[Illustration:
“WE WILL NEVER QUARREL THEN, WILL WE, DARLING?” HE SAID.—_Queenie
Hetherton, Page 217._
]
Queenie Hetherton
BY
MARY J. HOLMES
As published in the NEW YORK WEEKLY, Vol. 35, No. 31
[Illustration]
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1880, BY
STREET & SMITH
COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY
DANIEL HOLMES
(_All rights reserved_)
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
DANIEL HOLMES
_Queenie Hetherton._
TO
MRS. JULIE P. SMITH,
OF HARTFORD, CONN.,
I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF QUEENIE,
IN MEMORY OF
THE DEAR LITTLE GIRL WHO SLEEPS AMONG
THE NEW ENGLAND HILLS.
BROCKPORT, _June, 1883_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. Introducing some of the Characters 7
II. Introducing more of the Characters 15
III. Mr. Beresford and Phil 25
IV. The Investigation 30
V. Phil Interviews his Grandmother 37
VI. Getting ready for Reinette 44
VII. On the Sea 53
VIII. Reinette Arrives 64
IX. Reinette at Home 82
X. The Two Reinettes 87
XI. On the Rocks 99
XII. Reinette and Mr. Beresford 107
XIII. Those People 116
XIV. Reinette and Phil 126
XV. Down by the Sea 140
XVI. Margery La Rue 144
XVII. Queenie and Margery 152
XVIII. Old Letters 163
XIX. The Little Lady of Hetherton 176
XX. Arrivals in Merrivale 184
XXI. The Dinner 192
XXII. Margery and the People 197
XXIII. Perfecting themselves in French 202
XXIV. “I love you, Queenie” 206
XXV. Phil’s Wooing 213
XXVI. Phil goes Away 223
XXVII. How Queenie bore the News 227
XXVIII. Mrs. La Rue’s Resolution 233
XXIX. Letters from Mentone 240
XXX. Trying to read the Page 250
XXXI. The Interview 257
XXXII. Christine 261
XXXIII. Reinette’s Interview with Margery 272
XXXIV. Reinette’s Interview with Christine 278
XXXV. Margery and her Mother 289
XXXVI. Margery’s Illness 296
XXXVII. The Letter 312
XXXVIII. Mourning for Phil 320
XXXIX. Tina 333
XL. The Letters 337
XLI. Queenie Learns the Truth 344
XLII. Christine’s Story 355
XLIII. The Sisters 369
XLIV. The Explosion 376
XLV. Magnolia Park 392
XLVI. At the St. James 400
XLVII. The Yellow Fever 411
XLVIII. The Occupant of No. 40 420
XLIX. Sister Christine 430
L. Phil’s Story 438
LI. Conclusion 448
QUEENIE HETHERTON.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCING SOME OF THE CHARACTERS.
The morning mail for Merrivale had just arrived, and the postmaster was
distributing the letters. Col. Rossiter, who lived in the large stone
house on the Knoll, had two; one from his wife, who, with his two
daughters, was spending the summer at Martha’s Vineyard, and one from
his son Philip, a young graduate from Harvard, who had been off on a
yachting excursion, and was coming home for a few days before joining
his mother and sisters at the sea-side. There was also one for Mrs.
Lydia Ann Ferguson, who lived on Cottage Row, and was the fashionable
dressmaker of the town. Mr. Arthur Beresford, the only practicing lawyer
in Merrivale, had six, five of which he read hastily, as he stood in the
post-office door, and then for a moment studied the superscription of
the other, which was soiled and travel-worn, and bore a foreign
postmark.
“From Mr. Hetherton,” he said, to himself. “What can he want, I wonder?”
and opening the letter, he read as follows:
“HOTEL MEURICE, PARIS, June 10th, 18—.
“MR. BERESFORD:
“_Dear Sir_:—You will undoubtedly be surprised to hear that I am
coming home. Once I expected to live and die abroad, but recently,
with my failing health, there has come over me an intense longing to
see America once more.
