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f 1

QIE i- lIKTHKIiTO.N.

^ ilobfl.

yt«i«A*»r ^/ - tibf Hon,-, • |a<y«A Mi M*i^r<4,' Etc., Ktt.

»?OSIviJJLK)Ui> ri'BLlSHiNi^ COMi'AKV

MlM!Cn.*XM,

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

11^

lobel.

^vo

;^i

MARY J. HOLMES,

Atitlm- of " Fonext Hotm;' "Edith Lffle,'' " Mildred:' Etc., Etc.

UOSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

MDC'CCLXXXI.

YrosT

CONTKNTS.

».% »^.^.•\.^,■^.^.^.^,^xx^,^^,«
CHAPTER. PACJK

I. — Introducing Some op the Chakacters 5

II. — Introducing More of the Characterh 12

III. — Mr. Beresvobd and Phil 21

IV. — The Investigation 25

V. — Phil. Intervxew« His Grandmother 31

VI. — Getting Ready for Reinbtte 37

VII.- On THE Sea 44

VIII. — Rbinette Arrives 54

IX. — Rbinette at Home 54

X. — The Two Reinettes 58

XL— On THE Rocks 69

XII. — Reinette and Mr. Beresforo 75

, XLII.— These People 83

XIV. — Rbinette and Phil 92

XV.— Down by the Sea 105

XVI.— Margery La Rub 108

XVII.— QUBENIB AND MaR«BRY 1 16

XVIII.— Old Lbttbrs 127

XIX.— Thb Little Lady of Hetherton . 138

XX.— Arrivals in Mbrrivalb 145

XXL— Thb Dinner 163

XXII. — Margery and the People 157

XXIII. — Perfecting Themselves in French 161

XXIV.—* I Love You Qubbnib.' 165

XXV —Phil. 's Wooing 170

XXVI.— Phil. Gobs Away 179

CONTENTS.

CHAPTKK.

XXVII.-

XXVIII.-

XXIX.-

XXX.

XXXI.-

XXXII.-

XXXIII.-

XXXIV.-

* XXXV.-

XXXVI.-

XXXVII.-

XXXVIIL-

XXXIX.-

XL.

XLl.-

XLIL-

XLIII.-

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

PAOK

—How QuBBNiE Bore the Newh 183

-Mrs. La Rub'h Resolution 188

—Letters from Mbntonb 194

-Trying to Read the Page 203

—The Interview 211

— Christine 216

-Kbinette's Interview With Margery 226

-Rbinette'h Interview With Christine , -. 231

—Margery and Her Mother 242

-Margery's Illness 248

-Poor Phil 262

-The Lettbr 269

—Mourning for Phil 276

—Christine Goes to Hetherton Plage 284

-Tina 291

-The Letters 295

-QuEENiE Learns the Truth 302

—Christine's Story 312

—The Two Sisters 324

-The Explosion 329

— Magnolia Park 344

—At the St. Jambs 354

—The Yellow Fever 364

— The Occupant of No. 40 374

— Sister Christine 382

— Phil.'s Story ; . . 389

— Conclusion 398

PAOK

. 183
. 188
. 194
. 203
211
215
226
231
242
248
262
269
276
284
291
295
302
312
324
329
344
354
364
374
382
389
398

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCING SOME OF THE CHARACTEBS.

I HE morning mail from Merrivale had just arrived, but
there were very few letters to-day. Colonel Rossiter,
^ who lived in the large stone house on the Knoll, by
which name the place was called, had two ; one from hia wife,
who, with his two daughters, was spending the summer at
Martha's Vineyard, and one from his son Philip, a young grad-
uate from Harvard, who had been off on a yachting excursion,
and was coming home for a few days before joining his mother
and sisters at the sea-side. There was also one from Mrs.
Lydia Ann Ferguson, who lived on Cottage Row, and who, if
the sign in her window was to be believed, was the fashionable
dressmaker of the town. Mr. Arthur Beresford, the only
practising lawyer in Merrivale, had six, five of them on busi-
ness, and these he read hastily, as he stood in the post-office
door, and then for a moment studied the superscription of the
other, which was soiled and travel-worn, and' bore a foreign
post-mark.

'From Mr. Hefcherton, sure,' he said to himself. 'What
can he want, I wonder 1 Not money, for it is only six w«eks
since I remitted to him what was due from the rental of his
building.'
Opening the letter at last he read as follows :

* Hotel Mkukice, Paris, June lOtb, 18—.
* Mb. Bbiumfoud :

* Dear Sir : — ^You will imdoubtedly be surprised to hear that I
am coining home. Once I expected to live and die abroad, but r»*
cently, with my failing health,] there has come oyer me a feeling

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

which, were I a boy, I should call home-sickness, and which at least
is an intense longing to see America once more.

' After an abMnoe of nearly twenty-three years, it will seem
almost as strange to me as to my daughter Reinette, who, though
over twenty years of age, has never ^n in an English-spedcing
country. She is as anxious to come as I am, and we have engaged
passage on the iSiMsia, which sails from Liverpool, the 26th. I have
no idea whether the old house is habitable or not. All important
changes and repairs I prefer to make myself, after Reinette has
seen it and decided what she wants ; but, if possible, I wish you
to make a few rooms comfortable for us. The large chamber which
looks towards the town and the river I design lor Reinette, and
will you see that it is made pretty and attractive, so that she will
have a good first impression. If I remember rightly, there used to
be in it a mahogany bedstead older than I am. Remove it, and
substitute something li^ht and airy in its place. Reinette does not
like mahoffany. Put simple muslin curtains at the windows, and
have nothmg but matting on the floors ; Reinette detests carpets.
And if you Imow of a pair of fine carriage horses and a lady's saddle
pony, have them ready for inspection, and if they suit Keinette I
will take them. If you chance to hear of a trusty, middle-aged
woman suitable for a housekeeper at Hetherton Place, retain her
till Reinette can see her ; and please have the conservatory and
garden full of flowers. Reinette is passionately fond of flowers —
fond, in fact, of everything bright and pretty. She has just come
in, and says tell you to be sure and get some cats and dogs, so I
suppose you must do it ; but, for Heaven's sake, don't fill the house
with them — two or three will answer. I can't abide them mysdf.
Reinette is waiting for me to go to dinner, so I must dose. Shall
telegraph to you from New York as soon as the vessel arrives, and
shaU follow on first train.

