MRS. LA RUE’S RESOLUTION.
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!”