“After an absence of nearly twenty-three years, it will seem almost as
strange to me as to my daughter Reinette, who has never been in an
English-speaking country. She is as anxious to come as I am, and we
have engaged passage on the Russia, which sails from Liverpool the
25th. I have no idea whether the old house is habitable or not. All
important changes and repairs I prefer to make myself, after Reinette
has decided what she wants; but, if possible, I wish you to have a few
rooms made comfortable for us. The large chamber which looks toward
the town and the river I design for Reinette, and will you see that it
is made pretty and attractive. If I remember rightly, there used to be
in it a mahogany bedstead older than I am. Remove it, and substitute
something light and airy in its place. Reinette does not like
mahogany. Put simple muslin curtains at the windows, and have nothing
but matting on the floors; Reinette detests carpets. And if you know
of a pair of fine carriage horses and a lady’s saddle pony, have them
ready for inspection, and if they suit Reinette I will take them. If
you chance to hear of a trusty, middle-aged woman suitable for a
housekeeper at Hetherton Place, retain her until Reinette can see her;
and please have the conservatory and garden full of flowers. Reinette
is passionately fond of flowers—fond, in fact, of everything bright
and pretty. She has just come in, and says tell you to be sure and get
her some cats and dogs, so I suppose you must do it; but, for Heaven’s
sake, don’t fill the house with them—two or three will answer. I can’t
abide them myself. Reinette is waiting for me to go to dinner, and I
must close. Shall telegraph to you from New York as soon as the vessel
arrives, and shall follow on first train.
“Truly, FREDERICK HETHERTON.
“Spare no money to make the place comfortable.”
Arthur Beresford’s face was a puzzle as he read this letter from one
whose business agent and lawyer he merely was, and whom he scarcely
remembered at all except as a dashing, handsome young man, whom
everybody called fast, and whom some called a _scamp_.
“Cool, upon my word!” he thought, as he folded the letter and returned
it to his pocket. “A nice little job he has given me to do. Clean the
house; air Miss Reinette’s bed-chamber; move the old worm-eaten
furniture, and substitute something light and cheerful which Reinette
will like; put muslin curtains to her windows; get up a lot of horses
for her inspection; fill the garden with flowers, where there’s nothing
but nettles and weeds growing now; and, to crown all, hunt up a
menagerie of dogs and cats, when, if there is one animal more than
another of which I have a mortal terror, it is a cat. And this Reinette
is passionately fond of them. Who is she, any way? I never heard before
that Mr. Hetherton had a daughter; neither, I am sure, did the Rossiters
or Fergusons. Mrs. Peggy would be ready enough to talk of her Paris
granddaughter if she had one. But we shall see. Mr. Hetherton’s letter
has been delayed. He sails the 25th. That is day after to-morrow, so I
have no time to lose, if I get everything done, cats and all. I wish he
had given the job to somebody else. Phil Rossiter, now, is just the chap
to see it through. He’d know exactly how to loop the curtains back,
while as for _cats_ I have actually seen the fellow fondling one in his
arms. Ugh!” and the young lawyer made an impatient gesture with his
hands, as if shaking off an imaginary cat.
Just at this point in his soliloquy, Colonel Rossiter, who had been
leisurely reading his two letters inside the office, came out, and
remembering that he was a connection by marriage with the Hethertons,
Mr. Beresford detained him for a moment by laying a hand on his arm, and
thus making him stand still while he read the letter to him, and asked
what he thought of it.
“Think?” returned the colonel, trying to get away from his companion, “I
don’t think anything; I’m in too great a hurry to think—a very great
hurry, Mr. Beresford, and you must excuse me from taking an active part
in anything. I really have not the time. Fred. Hetherton has a right to
come home if he wants to—a perfect right. I never liked him much—a
stuck-up chap, who thought the Lord made the world for the special use
of the Hethertons, and not a Rossiter in it. No, no; I’m in too great a
hurry to think whether I ever heard of a daughter or not—impression that
I didn’t; but he might have forty, you know. Go to the Fergusons; they
are sure to be posted, and so is Phil, my son. By the way, he’s coming
home on next train. Consult him; he’s just the one, he’s nothing else to
do, more’s the pity. And, now, really, Mr. Beresford, you must let me
go. I’ve spent a most uncommon length of time talking with you and I bid
you good-morning.”