'Truly, Fredebick Hbthebtov.

* Spare no money to make the place comfortable.'

Arthur Beresford's face was a puzzle as he read this letter
from one whose business agent and lawyer he merely was, and
whom be scarcely remembered at all except as a dashing, hand-
some young man, whom everybody called fast, and whom some
called a scamp.

* Cool, upon my word ! ' he thought, as he folded the letter
and returned it to his pocket. ' A nice little job he has given
me to do. Clean the house ; air Miss Reinette's bed-chamber;
move the old worm-eaten mahogany furniture, and substitute
'Something light and cheerful which Reinette will like ; put

INTRODUCING SOME OF THE CHARACTERS, 7

muslin curtains to her windows ; get up a lot of horses for hor
inspection ; housekeeper, do. ; fill the garden with flowei's,
where there's nothing but nettles and weeds growing now ;
and, to crown all, hunt up for Miss Reinette a menagerie of
dogs and cats, when, if there is one animal more than another
of which I have a mortal terror, it is a cat. And this girl, this
Keinette, is passionately fond of them. Who is she, any way 1
I never heard before that Mr. Hetherton had a daughter;
neither, I am sure, did the Rossiters or Fergusons. Mrs. Peggy
would be ready enough to talk of her Paris grand-daughter, if
she had one. But we shall see. Mr.-Hetherton's letter has
been delayed. He sails the 25th. That is day after to-mor-
row, so I've no time t«) lose, if I get everything done, cats and
all. I wish he had given the job to somebody else. Phil.
Rossiter, now, is just the chap to see it through. He'd know
exactly how to loop the curtains back, while as for catSy I have
actually seen the fellow fondling one in his arms. U^h ! ' and
the young lawyer made an impatient gesture with his hands,
as if shaking off an imaginary cat.

Just at this point in his soliloquy. Colonel Rossiter, who had
been leisurely reading his two letters inside the office, came
out, and rememberins that he was a connection by marriage
with the Hethertons, Mr. Beresford detained him for a moment
by laying a hand on his arm, and thus making him stand still
while he explained about the letter, and asked what he thought
of it.

' Think 1 ' returned the colonel, trying to get away from his
companion-^' I don't think anything ; I'm in too deuced a hurry
to think — a very deuced hurry, Mr. Beresford, and you must ex-
cuse me from taking an active part in anything. I really have
not the time. Fred. Hetherton has a right to come home if he
wants to — yes, certainly, a perfect right. I never liked him
much — a stuck-up chap, who thought the Lord made the world
for the special use of the Hethertons, and not a deuced Rossiter
in it. No, no ; I'm in too great a hurry to think whether I
ever heafd of a daughter or not — impression that I didn't ;
but he might have forty, you know. Go to the Fergusons ;
they are sure to bo posted, and so is Phil., my son By the
way, he's coming home on next train. Consult him ; he's just
the one ; he's nothing else to do, more's the pity. And now,

QUEEN! E HETHERTON.

really, Mr. Beresford, you must let me go. I've spent a most
uncommon length of time talking with you, and I bid you
good-morning.'

And so saying, the colonel, who among his many peculiari-
ties numbered that of being always in a hurry, though he
really had nothing to do, started toward home at a rapid
pace, as if resolved to make up for the time he had lost in un-
necessary talk.

Mr. Beresford looked after him a moment, and then remem-
bering what he had said of Philip, decided to defer his visit to
Hetherton Place until he had seen the young man.

Two hours later, the Boston train stopped at the station, and
Phil. Rossiter came up the long hill at his usual rapid, swinging
gait, attracti*)g agood deal of attention in his handsome yacht-
ing-dress, which became him so well. The first person to
accost him was his aunt, Mrs. Lydia Ann I srguson, who in-
sisted upon his stopping for a moment, as she had a favour to
ask of him. Phil, was the best natured fellow in the world,
and accustomed to have favours asked of him, but he was
tired, and hot, and in a hurry to reach the quiet and coolness
of his own home, which was far pleasanter, and more suited to
his taste than the close, stuffy apartment, with vm large-
patterned carpet, and turkey-red curtains, into which Mic.
Ferguson led him, and where his cousin sat working on a
customer's dress.

Anna Ferguson, who had been called for her mother, but
had long ago discarded Lydia as too old-fashioned, and adopted
the name of Anna, was eighteen, and a blue-eyed, yellow-haired
blonde, who would have been very pretty but for the constant
smirk about her mouth, and the affected air she always assumed
in the presence of her superiors. Even with Phil, she was
never at her ease, and she began at once to apologize for her
hair, which was in crimping-pins, and for her appearance
generally.

' Ma never ought to have asked you into the work-room, and
me in such a plight. But, then, you know Ma. She'd have
done the same if it had been Mr. Beresford, I do believe.
She's no sensibility, Ma hasn't.' This in an aside to Phil, who
assured her that he did not mind the work-room, and did not
care for crimping-pins — he'd seen bushels of them, he presumed.

