MARGERY’S ILLNESS.
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.”