QUEENIE AND MARGERY.
That evening Mr. Hetherton sat in his handsome _salon_ at the Hotel
Meurice, smoking his after-dinner cigar, and occasionally reading a page
or two in the book on the table beside him. He was a very handsome man
in his middle age—handsomer even than he had been in his youth, for
there was about him now a style and elegance of manner which attracted
attention from every one. And yet he was not popular, and had no
intimate friends. He was too reserved and uncommunicative for that, and
people called him proud, and haughty, and misanthropical. That he was
not happy was evident from the shadow always on his face—the shadow it
would seem of remorse, as if some haunting memory were ever present with
him, marring every joy. Even Reinette, whom he idolized, had no power to
chase away that brooding shadow; on the contrary, a close observer would
have said that it was darkest when she caressed him most, and when her
manner was most bewitching. Sometimes when she climbed into his lap,
and, winding her arms around his neck, laid her soft, warm cheek against
his, and told him he was the best and dearest father in the world, and
asked him of her mother who died, he would spring up suddenly, and
pushing her from him, exclaim, as he walked rapidly up and down the
room:
“Child, you don’t know what you are saying. I am not good. I am very far
from being good, but she was—my Margaret. Oh, Queenie, be like her if
you can!”
On these occasions Queenie would go away into a corner, and with her
bright, curious eyes watch him till the mood was over, and then stealing
up to him again would nestle closer to him and half-timidly stroke his
forehead and hair with her little hand and tell him no matter how bad he
was she loved him just the same and should forever and ever. Queenie was
his idol, the sun of his existence, and he lavished upon her all the
love of which a strong nature is capable. She could do anything with
him, and take any liberty, and as he sat alone in his room he was not
greatly surprised when the door opened softly and a pair of roguish
black eyes looked in upon him for an instant—then a little white-robed
figure in its night toilet crossed the floor swiftly, and springing into
his lap began to pat his face, and kiss his lips, and write words upon
his forehead for him to guess. This was one of the child’s favorite
pastimes since she had learned to write, and she had great fun with her
father making him guess the words she traced upon his brow. But he could
not do it now until she helped him to the first three letters, when he
made out the name of Margery, and felt himself grow suddenly faint and
cold, for that was the pet name he had sometimes given his wife in the
early days of their acquaintance and married life. But how did Queenie
know it? How came she by that name which burned into his forehead like
letters of fire and carried him back to the meadows, and hills, and
shadowy woods of Merrivale, where a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl had
walked with him hand in hand, and whom he had called Margery?
“Guess now what is her name and who she is?” Queenie said, holding his
face between her hands, and looking straight into his eyes.
“Margery is the name,” he said, and his voice trembled a little. “But
who is she?”
And then the story came out of the little girl who lived all day with
the cat on the top floor of a tenement house, in Rue St. Honore, and who
wanted so badly to go to school, but could not because her mother was
poor and had no money to send her.
“But you have,” Queenie continued; “you have more than you know what to
do with, people say, and I want you to give me some for her, because I
like her—I don’t know why exactly, only I do, and did the first minute I
saw her. I felt as if I wanted to hug her hard—as if she belonged to me;
and you’ll do it, papa, I know you will! You’ll send little Margery La
Rue to the same school with me.”
Mr. Hetherton did not reply to this, but asked numerous questions
concerning his daughter’s acquaintance with Margery La Rue, whose mother
was a hair-dresser, and expressed his displeasure with Celine for having
taken her to such places.
“You are never to go there again, under any circumstances,” he said, and
Reinette replied, promptly:
“Yes, I shall. I’ll run away every day and go there, and to worse
places, too. I will go the _Jardin_, if you don’t give me the money for
Margery, but if you do I will promise never to go there again—only
Celine shall go for her to ride with me. I am bound to do that!”
And so she gained her point, and the next day Celine was sent to Lisette
to make inquiries concerning Mrs. La Rue. As these proved satisfactory,
arrangements were made with the principal of the English school to
receive little Margery as a day pupil at half pay, in consideration of
her performing some menial service in the school-room by way of dusting
the desks and putting the books in order after school was over.
Queenie was delighted, and from the day when Margery became a pupil in
the English school, she was her avowed champion, and stood by her
always, and fought for her sometimes when a few of the French girls
sneered at her position as duster of their books.