; i
i

INTRODUCim SOME OF THE CHARACTERS. 9

But what did his aunt want 1 he was in something of a hurry
to get home, as his father was expecting him, and would won-
der at his delay.

Phil, knew he was stretching the truth a little, for it was not
at all likely his father would give him a thought until he saw
him ; but any excuse would answer to get away from the Fer-
gusons, with whom at heart he had little sympathy.

What Mrs. Ferguson wanted was to know if he had ever
heard his mother or sisters speak of a dressmaker at Martha's
Vineyard, a Miss Margery La Rue, who was a Frenchwoman,
and who had written to Mrs. Ferguson, asking if she wished
to sell out her business, and if it would pay for a first-class
crmtwrihe to come to Merrivale.

' Now, what under the sun a cootoory is, I don't know,* Mrs.
Ferguson said, * neither does Anny, and she's been away to
school three quarters ; but here's her letter, read it for yourself
if you can. Anny and me found it hard work to make it out,
the writing is so finefied.'

Philip took the letter, which was written in that fine, pecu-
liar hand common to the French, and which was a little diffi-
cult at first to decipher. But the language t as in good English,
and well expressed, and the writer. Miss Margery La Rue,
late from Paris, wished to know if there was an opening for a
dressmaker in Merrivale, and if Mrs. Ferguson wished to sell
out, as Miss La Rue had been told she did.

* I wish to mercy Ma would get out of the hateful business
and take that horrid sign out of her window. I'd split it up
quick for kindlings. I'm always ashamed when I see it/ Miss
Anna said, petulantly, for she was foolish enough and weak
enough to ascribe all her fancied slights to the fact that her
mother was a dress-maker and had a sign in her window.

Mrs. Ferguson, however, did not share in this feeling, and
reprimanded her ambitious daughter sharply, while Philip,
who knew how sore she was upon the point, asked her if she
really thought she would be any better with the obnoxious
sign gone and her mother out of the business.

' Of course / wouldn't be any better. I'm just as good as
anybody now,' Miss Anna retorted, with a toss of her head.
* But you know as well as I that folks don't think so, and Ma
and I are not invited a quarter of the time just becaus* wa art

QVEENIE HETEERTOS.

poor and work for a living. Even your sisters Ethel and
Grace would not notice me if I wasn't their cousin. As it is,
they feel obliged to pay me some attention. I hate the whole
thing, and I hope I shall live to see the day when I can go to
the sea-side, and wear handsome dresses and diamonds, and
have a girl to wash the dishes and wait on me. There's the
bell, now : somebody to get some work done, of course,' and
Anna flounced out of the room to wait upon a customer, while
her mother asked Philip again if he had ever heard his sisters
speak of Miss La Rue, saying they must have told her of her-
self and of Merrivale.

Philip never had, but promised to inquire about her when he
went to the Vineyard as he intended doing in a few days.
Then, not caring for a second encounter with the golden-
haired blonde, he went out of the side door, and so escaped
into the street, breathing freer in the open air, and wondering
why Anna need always to bother him about being slighted be-
cause she was poor, as if it made any matter if only a person
was nice and behaved himself properly.

Mr. Beresford was the next to accost Phil, and as the Heth-
erton business was uppermost in his mind, he walked home
with the young man and opened the subject at once by telling
him of the letter, and asking him if he had ever heard of Rei-
nette Hetherton.

* Reinette Hetherton — Reinette,' Philip repeated. * No,
never ; but that's a pretty name, and means *' little queen." I
wonder what kind of a craft she is ) Frenchy, of course, and
I hate the French. She must be my cousiir, too, as I have
never heard that Mr. Hetherton married a second time. When
will she be here ? '

Phil, was inteiested in the girl at once, but Mr. Beresford,
who was several years older, was more interested in the numer-
ous arrangements he was to make for her reception. They had
reached the Knoll by this time, and were met in the hall by
the colonel, who did not manifest the least annoyance because
of Mr. Beresford's presence, but, on the contrary, seemed glad
to have him there as it relieved him from any prolonged stay
with his son.

' Eh, Phil, glad to see you, ' he said. ^ Hope you had a
pleasant time ; ' then, in an absent kind of way, with a move

' '

i(i|

INTRODUCING SOME OF THE CHARACTERS. 11

of his hand, ' make yourself at home. You are quite welcome,
I am sure, both of you ' ; bowing to Mr. Beresford. ' And now,
if you'll excuse me, I will leave you. Shall see ypu at lunch
time, good morning, gentlemen ; ' and with another very
courtly bow, he walked rapidly away to the ereen-house, where
he was watching the development of a new kind of bean found
in Florida the previous winter.

Lefb to themselves, the two young men resumed their con-
versation concerning Reinette Hetherton, and Mr. Beresford
showed Phil, her father's letter.

* Upon my word, ' said Phil. ' one would suppose this Rei-
nette to be a very queen, the way her father refers to her.
Everything must bend to her wishes ; bedstead, matting, flow-
ers, housekeeper, horses, and cats and dogs ; that's rich ; but FU
take the last job off your hands. I know of a whole litter of
young puppies, which I'll have in readiness for her, besides half
a dozen or more cats. '

* Yes, thank you. I am sure I shall be glad to be rid of the
cat business, ' said Mr. Beresford, < but tell me, please, about
Mrs. Hetherton, Iteinette's mother, I was too much of a boy
when she went away, and you, of course, were younger still,
but you must have heard it from your mother. They were sis-
ters, I think.'

