am satisfied. Don’t let that trouble you anymore. No others beside ourselves need know who she is, and thus all talk and comment will be spared.”

“I know, I know,” Margery replied, “but, Queenie, you told me you believed there was something else-some other reason, and you meant to write to France; do you mean it still? Will you try to find it out?”

“Yes, I think so,” Queenie answered, “just for my own curiosity. I shall make no bad use of it. I shall not harm you.”

“No, no; you must not seek to know,” Margery exclaimed, with energy. “There was something, Queenie. I have wrung it from her. She did right to keep silent. She ought not to have spoken. And Queenie, if you love me, promise me you will never try to find it out—never write to anyone in France. Promise, or I shall certainly die.”

She had disengaged herself from Queenie’s embrace, but was sitting upright in bed, with a look upon her face like one who is really losing her senses. It startled Reinette, who answered unhesitatingly:

“I promise. I will not write to any one in France, but may be you will tell me some time. Will you, Margery?”

“Never—never, so help me Heaven!” was the emphatic reply, as Margery fell back among her pillows wholly exhausted.

For a moment Reinette stood looking curiously at her; then seating herself upon the side of the bed, and taking Margery’s hand, she said:

“You make me half repent my promise made without stopping to consider, for my curiosity is very great. But I shall keep it, do not fear; only tell me this—was it anything very dreadful which your mother did?”

“Yes,” Margery replied, “it was very dreadful—it would make you hate her and me, too, if you knew. Don’t talk to me or any one about it. Don’t mention it again.”

“But tell me one thing more,” Queenie persisted; “I have a right to know. Was my father involved in it?”

She held her breath for the answer, and looked earnestly at Margery, whose eyes grew larger and brighter, and whose face was scarlet as she answered at last:

“At first he was, but for the last, the thing for which I blame mother most, he was not to blame.”

“Thank God for that,” Queenie exclaimed joyfully, while her tears fell in torrents. “Oh, Margery, you don’t know what a load you have taken from me—a load I did not mean any one should ever suspect, because—because—Margery, I don’t mind telling you—I’ve had some dreadful thoughts about Christine. Forgive me, Margery, do,” she continued, as she saw a strange look leap into her friend’s eyes, a look which she construed into one of resentment toward her for having harbored a suspicion of her mother, but which arose from a widely different reason, and was born of bitter shame and a great pity for herself.

“I’ve nothing to forgive, at least in you,” Margery said, as she covered Queenie’s hands with kisses and tears, which fell so fast and so long that Queenie became alarmed, and tried to comfort and quiet her.

“Don’t, Margie, don’t,” she said; “it distresses me to see you so disturbed. If father was not to blame I do not care for the rest, but I could not bear to lose faith in him whom I have loved and honored so much.”

“You never shall, darling; never, never,” Margery exclaimed, and Reinette little dreamed how much the girl was thrusting from her, or how terrible was the temptation which for one brief instant almost overcame her.

But she put it down, and in her heart registered a far more solemn vow than her lips had uttered that never, through any instrumentality of hers, should Queenie know what she knew and what had affected her so powerfully, taking away all her strength and seemingly all her vitality so that she did not rally or take the slightest interest in anything about her.

At last the physician said Margery must have a change and then Reinette insisted upon taking her to Hetherton Place.

“She will be so quiet there, with nothing to excite her, and I shall take care of her all alone. You, I suppose, will have to stay here and see to the cottage,” she said to Mrs. La Rue, who assented in silence, for she knew that her presence was a constant source of pain and excitement to Margery, who undoubtedly would improve more rapidly away from her.

But she doubted if Hetherton Place was the spot to take her, and Margery doubted, too, but Queenie carried her point, and bore her off in triumph, leaving Mrs. La Rue alone in the cottage to combat her remorse and misery as best she could. Everything which love could devise or money do was done to make Margery happy at Hetherton Place. The sitting-room and sleeping-room across the hall from Reinette’s, which were to have been Mr. Hetherton’s, were given to her, and all the rarest flowers in the greenhouse were brought to beautify them. And there the two girls took their meals, and sat and talked, or rather Queenie talked, while Margery listened, with her hands folded listlessly together, and her eyes oftentimes shut, while around her mouth there was a firm, set expression, as if she were constantly fighting something back, rather than listening to Reinette, who chatted gayly on, telling how delightful it seemed to have Margery there, and how she wished she could keep her always.