Naturally quick to learn, and easier to retain than Queenie, as Margery
always called her, she soon outstripped her in all their studies, and
was of great service in helping her to master her lessons, and acquit
herself with a tolerable degree of credit.
But for Margery, who would go patiently over the lesson time after time
with her indolent friend, Queenie would often have been in disgrace, for
she was not particularly fond of books, and lacked the application
necessary to a thorough scholar. Once, when she had committed a grave
misdemeanor which had been strictly forbidden on pain of heavy
punishment, Margery was suspected and found guilty, and though she knew
Queenie to be the culprit, she did not speak, but stood up bravely to
receive the chastisement which was to be administered in the presence of
the whole school, and was to be unusually severe as a warning to others.
Margery was very pale as she took her place upon the platform, and held
out her beautiful white arm and hand to the master, and her blue eyes
glanced just once wistfully and pleadingly toward the corner where
Queenie sat, her own eyes shut, and her fists clenched tightly together
until the first blow fell upon the innocent Margery. Then swift as
lightning she went to the rescue, and before the astounded master knew
what she was doing she had wrested the ruler from him, and hurling it
across the room sprang into a chair, and had him by the collar, and even
by the hair, while she cried out:
“You vile, nasty man, don’t you touch Margery again. If you do I will
pull every hair out of your head. You might have known she didn’t do it.
It was _I_, and I am _nastier_ and _viler_ than you, for I kept still
just because I was afraid to be hurt, and let her bear it for me. _I_ am
the guilty one. _I_ did it, and she knew it and never told. Beat me to a
pumice if you want to. I deserve it:” and jumping from the chair and
crossing the floor, Queenie picked up the ruler, and giving it to the
master, held out her little fat hand for the punishment she merited. But
by this time the entire school had become demoralized, as it were, and
the pupils thronged around their bewildered teacher, begging him to
spare Queenie, who became almost as much a heroine as Margery, because
that, notwithstanding her cowardice at the first, she had at the last
shown so much genuine moral courage and nobleness.
Queenie wrote the whole transaction to her father, who was in Norway,
and asked that as a recompense to Margery she be invited to spend the
summer vacation at Chateau des Fleurs, where Queenie was going with
Celine. To this Mr. Hetherton consented, and all the long, bright days
of summer Margery was at Chateau des Fleurs, which seemed to her like
Paradise. Nothing could exceed Queenie’s devotion to her from that time
onward, and when at eighteen she left school, Queenie stood by her
still, and found her a situation as governess in an English family who
lived in Geneva, and when, after a few months, Margery said she did not
like the life of a governess, as it deprived her of all her independence
of action, and made her a mere block, subjecting her to insults from the
sons of the house and guests of the family, Reinette, who knew her
perfect taste in everything pertaining to a lady’s toilet, and the skill
with which she fitted her own dresses, suggested that she should try
dressmaking as an experiment, without the formality of regularly
learning the trade, which would take so much valuable time. So Margery
set up as an amateur in the pleasant apartments in Rue de la Paix, where
Mrs. La Rue had lived since the death of her husband, which occurred
during Margery’s second year in school.
It would seem that Mr. La Rue, with his indolent habits, had been a
great draft upon his wife’s earnings, for, after he died, there was a
perceptible change in her manner of living. Money was more plenty, and
everything was on a larger, freer scale, so that Margery’s home was a
very comfortable one, especially after her wonderful skill in fitting,
and perfect taste in trimming, and, more than all, the patronage of Miss
Hetherton, began to attract people to her rooms. Now, as in her school
days, Queenie was her good angel, and brought her more work, and paid
her more money than any four of her other customers.
Once, and only once, did Reinette meet Mrs. La Rue, who seemed rather to
avoid than to seek her, and that was on an occasion when she came in
from the country unexpectedly, and found Margery busy with a lady in the
fitting-room.
“Tell her I am Miss Hetherton, and that I will wait,” Reinette said to
the small, dark woman whom she found in the reception-room, and whom she
mistook for an upper servant or housekeeper.
“Miss Hetherton! Margery’s Reinette!” the woman exclaimed, turning
quickly and coming close to the young lady, whose pride rebelled at once
at this familiarity, and who assumed her haughtiest, most freezing
manner, as she replied:
“Yes, I am Miss Hetherton. Tell your mistress I am here, at once.”