* No, only half,' Philip replied. ' My grandfather Ferguson
was twice married, and mother was the child of his first wife.
Grandma Ferguson, as most everybody calls her, is only my
step-grandmother, and Mrs. Hetherton was her daughter Mar-
garet, and, as I've heard, the most beautiful girl in Merri-'
vale. It was her beauty, of course, which attracted Mr. Heth-
erton, and I imagine it was a love match, for he was proud as Lu-
cifer and very rich, while she was poor — and-^iand — well, she
was a Ferguson, ' and Philip chanced colour a little as he said
this ; then, as Mr. Beresford looked curiously at him, he added,
laughingly, ' Not that I am in the least ashamed of my rela-
tives, for I am not. They do not affect me one whit. I am
just what I am, and a cart-load of Fergusons can't hurt me,
though I'll confess that grandma and Aunt Lydia do try me at
times, but wait and see what Miss Reinette thinks of them.
She's qIJ Ferguson on one side of the house ; no hi^lf blood

QUESNIE HEIHERTOK

there. When are you going over to investigate the place, and
wouldn't you like me to go with you 1 '

Nothing could suit Mr. Beresford better, for though he was
several years older than Phil, the two were fast friends, and
later in the day, when it was beginning to grow cool, they rode
together toward * Hetherton Place, ' which had been tenantless
since the death of old General Hetherton, which had occurred
ten or twelve years before.

CHAPTER II.

INTRODUCIXO MORE OF THE OHARAGTERS.

ETHERTON Place was nearly a mile distant from the
village, and on the side of a hill, the ascent of which
was so gradual that on reaching the top one was al-
ways surprised to find himself so far above the surrounding
country, of which there were most delightful views. Turn
which way you would the eye was met with lovely landscape
pictures of grassy meadows and plains, of wooded hill-sides,
sloping down to the river's brink, and stretching away to the
sandy shores of the ponds or little lakes, which, when the
morning sun was shining on them, sparkled like so many dia-
monds on the sunny valley of M errivale, where our story opens.
Merrivale was not a very large or very stirring town, for its
sons and daughters had a habit of turning their backs upon
the old home and seeking their fortunes in the larger cities or
in the West, where nature seems to be kinder and more con-
siderate to her children, in that her harvests there yield richer
stores with less of that toil of the hands and sweat of the brow
so necessary among the rocky hills of New England. There
¥»ere no factories in Merrivale, for the waters of the lazily-flow-
ing Chicopee were insufficient for that, but there were shoe-
shops there, and the men who worked in them lived mostlv in
small, neat houses on Cottage Row, or on the new streets wnicb
were gradually creeping down the hill to the riv«r and th«

INTRODUCINO MORE OF THE CHARACTERS. 13

railroad track, over which almost every hour of the day heavily
laden trains went rolling on to the westward.

Years and years ago, when the Indians still lurked in the
woods around Merrivale, and hears were hunted on Wachuset
Mt., and the howl of the wolf was sometimes heard in the
marshy swamp around old Cranberry Pond, the entire town, it
is said, was owned by the Hethertons, who were aristocrats to
the back-bone, and who traced their ancestry in a direct line
back as far as the Norman Conquest. Theirs, of course, was
the bluest blood in Merrivale, and theirs the heaviest purse ;
but purses will grow light in time, and blood grow weak as
well, and the Hetherton race had died out one by one, until,
so far as anybody knew, there was but a single member re-
maining, and he as good as dead, for any good he did to the
peopk of Merrivale. For nearly twenty-three years Frederick
betherton had lived abroad, and during that time, with one
exception, he had never communicated with a single individual
except his lawyers, the Beresfords — first Henry, the elder, who
had been his friend and colleague, and, after his death, with
Arthur, the younger, who succeeded to his brother's business.

When Frederick first came home from college he was a dash-
ing, handsome young man, with something very fascinating in
his voice and manner ; but to the young girls of Merrivale he
was like the moon to the humble brook on which it shines, but
always looks down. They could watch, and admire, and look
up to him from a distance, but never hope for anything like an
intimate recognition, for the Hethertons held themselves so
high that very few were admitted to the charmed circle of their
acquaintance.

Mrs. Hetherton, Frederick's mother, had come from the
vicinity of Tellehassee, and with the best blood of Florida in
her veins, was, if possible, more exclusive than her husband,
and laboured assiduously to instil her aristocratic notions into
the mind of her son.

After her death, however, whether it was that he found life
at Hetherton Place too lonely, or that he missed her counsels
and instructions, he was oftener with the young people of
Merrivale ; and rumours were at last afloat of frequent meet-
ings between the heir of Hetherton and Margaret Ferguson,
whoM father was a stone mason, but a perfectly honest, up-

QUEEN IE IlETHERTON,

right, and respectable man, and whose mother was then
familiarly known in the community as the Aunt Peggy who
sold root beer and gingerbread in the summer time, and Boston
brown bread and baked beans in the winter.

During Mrs. Hetherton's lifetime her carriage had occasion-
ally stopped before the shop door while she bartered with
Peggy for buns and cakes ; but anything like social acquaint*
ance of the Fergusons the lady would have spurned with con«
tempt.

Great, therefore, was her astonishment when Col. Paul Ros-
siter, who had been educated at West Point, and whom, in a
way, she acknowledged as her equal, fell in love with and mar-
ried Mary Ferguson, who was the child of her father's first
marriage, and in no way related to Peggy, and who was quite
as well educated as most of the girls in town, and far prettier
than any of them. The Fergusons were all good-looking, with
a fair, Saxon type of beauty, and Mary's dazzling complexion
and soft blue eyes caught the fancy of Col. Rossiter the first
time he reined his horse in front of the shop where small beer
and gingerbread were sold.