“You ought to have just such a home as this. It suits you better than the cottage, where it is work, work all the time, for people who are some of them small enough to think you beneath them because you earn your own living,” she said, one afternoon when they sat in the gathering darkness, with no light in the room, save that which came from the fire in the grate. “Yes,” Reinette continued, “I do believe you would make a fitter mistress of Hetherton Place than I do. You are always so quiet, and dignified, and lady-like, while I am hot and impulsive, and do and say things which shock my high-bred cousins, Ethel and Grace.”

Margery did not reply, but she was glad her companion could not see the pallor which by the faint, sick feeling at her heart, she knew was spreading over her face. Just then lights were brought in by Pierre, and in a moment the supper which the girls took together at that hour appeared, and was arranged upon a little round table, which was drawn near to Margery’s easy-chair.

“This is so nice,” Queenie said, “and carries me back to Chateau des Fleurs, when we were little girls, and used to play at make believe. Do you remember it, Margie?”

“Yes, yes; I remember; I have forgotten nothing connected with you,” Margery replied, and Queenie went on:

“I made believe so much that you were I, and I was you, that I used at times to feel as if it were real, and that my rightful home was up in Number Forty, in the Rue St. Honore. And once I dreamed that I was actually there, alone with the cat, and had to sweep the floor and wash the dishes as you used to do.”

“And how did you like it?” Margery asked.

“How did I like it?” Queenie repeated, “I did not like it at all. I rebelled against it with all my might. I thought I was wearing the apron which you wore the first time I ever saw you, and I dreamed I wrenched it off and tore it into shreds, and was going to throw myself out of the window, when my maid woke me and asked what was the matter that I cried out so in my sleep. I told her I was Margery La Rue, living in Rue St. Honore, and wearing coarse clothes, and she could not pacify me till she brought my prettiest dress, and showed it to me, with my turquoise ring, papa’s last present. That made me Reinette Hetherton again, and I grew calm and quiet. It was very foolish in me, was it not?”

Margery did not answer at once, but sat looking at her friend, while the drops of perspiration stood thickly on her forehead and about her mouth, and at last attracted Queenie’s notice.

“What is it, Margery?” she said. “Are you too warm? Let me put a screen between you and the fire.”

The screen was brought, and, wiping the drops of sweat away, Margery rallied and tried to seem cheerful and natural, though all the time there was a terrible pain tugging at her heart as she kept whispering to herself, “God help me to keep my vow.”

That evening Mr. Beresford called, and was admitted to Margery’s sitting-room. He had not seen her before since her illness, though he had sent to inquire for her several times, and had heard various reports with regard to the cause of her sudden attack. He had heard that she had dropped to the floor in a fit, and had been taken up for dead, and that overwork and loss of sleep was the cause assigned. But, shrewd and far-seeing as he was, Mr. Beresford did not believe in the overwork and loss of sleep. As nearly as he could calculate, the fainting fit had come on about two hours after Reinette’s interview with Mrs. La Rue.

There had been ample time for Margery to see her mother and demand an explanation, and that an explanation had been made different from the one given to Reinette he did not doubt; and he was curious to see the girl who was beginning to interest him so much.

The mother had confessed to her daughter he was sure; but how would the daughter bear it and what would be her attitude toward Reinette, and what would the latter say or do if she knew what he suspected, and what he fully believed, after he had been a few moments in the room and detected the new expression on Margery’s face; the new light and ineffable tenderness in her eyes when they rested on Queenie. And yet there was something in those eyes and in Margery’s manner which baffled the keen-witted lawyer, who was accustomed to study the human face and learn what he wished to know by its varying expressions.

