THE SISTERS.
For a moment Queenie sat with her head dropped and her eyes closed;
then, opening them suddenly and fixing them upon Margery, who knelt
beside her, she said, “It is very dreadful, Margie, and I feel as if
turned into stone. Oh, if I could cry; but I cannot, even though I know
that everything is gone from me that I loved the most. Phil is
dead—Phil, who would have stood by me even in this disgrace. He would
have come to me and said, ‘Dear little Queenie, I love you just the
same, and want you for my wife,’ and with him I might in time have been
happy; but now there is nothing left to me, neither lover, friends, nor
name, and that last hurts the worst and makes me so desolate; no name,
no friends, not a single relative in the world except—except that woman,
and _she_ is my mother!”
Queenie said the last word with a choking sob, while Margery kissed and
rubbed her hands which were cold as ice and lay helplessly upon her lap.
“You forget that you have _me_—forget that I am your _sister_—that
whatever sorrow comes to you must be shared by me,” Margery said, and
Queenie replied, “No, I don’t forget that. It is the only thing which
keeps me from dying outright. Oh, Margie, you do not know how foolishly
proud I was when I believed myself Queenie Hetherton—proud of my
position, proud of my blood. And—I will confess it all to you who stand
just where I thought I stood, I was so wicked and so proud that I
rebelled against my mother’s family—rebelled against the Fergusons, and
though I tried to do my duty and tried to be kind and friendly,
especially to grandma, I never came in contact with her, or with any of
Uncle Tom’s family, that I did not feel the little shivers run over me,
and a shrinking away from them and their manner of speaking and acting.
I could not help this feeling, though I hated myself cordially for it,
and told myself many times that I was no better than they, and still in
my heart I fancied I was infinitely their superior—_I_, who had no right
to be born. Once I knelt in the room I supposed was my mother’s, and
prayed God to make me like the woman below stairs, whom I thought so
coarse and vulgar—asked Him to humble me in any way, if that was what I
needed to subdue my pride, but little did I dream the time would come
when that prayer would be so terribly answered—when I would give my life
to know the Fergusons were mine as I then believed them to be. Oh, if I
could have the old days back again; if I could waken from this and find
it a dream, but I never can. I am not Reinette Hetherton, I am nobody. I
have neither name, nor friends, nor position, nor home; oh Margie,
Margie, I had not thought of _that_ before;” and Queenie bounded to her
feet so suddenly that Margery was thrown backward upon the floor, where
she sat staring blankly at the girl who it seemed to her had actually
lost her mind.
She was walking rapidly across the floor, beating the air with her
hands. There were blood-red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes shone with
a strange, unnatural light as they flashed first upon one object, and
then upon another, and finally rested upon Margery, before whom she
stopped and said in a whisper:
“Do not you know it? Do not you see that I am an outcast, a beggar, a
trespasser where I have no claim? Frederick Hetherton’s unlawful child
has no right to a penny of his money. _You_ are his heiress; _you_ are
his daughter, and I only an intruder, who have lived for years on what
was not my own, and have, perhaps, sometimes felt that I was very good
to give to you what was already yours, for _you_ are Miss Hetherton, and
_I_ am Reinette—Bodine!”
Her lips quivered as she repeated the name, and her whole manner showed
how hateful was the sound of it to her. But Margery scarcely noticed
that, so intent was she on what had gone before. Springing to her feet,
and winding her arm around Queenie, she held her fast, while she said:
“What folly is this! What injustice to me! I do not pretend not to
understand you, for I do. You are excited now, and insane enough to
think that you have no right to Frederick Hetherton’s money because you
are the child of Christine Bodine, whom you so despise. She is _not_ a
bad woman; the badness was on the other side. That ceremony which she
thought true _was_ true to her and in the sight of Heaven, so far as she
was concerned, though it might not stand the test of the law. But in
either case you are father’s child as much as I am, and it was his wish
that you should be his heir. He knew nothing of _me_, never dreamed of
my existence, and, Queenie, the world need not know what we do. I would
far rather remain Margaret La Rue forever than meet what we must meet
should the truth be known. Stay as you are, here in your home, for it is
yours, and, if you like, I will stay with you, and the secret of your
birth shall be buried forever.”
“No, Margie,” Queenie said, disengaging herself from her sister’s
embrace. “I have no right here, and I cannot stay; not a penny of all my
father’s wealth is mine. You say truly that he did not dream of your
existence; but if he had—if at the last moment of his life he had known
that somewhere in the world there was a daughter lawfully his own, he
would have repudiated me, and flown to you.
“I knew him, and you did not, and you cannot understand how proud he
was. I knew he was more to blame than Christine if she tells the truth,
and I can never forgive him, even if I did promise to do so, and I can
never forgive her for hiding you, whom father would have loved so much,
while I should never have been born.
“And yet he loved me, I am sure; but, had he known of you, all would
have been changed, just as I shall change it now. He would have sent me
away—not penniless, it was not his nature to do that; he provided for
Christine, and would have made provision for me—but sent me from him
just the same and taken his lawful daughter home, and after you are
established here as Miss Hetherton, I shall go away—where, I do not
know—but somewhere in the world there is a place for Pierre and me, and
we shall go together. I cannot stay here with that mark upon me. I feel
it now burning into my flesh, and know it is written all over me in
letters of fire, which all the waters in the world cannot wash out.