Col. Rossiter at that time was thirty-five or more, and had
never evinced the slightest interest in any one of the opposite
sex. Indeed, he rather shunned the society of ladies and was
looked upon by them as a very peculiar and misanthropical
person. He belonged to a good family, was an orphan and
rich, and had no one's wishes to consult but his own ; and so,
after that first call at Peggy's establishment, when Mary enter-
tained and waited upon him, it was remarked that he seemed
very fond of small beer, and that it took him some time to
drink it, for his chestnut mare was often tied before the shop
door for half an hour or more, while he sat in the little room
where Mary was busy with the shoes she stitched, or cloudy as
they called it, for the large shoe-shop near by. . At last the
gossip reached Mrs. Hetherton, whose guest the colonel was,
and who felt it her duty to remonstrate seriously with the
gentleman. The colonel listened to her in a dazed kind of
way, until she said, although no harm would come to Aim, he
certainly could not wish to damage the girl's good name by
attentions which were not honourable.

Then he roused up, and without a word of reply, started for

V '

INTRODUCING MORE OF THE CHARACTERS. 15

town, and entering Peggie's shop, strode on to the back room,
where Mary sat at her work, with her gingham apron on and
her hands besmeared with the shoemaker's wa^. she was obliged
to use in her work. They were, nevertheless, very pretty hands,
small, and white, and dimpled, and somehow the colonel got
them both between his own, and before the astonished girl
knew what he was about, he had asked her to be his wife, and
told her how happy he would make her, provided she would
forsake all her family connections and cleave only unto him.

' I do not mean that you are never to see them,' he said, * but
anything like intimacy would be very undesirable, for there
would be a great difference between your position as my wife
and theirs, and '

He did not finish the sentence, for Mary had disengaged her
hands from his by this time, and he always insisted that she
struck at him, as she rose from her seat and, with flashing eyes,
looked him straight in the face, while she said :

* Thank you. Col. Rossiter. You have said enough for me
to understand you fully. You may be proud, but I am prouder
still, and I decline your offer, which, the way you made it, was
more an insult than an honour. I know I am poor, and that
father is only a day labourer, but a better, truer, worthier man
never lived, and I hate you for thinking to make me ashamed
of him ; while his wife, though not my mother, has always
been kind to me, and I will never turn my back upon her,
never ! The man who marries me will marry my family, too, or,
at least, will recognise them. I wish you good*morning, sir,"
and she walked from the room with all the hauteur of an
offended duchess, leaving the crest-fallen colonel alone, and
very much bewildered and uncertain as to what had happened.

It came to him at last that he was refused by Mary Ferguson,
the girl who closed shoes for a living, and whose step-mother
made and sold root beer.

' Is the girl crazy ) ' he asked himself, as he precipitately left
the house. ' Dbes she know what she was about to refuse me
— me who would have made her a lady ! And she says she
hates me, because I will not marry her family. Well, well, it's
my first experience at love-making, and I think it will be my
last.'

But it was not, for Mary Ferguson's blue eyes had played

; I

1 I

t [

qUEENJR IlETllFAiTOIft,

the very mischief with the colonel's heart-strings, and he could
not give her up, and the next day he told her so in a letter of
three pages, which she promptly returned to him, with the
words :

* The man who marries me must recognise my family.'

A week went by, and then the colonel sent his love a letter
of six pages, in \.hich he capitulated generally. Not only
would he recognise the family, but in proof thereof, he would
buy the large stone houpe called the Knoll, which was at
present unoccupied, and he had heard for sale. Here they
would live, in the summer at least, and during the winter she
might like Boston for a change, but he would not insist upon
anything which did not meet her approval. All he wanted
was herself, and that he must have.

This was a concession, and Mary, who, while standing by her
family, had not been insensible to the good fortune offered her,
surrendered, and in less than a month was Mrs. Colonel Ros-
siter, and mistress of the handsome stone house, where her
father was always made welcome, and her stepmother treated
with kindness and consideration.

We have dwelt thus long upon the wooing and wedding of
the colonel, because the Rossiters and Fergusons have as much
to do with this story as the Hethertons, and because the mar-
riage of Mary Ferguson was the means of bringing about another
marriage, without which Reinette, our dainty little queen,
could never have been the heroine of this romance. Mary
would hardlv have been human if her sudden elevation to riches
and rank had not affected her somewhat. It did affect her to
a certain extent, though the villagers who watched her curiously
agreed that it did not turn her head, and that she fitted won-
derfully well in her new place.

* Acts for all the world as if she was born to that grandness,
and ain't an atom ashamed of me, nuther,* Mrs. Peggy said,
never once suspecting that Mrs. Rossiter, as she mingled more
and more in her husband's world, did sometimes shiver, and
gro.w cold and faint at her old-fashioned ways and modes of
speech.

As for the father he enjoyed to the full seeing his daughter

a lady, but laughed at her endeavours to mould and polish him.

' Tain't no use, MoUie," he would say. ' You can't make a

hll:t

INTRODUCING MORE OF THE CHARACTERS. 17

whistle of a pig's tail, and you can't make a gentleman of me.
My hard old hands have worked too long in stone and mortar
to be cramped up in gloves or to handle them wide forks of
yourn. I shall alius eat with my knife ; it comes nateral-Iike
and easy, and shall drink my tea in my sasser. But I like to
see you go through with the jimcracks, and think you orter, if
the colonel wants you to. You alius had the makin' of a lady
when even your hands, where the diamond is now, was cut and
soiled with h :d waxed ends, and nobody '11 think the wus of
you, unless it's some low-minded, jealous person who, when
they see you in your best silk gownd, may say how you was
once poor as you could be, and closed nigger shoes for a livin'.
That's human nater, and don't amount to nothin'. But, Mollie,
though you can't lift Peggy nor me, there's your sister Margaret
growing up as pretty and smart a gal as there is in Merrivale.
You can give her a hist if you will, and mebby she'll make as
good a match as you. She's the prettiest creetur I ever see.*