And so saying, the colonel, who among his many peculiarities numbered
that of being always in a hurry, though he really had nothing to do,
started toward home at a rapid pace, as if resolved to make up for the
time he had lost in unnecessary talk.
Mr. Beresford looked after him a moment, and then, remembering what he
had said of Philip, decided to defer his visit to Hetherton Place until
he had seen the young man.
Two hours later, the Boston train stopped at the station, and Phil
Rossiter came up the long hill at his usual rapid, swinging gait,
attracting a good deal of attention in his handsome yachting-dress,
which became him so well. The first person to accost him was his aunt,
Mrs. Ferguson, who insisted upon his stopping for a moment, as she had a
favor to ask of him. Phil was the best natured fellow in the world, and
accustomed to have favors asked of him, but he was tired, and hot, and
in a hurry to reach the quiet and coolness of his own home, which was
far pleasanter, and more suited to his taste than the close, stuffy
apartment into which Mrs. Ferguson led him, and where his cousin sat
working on a customer’s dress.
Anna Ferguson, who had been called for her mother, but had long ago
discarded Lydia as too old-fashioned, and adopted the name of Anna, was
eighteen, and a blue-eyed, yellow-haired blonde, who would have been
very pretty but for the constant smirk about her mouth, and the affected
air she always assumed in the presence of her superiors. Even with Phil
she was never quite at her ease, and she began at once to apologize for
her hair, which was in crimping-pins, and for her appearance generally.
“Ma never ought to have asked you into the work-room, and me in such a
plight,” she said. But Phil assured her that he did not mind the
work-room, and did not care for crimping-pins—he’d seen bushels of them,
he presumed. But what did his aunt want? he was in something of a hurry
to get home, as his father was expecting him, and would wonder at his
delay.
Phil knew he was stretching the truth a little, for it was not at all
likely his father would give him a thought until he saw him, but any
excuse would answer to get away from the Fergusons, with whom at heart
he had little sympathy.
What Mrs. Ferguson wanted was to know if he had ever heard his mother or
sisters speak of a dressmaker at Martha’s Vineyard, a Miss Margery La
Rue, who was a Frenchwoman, and who had written to Mrs. Ferguson, asking
if she wished to sell out her business, and if it would pay for a
first-class dressmaker to come to Merrivale.
“Here’s her letter, read it for yourself if you can,” Mrs. Ferguson
said. “Anny and me found it hard work to make it out, the writing is so
finefied.”
Philip took the letter, which was written in that fine, peculiar hand
common to the French, and which was a little difficult at first to
decipher. But the language was in good English and well expressed, and
the writer, Miss Margery La Rue, late from Paris, wished to know if
there was an opening for a dressmaker in Merrivale, and if Mrs. Ferguson
wished to sell out, as Miss La Rue had been told she did.
“I wish to mercy ma _would_ get out of the hateful business and take
that horrid sign out of her window. I’d split it up quick for kindlings.
I’m always ashamed when I see it,” Miss Anna said, petulantly, for she
was foolish enough and weak enough to ascribe all her fancied slights to
the fact that her mother was a dressmaker and had a sign in her window.
Mrs. Ferguson, however, did not share in this feeling, and reprimanded
her ambitious daughter sharply, while Philip, who knew how sore she was
upon the point, asked her if she really thought she would be any better
with the obnoxious sign gone and her mother out of business.