Truly, the sins of the parents are visited upon the children, and I am
suffering so terribly—oh, Margie, it does ache so hard, so hard!” and
with a gasping sob Queenie sank into her chair, where she sat writhing
like one in agony.
For a moment Margery regarded her intently, then kneeling before her
again and taking the hot, quivering hands in hers said to her: “Queenie,
do you think _I_ have forgotten the day when you came to me, a little,
lonely girl, clad in garments so coarse that just to have worn them a
moment would have roughened the delicate skin of one who, like you, had
known only the scarlet, and ermine, and purple of life. And yet you did
not shrink from me. You looked into my eyes with a look I have never
forgotten. You touched my soiled hands with your soft, white, dimpled
fingers, and the touch lingers there yet. You took the scarlet and
ermine from your shoulders and put them upon me, and brought down heaven
to me as nearly as it can be brought to us here upon earth. And now,
when this great sorrow has come upon you, when it may be that I stand in
the place you have held so long, when the scarlet and ermine are mine,
will you not let me give it back to you as you once gave it to me, or at
least share it with me—that is, supposing mother’s statement is proved
to be true?”
“Proved to be true!” Queenie said. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this,” Margery replied, “The world will not accept the story as
readily as you have done. There will have to be proof, I think, that _I_
was born at Rome and that Margaret Ferguson was my mother.”
“Do _you_ doubt it, Margie?” Queenie asked, fixing her eyes searchingly
upon her sister, who at last slowly answered, “No.”
“Neither do I,” was Queenie’s quick rejoinder. “I _know_ it is
true—_know_ I am Christine’s daughter by the resemblance I bear to her,
just as I know you are a Ferguson by the blue in your eyes and the
golden hue of your hair, so like them all, so like to Phil. Oh, Phil! if
I could go to him and tell him of my pain.”
There was silence a few moments between the two girls, and it was
Queenie who spoke first again.
“Go away now, Margie. My head is not quite straight. Go, and leave me
awhile to myself.”
Margery obeyed, thinking that Queenie wished to rest, but such was not
her intention, and no sooner was she alone than she arose, and, bolting
her door, went to her writing-desk, and taking out several sheets of
paper began to write the story which Christine had told her. This done,
she took the three letters which she had found among her father’s
papers, signed “Tina,” and inclosing the whole in an envelope, directed
it to Mr. Beresford. Then, ringing her bell, she asked that Pierre
should be sent to her. The old man obeyed the summons at once, for he
was very anxious about his young mistress and the sickness which had
come so suddenly upon her. Stepping into the room, he made his bow, and
then stood before her in his usual attitude of deference and respect,
his head bent forward and his hands clasped, awaiting her orders.
“Sit down, Pierre,” Queenie said. “You need not stand before me now. I
have something to tell you, and the sooner I tell it, the better. A
dreadful thing has come to light—a dreadful wrong been done to Margery.
She is not Miss La Rue. She is that baby born at Rome. She is Margaret
Ferguson’s daughter, and I am—am—nobody! My father was Frederick
Hetherton, and my mother is Christine Bodine, and they were never
legally married. Do you understand me, Pierre?”
He did understand her, and the shock made him reel forward and grasp the
back of a chair, to which he held, while he stood staring at his
mistress as if to assure himself of her sanity.
“_It is true_,” she continued, as she met his questioning look of
wonder, and then, very rapidly, she told him how it had come to her
knowledge, and what she meant to do.
“I will never believe it,” was Pierre’s emphatic reply, when he could
speak at all. “It is a lie she told, the bad woman.”
And yet in Pierre’s heart there was a growing fear that what he had
heard might be true, but even if it were, it should make no difference
with him. He would stand by Queenie against the whole world. Where she
went he would go, where she died, he would die, her faithful slave to
the last. It did not matter to him whether she were a Hetherton or a
Bodine, she was his sovereign, his queen, and he told her so, with many
gestures and ejaculations, some of which were far from being
complimentary to “_La femme Bodine_,” as he called her.
“I knew I was sure of you,” Queenie said to him, “and after a little we
will go away from here and find a home somewhere, and I shall learn to
work and take care of myself, and you, too, if necessary.”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders significantly at the idea of being taken
care of by this little girl who had been reared so tenderly. Queenie
noticed the gesture, though she did not seem to, and went on:
“I have written to Mr. Beresford, who will know just what to do, and
early to-morrow morning you must take it to him. Say nothing to Miss
Margery or any one, but come to my door, quietly, as soon as you are up.
I shall be waiting for you. And now go: it is getting late, and I am
very tired.”
Pierre obeyed and left her in a most bewildered state of mind, scarcely
knowing what he had heard, and not at all able to realize its import.
True to his promise, he was at Queenie’s door the next morning before
either Margery or her mother were astir, and received the package for
Mr. Beresford, and a second and smaller one for Grandma Ferguson. This
last Queenie had written after Peirre left her the previous night, and
she bade him deliver it.
“There will be no answer to either; at least none for you,” she said,
and with a nod that he understood, Pierre hastened away to throw the
bomb-shell at the feet of Mr. Beresford and Grandma Ferguson.