And in this John Ferguson was right, for Margaret was even
more beautiful than her sister Mary. To the same dazzling
purity of complexion, and large, lustrous blue eyes, she added
a sweetness of expression and a softness of manner and speech
unusual in one who had seen so little of the world, and which
procured for her the sobriquet of ' The Rose of Merrivale.'
Mrs. Rossiter, who was allowed to do whatever she pleased,
acted upon her father's suggestion and had her sister often
with her, and took her to Boston for a winter, and to Saratoga
for a sefuson, and it was in the Rossiter carriage that Frederick
Hetherton first remarked the fresh, lovely young face which
was to be his destiny. He might, and probably had, seen it
before in church, or in the shop where he occasionally went
for beer; but it had never struck him just as it did now, framed
in the pretty chip hat, with the blue ribbons vieing with the
deeper, clearer blue of the large bright eyes which flashed a
smile upon him as he involuntarily lifted his hat.

Fred. Hetherton was very fond of pretty faces, and^ it was
whispered that he did not always follow them for good, and
there were rumours afloat of large sums of money paid by his
father for some of his love affairs; but, however that might be,
his intentions were always strictly honourable with regard to
Margaret Ferguson. At first his pride was greatly shocked

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

; ■ ■

\V.

when he learned who she was, for he was quite as proud as
any of the Hethertons, and he shrank from Aunt Peggy more
than Mr. Kossiter had done. But Margaret's beauty overcame
every scruple at last, and when his father, who had heard some-
thing of it in town, asked him if it were true that he was run-
ning after old Ferguson's daughter, he answered boldly, ' Yes,
and I intend to make her my wife.'

A terrible scene ensued, and words were spoken which
should never have passed between father and son, and the next
day Fred. Hetherton was missing from his home and Margaret
Ferguson was missing from her's,and two days later Aunt Peggy
donned her best clothes and went over to Hetherton Place and
claimed relationship with its ovmer by virtue of a letter received
from her daughter who said she was married the previous day,
and signed herself 'Margaret Hetherton.' Then the father
swore his biggest oaths; said his son was his no longer; that he
was glad his wife had died ^before she knew of the disgrace,
and ended by turning Peggy from his door and bidding her
never dare claim acquaintance with him, much less relationship.
What he wrote to his son in reply to a letter received from
him announcing his marriage no one ever knew ; but the result
of it was that Frederick determined to go abroad at once, and
wrote his father to that effect, adding that, with the fortune
left him by his mother, he could live in luxury abroad, and
asked no odds of his father. TEis was true, and Mr. Hether-
ton had no redress, but walked the floor of his great lonely
rooms foaming with rage and gnashing his teeth ; while the
Fergusons were crying over the letter sent to them by Mar-
garet who was then in New York, and who wrote of their
intended departure for Europe.

She was very happy, she said, though she did want to come
home for a few days, just to bid them good-bye, but Frederick
would not allow it. She would write them often, and never,
never forget them. Then came a few lines written on ship-board,
and a few more from Paris, telling of terrible home-sickness, and
of Frederick's kindness, and the pearls and blue silk dress he
had bought her. Then followed an interval of silence, and
when Margaret wrote again a change seemed to have come
over her, and her letters were stilted and constrained like
those of a person writing under restraint, but showed signs of

'■■r,;r.tWr»,.

INTRODUCING MORE OF THE CHARACTERS 19

culture and improvement. She was still in Paris, and had
roasters in French and music and dancing, but of her husband
she said very little except that he was well, and once that he
had gone to Switzerland with a party of French and English,
leaving her alone with a waiting-maid whom she described as
a paragon of goodness.

To this letter Mrs. Rossiter replied, asking her sister if she
were really content and happy, but there came no response,
and nothing more was heard from Margaret until she wrote of
failing health, and that she was going to Italy to see what a
milder climate would do for her. Weeks and weeks went by,
and then Mr. Uetherton himself wrote to Mr. Ferguson as
follows :

* Geneva, Switzerland, May 36th, 18 — .

' Mr. Ferguson, — Your daughter Margaret died suddenly of
consumption in Kome, the 20th of last month, and was buried in
the Protestant burying ground. Yours,

*F. Hethbrton.'

Nothing could be colder or more unsatisfactory than were
these brief lines to the sorrowing parents, to whom it would
have been some comfort to know how their daughter died, and
who was with her at the last, and if she had a thought or word
for the friends across the water, who would never see her again.
But this solace was denied them, for though Mrs. Rossiter
wrote twice to the old address of Mrs. Hetherton in Paris, she
never received a reply, and so the years passed on, and the his-
tory of poor Margaret's short married life and death was still
shrouded in mystery and gloom, when General Hetherton died
without a will ; and, as a matter-of-course, his property went to
his only child, who, so far as the people knew, had never sent
him a line since he had lived abroad.

Upon the elder Mr. Beresford, who had been the general's
legal adviser, devolved the duty of hunting up the heir, who
was found living in Paris and who wrote |to Mr. Beresford,
asking him to take charge of the estate and remit to him semi-
annually whatever income there might be accruing from it The
house itself was to be shut up, as Frederick wrote that he cared
little if the old rookery rotted to the ground. He should never
go back to live in it : nev3r return to America at all, but he
would neither have it sold or rented, he said. And so it stood

III >

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

empty year after year, and the damp and mould gathered upon
the roof, and the boys made the windows a target for stonea
and brick-bats, and swallows built their nests in the wide-
mouthed chimneys, and the bats and owls flew unmolested
through the rooms, where once the aristocratic Mrs. Hetherton
trailed her velvet gowns ; and the superstitious ones of Merri-
vale said the place was haunted, and avoided it after nightful,
and over the whole place there brooded an air of desolation
and decay.

