THE LETTERS.
They were written at different times, with an interval of some months
between two of them—but all were dated at Marseilles, where the writer
seemed to be living in lodgings, for in the first letter she said: “The
rooms suit me exactly, and are very pleasant and a constant reminder of
your kindness. I have found a trusty woman to stay with me, and if I
could see you oftener I should be quite content, only I never can forget
the sweet lady who died in my arms, believing in me as the best of
servants. What would she say if she knew how soon I took her place in
your affection? Sometimes I think she is here in the room watching me,
and then I am afraid, and rush into the street until the terror is
past.”
“That was Christine, sure, for mother died in her arms,” Reinette
whispered, faintly, while a prickly sensation was in every nerve, and
her lips quivered convulsively.
And still she read on, taking next the second letter, the one which had
contained the lock of hair, and which was written two or three months
after the first. Evidently Mr. Hetherton had been in Marseilles and seen
the writer, for she spoke of his recent visit and the great pleasure it
had given her. It was in this letter that she called herself _his little
Tina_, and had written: “I have been sick most of the time since you
were here, and that is why I did not answer your letter at once. You
were so kind to me and treated me with so much tenderness that I cannot
help believing you mean to make me your wife before the world just as
you said you made me your wife before Heaven. But why put it off any
longer? Can you not bring a clergyman here, and not wait till people
call me a bad woman, which God knows I never meant to be. Oh, if you
would take me to Chateau des Fleurs as your wife. I would be your very
slave and make up to you in love and fidelity what I lack in culture.
You say I am very pretty. You praised my eyes and hair when you were
here, and so I send you a lock of the latter, and hope it will sometimes
remind you of your little Tina.”
“That’s the tress I burned,” Queenie whispered, feeling as if she, too,
were burning and writhing on live coals just as the lock of blue-black
hair had writhed and hissed in the flame.
But there was still another letter, and she read it, while every hair of
her head seemed to stand on end, and instead of burning with heat she
shook with cold, as she devoured the contents, which threw such a flood
of light upon what had gone before, and which she had not suspected. She
had read enough to make her hate Christine, and almost hate her father,
who, she felt, was most to blame, but she had no suspicion of the real
state of things until she began to read the third letter, which showed
great physical weakness on the part of the writer.
“Dear Mr. Hetherton,” it began, “I have been so sick that the old woman
who attends me thought I should die, but I am better now, though still
so weak as scarcely to be able to hold my pen. But I must tell you of my
dear little girl who was born two weeks ago, and who now lies sleeping
at my side.”
“_What!_” Reinette exclaimed, aloud, clasping both hands to her forehead
as if a heavy blow had fallen there. “What does she say? A little girl
born in Marseilles—that was—_Margery_.”
She could scarcely articulate the last word, for her tongue was thick
and parched, and in her ears was a sound like the roar of the wind
outside.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, throwing up her hands as if in quest of some
support; then they dropped helplessly at her side, and she fell forward
upon her face, with the blood gushing from her nose and staining her
dressing-gown. How long she lay thus, she did not know, for since the
clock struck three she had taken no note of time, but when she came to
herself the cold gray of the early dawn was stealing into the room, and
far away in the vicinity of the kitchen she heard the sound of some one
stirring. The fire was out, and the candle was out, and she was cold,
and stiff, and bewildered, and could not at first remember what had
happened. But it came back to her with the rustling of the letter she
still held in her hand—came with a terrible pain, which made her cry out
faintly as she staggered to her feet, and lighted another candle, for
she had not finished the letter yet. But she finished it at last and
laid it with the others, while there swept over her a feeling of
delight, mingled with the horror she had at first experienced.
_Margery_ was that little girl born in Marseilles, and whom Christine
was sure Mr. Hetherton would love, because he was so fond of children.
“Yes, that was Margery,” she said, “and if so, she is my sister. Does
she know, I wonder? Did Christine tell her the day she was so suddenly
taken ill, and is that the reason she has seemed so different since?
seemed to shun me at times as if afraid of me? Yes, she knows, and I
shall tell her that I know, too, and that I love her better than ever.
She is not to blame. No one can censure her, or cast a slight upon her,
for she is _my sister_, and I shall proclaim her as such, and bring her
to live with me, and share my fortune with her, and make her take her
father’s name. But Christine must not stay. I could not endure to see
her every day, and be thus reminded of all I had lost in losing faith in
my father. Christine must go. She was false to _mother_, false to _me_;
and where was I when she was living in Marseilles? She could not have
cared for me long after mother died. I do not believe she ever took me
to Chateau des Fleurs, or ever was my nurse, as I have supposed. I have
wasted too much love on her, but I know her now, and shall deal with her
accordingly.”
Such, in substance, were Reinette’s thoughts as she sat shivering in the
cold, cheerless room, while the morning light crept in at the windows,
and she could see herself distinctly in the glass upon the mantel.