“Of course _I_ wouldn’t be any better. I’m just as good as anybody now,”
Miss Anna retorted, with a toss of her head. “But you know as well as I,
that folks don’t think so, and ma and I are not invited a quarter of the
time just because we work for a living. Even your sisters Ethel and
Grace would not notice me if I wasn’t their cousin. As it is, they feel
obliged to pay me some attention. I hate the whole thing, and I hope I
shall live to see the day when I can go to the sea-side, and wear
handsome dresses and diamonds, and have a girl to wash the dishes and
wait on me. There’s the bell, now: somebody to get some work done, of
course,” and Anna flounced out of the room to wait upon a customer,
while her mother asked Philip again if he had ever heard his sisters
speak of Miss La Rue.
Philip never had, but promised to inquire when he went to the Vineyard,
as he intended doing in a few days. Then, not caring for a second
encounter with his cousin, he went out of the side door and escaped into
the street, breathing freer in the open air and wondering why Anna need
always to bother him about being slighted because she was poor, as if
that made any difference.
Mr. Beresford was the next to accost Phil, and as the Hetherton business
was uppermost in his mind, he walked home with the young man and opened
the subject at once by telling him of the letter and asking if he had
ever heard of Reinette Hetherton.
“Reinette Hetherton—Reinette,” Philip repeated. “No, never; but that’s a
pretty name, and means ‘little queen.’ I wonder what kind of a craft she
is? Frenchy, of course, and I hate the French. She must be my cousin,
too, as I have never heard that Mr. Hetherton married a second time.
When will she be here?”
Phil was interested in the girl at once, but Mr. Beresford, who was
several years older, was more interested in the numerous arrangements he
was to make for her reception. They had reached the Knoll by this time,
and were met in the hall by the colonel, who did not manifest the least
annoyance because of Mr. Beresford’s presence, but on the contrary
seemed glad to have him there, as it relieved him from any prolonged
stay with his son.
“Eh, Phil, glad to see you,” he said. “Hope you had a pleasant time;”
then, in an absent kind of way, with a wave of his hand, “make yourself
at home. You are quite welcome, I am sure; both of you,” bowing to Mr.
Beresford. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I will leave you. Shall see
you at lunch time, good-morning, gentlemen;” and with another very
courtly bow, he walked rapidly away to the greenhouse, where he was
watching the development of a new kind of bean found in Florida the
previous winter.
Left to themselves the two young men resumed their conversation
concerning Reinette Hetherton, and Mr. Beresford showed Phil her
father’s letter.
“Upon my word,” said Phil, “one would suppose this Reinette to be a very
queen, the way her father defers to her. Everything must bend to her
wishes; bedstead, matting, flowers, housekeeper, horses, and cats and
dogs; that’s rich; but I’ll take the last job off your hands. I know of
a whole litter of young puppies which I’ll have in readiness for her,
besides half a dozen or more cats.”
“Yes, thank you. I am sure I shall be glad to be rid of the cat
business,” said Mr. Beresford, “but tell me, please, about Mrs.
Hetherton, Reinette’s mother, I was too much of a boy when she went
away, and you, of course, were a mere child, but you must have heard of
her from your mother. They were sisters, I think.”
“Half sisters,” Philip replied. “My grandfather Ferguson was twice
married, and mother was the child of his first wife. Grandma Ferguson,
as most everybody calls her, is only my step-grandmother, and Mrs.
Hetherton was her daughter Margaret, and, as I’ve heard, the most
beautiful girl in Merrivale. It was her beauty which attracted Mr.
Hetherton, and I imagine it was a love match, for he was proud as
Lucifer and very rich, while she was poor and—and—well, she was a
Ferguson,” and Philip changed color a little as he said this: then, as
Mr. Beresford looked curiously at him he added, laughingly, “Not that I
am in the least ashamed of my relatives. They do not affect me one whit.
I am just what I am, and a cart load of Fergusons can’t hurt me, though
I’ll confess that grandma and aunt Lydia do try me at times, but wait
and see what Miss Reinette thinks of them. When are you going over to
investigate the place, and would you like me to go with you?”
Nothing could suit Mr. Beresford better, for though he was several years
older than Phil, the two were fast friends, and later in the day, when
it was beginning to grow cool, they rode together toward “Hetherton
Place,” which had been tenantless since the death of General Hetherton,
ten or twelve years before.