Then the elder Berosford died, and Arthur succeeded him
in business and took charge of the Hetherton estate, and twice
each year wrote formal business letters to Mr. Hetherton, who
sent back letters just as formal and brief, and never vouchsafed
a word of information concerning himself or any thing pertain-
ing to his life in France, notwithstanding that Mrs. Kosaiter
once sent a note in Mr. Beresford's letter, asking about her
sister's death ; but to this there was no reply, except the mes-
sage that she died in Rome as he had informed her family at
the time.

Thus it is not strange that the letter to Mr. Beresford an-
nouncing his return to America, and speaking of his daughter,
was a surprise and a revelation both, for no one had ever
dreamed there was a child born to poor Margaret before her
" death. In fact, the Fergusons themselves had almost forgotten
the existence of Mr. Hetherton, and had ceased to speak of him,
though John, who had now been dead four years or more, had
talked much in his last sickness of Margaret, or Maggie, as he
called her, and had said to his wife :

* Something tells mo you will yet be brought very near to
her. I don't know exactly how, but in some way sWll come
back to you ; not Maggie herself, but something ; it is not clear
quite.'

And now at last she is coming back in the person of a daugh-
ter, but Grandma Ferguson did not know it yet. Only Mr.
Beresford and Philip held the secret, for Col. Rossiter counted
for nothing, and these two were driving toward Hethej.*ton
Place on the warm June afternoon of the day when our story
opens.

MR. BERESFORD AND PHIL.

CHAPTER III.

MR. BERESFORD AND PHII«

CARCELYany two men'could be more unlike each other
than the two men who walked slowly through the
Hetherton grounds, commenting on the neglected, ruin-
ous condition everywhere apparent, and the vast amount of
labour necessary to restore the park and garden to anything
like beauty or order.

Mr. Beresford, as the elder, will naturally sit first for his
mental and physical photograph. In age he was probably not
more than thirty-five, though he looked and appeared some-
what older than that. He had received a first-class education
at Yale, and when he entered the law he devoted himself to it
with an energy and assiduity which, had he lived in a lareer
town than Merrivale, would have placed him at the head of his
profession. There was no half-way work with him. What-
ever he'did, he did with all his might, and his services were
much sought after by people in the towns around Merrivale, so
that he was always occupied and busy. But whether it wan
from frequent contact with the class of people with whom he
often had to deal, or from something innate in himself, he dis-
trusted human nature, and did not always throw over the
faults of others the broad mantle of that charity which think-
eth no evil until the evil is proved ; and those who dealt with
him most intimately found him hard and unsympathetic,
though always perfectly honourable and upright.

In stature he WbC medium size for a man, but finely formed,
with a head set erect and square upon his shoulders, and
crowned with a profusion of aark brown hair, which curled
sHghtly around his forehead. His complexion was dark, almost
swarthy, in fact, and his eyes those round, bright, restless eyes
which make you uncomfortable when fixed upon you, because
they seem to be reading your inmost secrets and weighing all
your thoughts and motives.

QUEEN IE HETBERTON.

Belonging to one of the oldest and best families in the coun-
try, he was proud of his blood and proud of his name — fool-
ish I7 proud, too, in many thinfj^s, for had he been Anna
Ferguson, that sign in her mother's window would have an-
noyed him more even than it did the young lady herself, while
the memory of the beer and the gingerbread once sold by her
grandmother, and the cellar walls and chimneys built by her
grandfather, would have driven him nearly frantic. Indeed, it
was a wonder to him how Phil. Hossiter could endure the Fer-
gusons, whom he considered wholly vulgar and second-class.
And yet, with all these faults, Arthur Beresford was a man of
many able, sterling qualities, and one whom everybody re-
spected and liked, though not as they liked Phil. Rossiter —
good-natured, easy-going, indolent Phil., who, though always
ready to help whenever his services were needed, had never
been known to apply himself for any length of time to a single
useful thing.

Business he had none ; employment none ; but for this use-
less life his mother was, perhaps, more in fault than he, for she
was virtually the moving power of the family, or, as the villa-
gers termed it, * the man of the house.'

^ Always peculiar. Colonel Rossiter had grown more and more
peculiar and absent-minded with every year of his married life,
and as a natural consequence his wife, whose character was
stronger than his, had developed into a self-reliant, independ-
ant woman, who managed her husband and his affairs aumir-
ably, and for the most part let her children manage themselves.
Especially was this the case with Phil., who was her idol, and
whom she rather encouraged in his idleness. There was money
enough, she reasoned, for the colonel was one of those fortu-
nate men in whose hands everything turns to gold, and there
was no need for Phil to apply himself to business for several
Tears at least. By and by, when he came to marry, it might
be well enough to have some profession, but at present she
liked to have him near her ready to do her bidding, and no
queen ever received more homage, or a mother more love, than
did Mrs. Rossiter from her son. For her sake he would do
anything, dare anything, or endure anything, even to the Fer-
gusons, and that was saying a great deal, for they were not a
^ family whose society he could enjoy. But his mother was a

MR BERESFORD ANT) PniL

Ferguson, and he was bound to stand by them, and if the vul-
garity of Mrs. Lydia, his Uncle Tom's wife, or the silly affecta-
tion of his cousin Anna, ever made him shudder, he never gave
a sign, but bore up bravely and proudly, secure in his own
position as a Rossiter and a gentleman.