All the blood rushed to Mrs. La Rue’s face, and her voice shook as she
said:
“She is my daughter, and I am Mrs. La Rue. I beg your pardon if I seemed
rude, but you have been so kind to Margery, and I have so wished to see
you.”
“Deliver my message first,” Reinette, said, with the air of a princess,
for the woman’s manner displeased her and she could see no reason why
she should stand there staring so fixedly at her with that strange look
in her glittering eyes as of one insane.
At this command Mrs. La Rue turned to leave the room, but ere she went
she laid her hand on Reinette’s tenderly, caressingly, as we touch the
hands of those we love, and said:
“Excuse me, but I _must_ touch you once, must thank you.” So saying she
left the room and did not return, nor did Reinette ever see her again,
except on one occasion when she was driving with Margery in the Bois de
Boulogne, and passed her, sitting upon a bench beneath a shade tree. The
recognition was mutual, but Reinette did not return her slight nod, or
pretend to see her at all.
This was in October, and not long afterwards Margery startled Reinette
by telling her that she was going for a winter to Nice, and possibly to
Rome.
“Mother has not seemed herself for several weeks,” she said, “and I
think she needs a change of air; besides, I am most anxious to see
Italy.”
And so, two weeks later, the friends bade each other good-by, and after
one or two letters had passed between them, the correspondence suddenly
closed on Margery’s side, and the two friends knew nothing more of each
other’s whereabouts, until each was startled to hear that the other was
in America.
Such was in part the history of Margery up to the day when Miss Ethel
Rossiter entered the room where she was sewing, and after moving about a
little and inspecting the trimming of her dress, began hesitatingly:
“By the way, Miss La Rue, my brother has been telling us about our
cousin, Miss Reinette Hetherton, who has just come from Europe, and who
says she knew a Margery La Rue in Paris. Is it possible she means you?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” and Margery’s face was all aglow with excitement as she
looked quickly up. “Yes, Miss Rossiter; you must excuse me, but the door
was open, and I could not help hearing some things your brother said—he
talked so loud; and I know it is my Queenie. I always called her that
because she bade me do so. She is the dearest friend I ever had, and I
have loved her since that wintry afternoon when she brought so much
sunshine into my life—when she came into our humble home, in her scarlet
and rich ermine, and sat down on the hard old chair, and acted as if I
were her equal. And she has been my good angel ever since. She persuaded
her father to send me to the English school where she was a pupil. She
got me a situation as governess, and when I rebelled against the
confinement and the degradation—she persuaded me to take up dressmaking,
for which I had a talent, and encouraged and stood by me, and brought me
more work than any ten of my other customers. Oh, I would die for
Queenie Hetherton!”
Margery had talked rapidly, and her blue eyes were almost black in her
eagerness and excitement, while Ethel listened to her intently, and
thought how beautiful she was, and wondered, too, when or where she had
seen a face like the face of this fair French girl, whose accent was so
pretty, and whose manners were so perfect.
“And she is your cousin,” Margery said: “that is strange, for I always
understood that her mother was an English woman.”
Ethel colored a little, and replied:
“Yes, her mother and mine were sisters. Mr. Hetherton’s old home was in
Merrivale. Did you ever see him?”
“Once, on horseback, in the Bois. I was driving with his daughter, and
she made him stop and speak to us. He was very fine-looking and
gentlemanly, but I thought him proud and reserved, and I believe he had
that name in Paris.”
Mrs. Rossiter had returned by this time, and entering the room, joined
in the conversation, asking many questions of the Hethertons and their
life in Paris and at Chateau des Fleurs, which Margery described as a
perfect palace of beauty and art.
“Is Reinette pretty?” Grace asked, and Margery replied:
“You might not think her so when she is quiet and her features in
repose, but when she is excited and animated, she sparkles, and glows,
and flashes, and shines, as if there were a blaze of light encircling
her, and then she is more beautiful than anything I ever looked upon,
and she takes your breath away with her brilliancy and brightness.”
“You must have heard her speak often of her mother, my sister,” Mrs.
Rossiter said, and Margery replied.
“Yes, many times; and at Chateau des Fleurs there was a lovely portrait
of Mrs. Hetherton, taken in creamy white satin, with pearls on her neck
and in her wavy hair. She must have been beautiful. There is a
resemblance, I see, between you all and that portrait.”