There was nothing about Margery indicative of humiliation or shame. On the contrary, it seemed to him that there was in her manner a certain reassurance and dignity he had never noticed before, and he studied her curiously and wondered if after all he was mistaken and the insinuations of the clerk in Mentone false. How inexpressibly sweet and lovely Margery was, with just enough of the invalid about her to make her interesting and Mr. Beresford found it difficult to decide which of the two girls pleased and fascinated him more, Queenie or Margery. Both were very lovely, and he was so much interested and attracted that it was very late when he at last said good-night to the two young ladies, telling Reinette he was going to write the next day to Phil, who must be in India by this time.

For two weeks longer Margery remained at Hetherton Place; but though everything was done for her comfort that love could devise, she did not seem happy, neither did her strength come back to her, as Queenie had hoped it would. It was very rarely that she ever laughed, even at Queenie’s liveliest sallies, and there was upon her white face a look of inexpressible sadness, as if there were a heavy pain in her heart, of which she could not speak. To Reinette she was all sweetness and love, and her eyes would follow the gay young girl as she flitted about the house, with an expression in them which it was hard to fathom or explain, it was so full of tenderness, and pity, too, if it were possible to connect that word with a creature as bright and merry-hearted as Queenie Hetherton was then. Toward Mrs. La Rue, who came occasionally to see her, her manner was constrained, though always kind and considerate. But something had come between the mother and her daughter—something which even Queenie noticed and commented on to Margery, with her usual frankness.

“Your mother acts as if she were afraid of you,” she said to Margery one day, after Mrs. La Rue had been and gone. “She actually seemed to start every time you spoke to her, and she watched you as I have seen some naughty child watch its mother to see if it was forgiven and taken again into favor. I hope, Margery, you are not too hard upon her because of that concealment from me. I have forgiven it, and nearly forgotten it, and surely her own daughter ought to be more lenient than a stranger.”

Reinette was pleading for Mrs. La Rue, and as she went on, Margery burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

“Thank you, Queenie,” she said, when she could speak—“thank you so much. I must have been hard toward mother if even you noticed it; but it shall be so no longer. Poor mother! I think she is not altogether right in her mind.”

The next time Mrs. La Rue came to Hetherton Place she had no cause to complain of her reception, for Margery’s manner toward her was that of a dutiful and affectionate child, and when Mrs. La Rue asked:

“Are you never coming home to me again, Margery?” she answered her:

“Yes; to-morrow, or next day sure. I have left you too long already.”

“And are you going to stay—always—just the same?” was Mrs. La Rue’s next question, to which Margery replied:

“Yes; stay with you just the same, and try to make you happy.”

They were alone in Margery’s room when this conversation took place, and when Margery said what she did, Mrs. La Rue sank down on the floor at her feet, and clasping her knees, cried, piteously:

“Oh, Margie! my child, my child! God will bless you for what you are doing. Oh, if I could undo it all, I would suffer torture for years and years. My noble Margie, there are few in the world like you.”

And she spoke truly; for there have been few like Margery La Rue, who, knowing what she knew, could, for the love of one little dark-eyed girl, keep silence, and, resolutely turning her back upon all the luxury and ease of Hetherton Place, return to her far less pretentious home and take up the burden of life again—take up the piles of work awaiting her, for her patrons knew her worth, and would go nowhere else as long as there was a prospect of her ultimate recovery. Even Anna Ferguson had kept her work for Margery, and had postponed her wedding that her bridal dress might be made by the skillful fingers of the French girl, who at last fixed the day for her return to her own home.

Reinette would fain have kept her longer, but Margery was firm in her determination. She had been at Hetherton Place nearly three weeks, and had grown so accustomed to the ease, and luxury, and elegance about her that the life seemed to belong to her, and was far more to her taste than the hard work at the cottage—the stitch, stitch, stitch, from morning till night for people, who looked down upon her even while they acknowledged her great superiority to the persons of her class. It was hard to leave it all, hard to leave Queenie and——this she confessed to herself secretly—hard to lose the opportunity of seeing Mr. Beresford, who had been at the house so often, and in whom she knew she was beginning to feel a deep interest.