It was a very white, haggard face which looked at her from the mirror,
and the eyes almost frightened her with their expression. About her
mouth and on the front of her dress were spots of blood which had
dropped from her nose while she was unconscious, and which added to her
unnatural appearance. The stains upon her face she washed away; and
exchanging her dressing-gown for a fresh one, crept into bed, for she
was very cold and dizzy and faint, while, in spite of the wild
excitement under which she was laboring, there was stealing over her a
heavy stupor which she could not throw off, and when at the usual hour
Pierre came to make her fire, he found her sleeping so soundly that he
went softly out and left her alone. An hour later, Margery looked in,
but Queenie was still asleep, nor did she waken when, as cautiously as
possible, a fire was kindled in the grate to make the room more
comfortable, for the morning was bitterly cold, and the frost lay
thickly upon the windows. Margery could not see Queenie’s face, as it
was turned toward the wall, and so she had no suspicion of the frightful
storm which had swept over the young girl during the night. The letters
still lay upon the table, and Margery saw them there, but did not touch
them or dream what they contained, and after putting the room a little
to rights she went quietly out, leaving her friend to sleep until the
clock struck ten. Then, with a start, Queenie awoke, and opening her
eyes, looked about her with that vague sense of misery and pain we have
all felt at some period of our lives, when the first thought on waking
was, “Why is it I feel so badly?”
To Queenie it came very soon why she felt so badly, and with a moan she
hid her face in her pillow, while something like a cry escaped her as
she whispered:
“I thought him so good and true, and now I know him to have been so bad.
He was false to mother, false to Christine, and doubly false to Margery,
whom he repudiated and disowned. Why did he not bring her home like a
man when I first told him of her? Why did he not say to me, ‘Queenie, I
have done a great wrong which many people in this country think of no
consequence, but which, nevertheless, is a sin, for which I am sorry and
would make amends. Little Margery La Rue is your sister, and I wish to
bring her home to live with you and share equally with you as if no
cloud hung over her birth. Will you let her come, Queenie?’ Oh, if he
had done this I should have taken her so gladly, and been spared all
this pain. Oh, father, father, you have dealt most cruelly with both
your children, Margery and me!”
Queenie had risen by this time and was making her toilet, for she meant
to appear as natural as possible to Mrs. La Rue and Margery until the
moment came for her to speak and know every particular of her sister’s
birth. While she was dressing Margery came to the door, but it was
locked, and Queenie called to her:
“Excuse me, Margie, if I do not let you in. I am not quite dressed, but
shall come down very soon.”
She was very white when she did at last go down to the dining-room, and
Margery noticed it and said: “Are you sick this morning? You are as pale
as ashes, and there are dark circles around your eyes. Oh, Queenie, I am
so sorry for you;” and thinking only of Phil as the cause of Queenie’s
pale face and hollow eyes, Margery drew her head down upon her arm and
smoothed the shining hair caressingly.
Then Queenie came nearer crying that she had since she first heard Phil
was dead. Grasping Margery’s hand she sobbed hysterically for a moment,
though no tears came to cool her aching eyeballs.
“I must not give way,” she said, “for I have a great deal to do to-day.
Where is your mother, Margie? I must see her. Find her, please, and
bring her here; or no, we will go into the library. No one will disturb
us there, and we must be alone. Call your mother, Margie, I cannot
wait.”
What did it mean, and why was Queenie so strange this morning, like one
unsettled in her mind? Margie asked herself, as she went in quest of her
mother, to whom she gave Queenie’s message.
“What can she want with me, I wonder?” Mrs. La Rue thought, as she went
to the library, where she found Reinette curled up in a large
easy-chair, which she did no more than half fill.
Her head was leaning against the cushioned back, and her face looked
very white and wan, while her eyes wore a peculiar expression as they
fixed themselves on Mrs. La Rue. It was the same chair and the same
position Queenie had occupied on the occasion of her first interview
with Phil, who had stood leaning his elbow upon the mantel while he
looked at her curiously. Something brought that day back to Queenie’s
mind, and a sob which was more for the dead Phil than for the secret she
held escaped her as she bade good-morning to Mrs. La Rue, who said:
“What is it, _Petite_?”
This was the name Mrs. La Rue had often applied to her during the last
few days, and Queenie had liked it heretofore, but now she shuddered and
shrank away, and when Mrs. La Rue laid her hand upon her head and asked
if it ached, she cried out:
“Don’t touch me, or come near me. I don’t know whether my head aches or
not. But my heart is aching with a pang to which physical pain is
nothing. Christine, I have lost all faith in you—faith in father—faith
in everything. I know the whole now—_you_ are _Tina_, the shame-faced,
who wrote those letters to my father and sent him a lock of your hair!”