“Do you know where that portrait is now?” Mrs. Rossiter asked; and
Margery replied by telling her that, nearly six years before, Chateau
des Fleurs was burned, with all there was in it, and she believed there
was now no portrait of Mrs. Hetherton in the family.
It seemed so strange to the Rossiters that this foreigner should know so
much more than themselves of the Hethertons, and for a long time they
continued to ply her with questions concerning the new cousin whom they
had never seen.
After a time Phil came sauntering into the room in his usual indolent,
easy manner, and was presented to Margery, whose blue eyes scanned him
curiously and questioningly. She had heard enough of his conversation to
guess that he was already far gone in love with Queenie, and she was
anxious to know what manner of man he was. Something in his manner and
the expression of his face fascinated her strangely, while he, in turn,
was equally drawn toward her; and when at last her work was done and she
started for home, he exclaimed, under his breath, as he watched her
going down the street:
“By Jove, Ethel, if I had never seen Queenie, I should say this
dressmaker of yours was the loveliest woman I ever saw. Look at that
figure, and the way she carries her head. I don’t wonder Queenie raves
over her; such eyes, and hair, and complexion I never saw.”
Meanwhile Margery was walking rapidly toward the cottage where she and
her mother had rooms.
“Oh, mother,” she began, as she took off her hat and scarf and began to
arrange her hair before the little mirror, “I have such news to-day!
Queenie—Miss Hetherton—is here!”
“Here! Reinette Hetherton here! and her father!” Mrs. La Rue exclaimed,
springing to her feet as suddenly as if a bullet had pierced her.
But Margery’s back was toward her, and she did not see how agitated she
was, or how deathly white she grew at the reply.
“Her father died on shipboard just as they reached New York, and Queenie
is all alone in Merrivale.”
“Mr. Hetherton dead!” Mrs. La Rue repeated, as she dropped back into her
chair, while the hot blood surged for a moment to her face and then left
it pallid and gray as the face of a corpse.
Something unnatural in the tone of her voice attracted Margery, who
turned to look at her.
“Why, mother, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, crossing swiftly to
her and passing her arm around her as she leaned back heavily in the
chair.
“I have been very dizzy-like all the morning. It is nothing: it will
soon pass off,” Mrs. La Rue replied.
But when Margery insisted that she should lie down and be quiet, she did
not refuse, but suffered her daughter to lead her to the lounge and
bring her the hartshorn and camphor.
“Cover me up, Margery,” she said, as a shiver like an ague chill ran
through her veins. “I’m so cold. There, that will do; and now sit down
beside me, and let me hold your hand while you tell me of your friend
and her father, and how he died, and who told you. It will interest me,
may be, and make me forget my bad feelings.”
So Margery sat down beside her, and took the hot hand which held hers
with a grasp which was sometimes actually painful as the narrative
proceeded, and Margery told all she had heard from the Rossiters.
“And to think, her mother was an American, and that the Rossiters are
her cousins, and her father’s old home is Merrivale, where I thought of
going! Oh, if I could only go there now!” Margery said; but her mother
did not express surprise at anything.
On the contrary, a more suspicious person than Margery would have said
that the story was not new to her, for she occasionally asked some
question which showed some knowledge of Queenie’s antecedents. But this
Margery did not observe. She only thought her mother a little strange
and sick, and was glad when her closed eyes and perfectly motionless
figure indicated that she was sleeping.
Covering her a little more closely and dropping the shade so that the
light should not disturb her, she stole softly out, leaving the wretched
woman alone with herself. She was not asleep, and clenching her hands
together so that the nails left their impress in her flesh, she
whispered:
“Dead! Frederick Hetherton dead! and does that release me from my vow?
Do I wish to be released? No, oh, no, a thousand times no! And yet when
she was talking to me I felt as if I must scream it out. Oh, Margery;
oh, my daughter, my daughter! _Dead!_ And will his face haunt me as hers
has—the sweet face of her who trusted me so? There surely is a hell, and
I have been in it this many a year! Margery! Margery!”
“Did you call me, mother? I thought I heard my name,” Margery said,
opening the door and looking into the room.
“No, no; go away. You waken me when I want to sleep,” Mrs. La Rue said
almost angrily, for the sight of that beautiful young face, and the
sound of that voice nearly made her mad; so Margery went away again, and
left her mother alone to fight the demon of remorse, which the news of
Frederick Hetherton’s death had aroused within her.