He spent his last evening with them, and, at Queenie’s earnest solicitation, Margery played and sang for him, while he listened amazed as the clear tones of her rich, musical voice floated through the rooms, and her white hands fingered the keys as deftly and skillfully as Queenie’s could have done.

That Margery could sing and play was a revelation to Mr. Beresford, who stood by her side, and turned the leaves for her.

“You have given me a great pleasure,” he said, when she at last left the piano and resumed her seat by the fire. “This is a surprise to me. I did not suppose——”

He did not finish the sentence, but stopped awkwardly, while Margery, who understood his meaning perfectly, finished it for him.

“You did not suppose,” she said, laughingly, “that one of my class could have any accomplishments save those of the needle, and it is surprising. But I owe it all to Queenie. You remember I told you it was through her influence with her father that I was sent to one of the best schools in Paris. I think I have naturally a taste for music, and so made greater proficiency in that than in anything else. If I have pleased you with my playing I am glad, but you must thank Queenie for it.”

“Yes,” Mr. Beresford answered, thoughtfully, looking curiously at each of the young girls, and trying to decide which was the more attractive of the two.

Queenie always bewildered, and intoxicated, and bewitched him, and made him feel very small, and as if in some way he had made himself ridiculous, and she was laughing at him with her wonderful eyes, while Margery, on the contrary, soothed, and quieted, and rested him, and, by her gentle deference of manner, and evident respect for whatever he said, flattered his self-love, and put him in good humor with himself, and during his ride home that night he found himself thinking more of her sweet face, and of the blue eyes which had looked so shyly into his, than of Reinette’s sparkling, brilliant beauty, which seemed to grow more brilliant and sparkling every day.

He had said to Margery that he was glad she was to return to town on the morrow, and that he hoped to hear her sing again very soon. And as he talked to her he kept in his the hand which he had taken when he arose to say good-night, and which was very cold, and trembled perceptibly as it lay in his broad, warm palm. Was it Margery’s fancy, or was there a slight pressure of her fingers, as he released them—a touch different from that of a mere acquaintance, and which sent through her frame a thrill of joy which surprised and bewildered her.

It was not all fancy she was sure, and for hours she lay awake, feeling again the clasp of Mr. Beresford’s hand and seeing the look in his eyes when they rested upon her.

“If he knew! Oh! if he knew!” was the smothered cry in her heart, as she bravely fought back the temptation assailing her so sorely, and vowed again that through her he should never know what might bring him nearer to her if there was that in his heart which she suspected.

Next morning Margery was later than usual, for she lingered long over her toilet, taking, as it were, a regretful leave of all the articles of luxury with which her room was filled. The white cashmere dressing-gown, with the pink satin lining, which Queenie had made her use, and the dainty slippers which matched them, were laid away for the last time. She should never more wear such garments as these, for probably she should not again be a guest at Hetherton Place. It would not be well for her to be there often, for after three weeks’ experience of a life so different from her own, there came over her for a moment a sense of loathing for her work, a horrid feeling of loneliness and homesickness, as she remembered the cottage, which she knew was so much prettier and pleasanter than any home she had ever known. But it was not like Hetherton Place, and for a moment Margery’s weaker nature held her in bondage, and her tears fell like rain as she went from one thing to another, softly whispering her farewell.

Queenie was going to the village with her immediately after breakfast, and the carriage was waiting for them now, she knew, for she heard it when it came to the door, and she had heard, too, the sound of horses feet coming rapidly into the yard, and looking from her window, had seen David, Mr. Rossiter’s man dismounting from his steed which had evidently been ridden very hard.

Going down to the dining-room at last she saw Reinette standing near the conservatory with an open letter clutched in both hands, her head thrown back, disclosing a face which seemed frozen with horror, and her whole attitude that of one suddenly smitten with catalepsy. At the sound of footsteps, however, she moved a little, and when Margery went to her, asking what was the matter, she held the letter toward her, and whispered faintly:

“Read it.”