To his grandmother he was always attentive). She was not
his own blood relation, he reasoned, and she was old, and so
he allowed her to pet and fondle him to such an extent as some-
times to fill him with disgust. Only once had he rebelled
against her maudlin' tenderness, and that when a boy of ten.
' Granny's baby,' she was wont to call him in her gushing mood,
and this sobriquet had been adopted by his school-fellows, who
made his life so great a burden that at last on one occasion,
when she said to him as she patted his young, fresh face, ' Is he
granny's baby 1 Yes, he is granny's baby. He likes to be called
granny's baby,' he revolted openly, and turning fiercely upon
the astonished woman, exclaimed :

' You just hush up, old woman, I've had enough of that. I
ain't your baby. I ain't nobody's baby. I'm ten years old, and
wear roundabouts, and I"l be darned if I'll be called a baby
any longer.'

She never called him so again, or kissed him either, until the
night three years later when he was going to school next day,
and then she did not offer it herself. She said good-by to him,
and God bless you, at his father's house, and went back to her
own home, where she had lived alone since her husband's death,
and which seemed lonelier to her than ever, because on the
morrow the boy Phil, would be gone. Phil, was her idol, her
pride, and his daily visits to her had mAde much of the sun-
shine of her life, and as she undressed herself for bed, and then
went to wind the tall clock in the kitchen comer, the tears
rolled down her face and dropped from the end of her nose,
which she blew vigorously on her buff and white checked hand-
kerchief. She was a little aeaf, and standing with her back to
the street door she neither saw nor heard anything until she
felt a pair of arms close tightly around her neck, and PhiL's lips
were pressed against hers.

' i'or the dear Lord's sake how you scart me. What upon
airth brought you here!' she exclaimed, turning toward him

QUEENIE HETHBRTO^.

with her nightcap border Hying back, and her tallow candle in
her hand.

Phil, was half crying, too, as he replied :

' I could not go away without kissing you once more, and
having you kiss me. You haven't done so since that time I got
so plaguy mad and called you names. I've cried about it fifty
times, ril bet. I want you to forgive it, and kiss me, too. I'm
awful sorry, granny.'

The pet name'for her in his babyhood, and which he had long
discarded, dropped from his lips naturally now, and putting
down her tallow dip the old lady took him in her arms and
nearly strangled him as she sobbed :

* Forgive you, Phil. % Of course I will, with all my heart,
and kiss you, too. Any woman, young or old, would like to
kiss a mouth like yours.'

We do not believe our readers will like Philip Rossiter the
less fur this little incident, or because even in his young man-
hood he had a mouth which any woman, young or old, might
like to kiss. A handsome mouth it was, with full red lips
which always seemed just ready to break into a merry, saucy
laugh, but which you felt intuitively had never been polluted by
an oath, or vulgar word, or low insinuation against any one.
In thought, and word, and deed, he was as pure as any girl,
and held all women in the utmost respect, because his mother
was a woman.

At the time our story opens PhiL was twenty-five years old,
though from the delicacy of his complexion ho looked younger,
and might easily have passed for twenty-one. Tall, willowy,
and graceful in figure, he was, like all the Ferguson race, blue-
eyed and fair, with a profusion of soft brown hair, which curled
just enough to save it from stiffness. People called him hand-
some, with his frank, open, boyish face and winning smile ; but
he hated himself for it, as a handsome man was an abomina-
tion, he thought, and he had times of hating himself generally,
because of that natural distaste to application of any kind,
which kept him from being what he felt sure he was capable of
being if he could but rouse himself to action. Had he been a
woman, he would have made a capital dressmaker, for he knew
all the details of a lady's dress, from the arrangement of her
hair to the fit of her boot, and could detect at a glance any in^

■'V

yrtwifn

wmmttimm

THE INVESTIGATION.

congruity in colour, and style, and make-up. To his sisters he
was invaluable as a critic, and no article which he condemned
was ever worn again. It was strange, considering how unlike
to each other they were, that Phil, and Mr. Beresford should be
as fast friends as they were. Each understood perfectly the
peculiarities of the other, and each sought the other's society
continually. With Mr. Beresford the fact that Phil, was a Ross-
iter covered a multitude of sins, while more democratic Phil,
cared but little who Mr. Beresford's family were, but liked the
lawyer for himself, and spent a great deal of time in his office
where he once actually began the study of law, but gave it up
as soon as a party of his college friends asked him to join an
excursion to the Adirondacks, and he never resumed it again.
From the description given of our two young men the reader
will undoubtedly think them far from perfect. And so they
are, for our story is made up of very faulty characters, but na-
tural ones withal, and such as we know and meet every day of
our existence.

CHAPTER IV.

THE INVESTIGATION.

ELL, this is a jolly place for the kind of girl, I fancy
Miss Reinette to be,' Phil, said, as he strolled through
the grounds, pulling aside with his cane the weeds,
and shrubs, and creeping vines, which choked not only the
flower-beds, but even the walks themselves.

Everywhere were marks of ruin and decay, and the house
seemed worse than all the rest ; it was so damp and gloomy,
with doors off their hinges, floors half rotted away, and the
glass gone from most of the lower windows.

* Seems like some old haunted castle, and I kind of feel my
flesh creep, don't youl' Phil, said to his companion, as they
went through room after room below, and then ascended the
broad staircase to the floor above,

QUEENIE HETHERTOK

* Suppose we first take the room intended for Miss Kein^tte 1 '
Mr. Beresford suggested ; and they bent their steps at once to-
ward the large chamber with the bay window overlooking the
town and the country for miles and miles away.

As they stepped across the threshold both men involuntarily
took off the hats they had worn during their investigation.
Perhaps neither of them was conscious of the act, or that it was
a tribute of respect to the unknown Reinette, who was in the
thoughts of both as they stood in the great silent, gloomy room,
from which the light was excluded by the heavy shutters which
had withstood the ravages of time. This had evidently been
the guest chamber during the life of Mrs. Hetherton, and the
furniture was of solid mahogany, and of the most massive kind,
while the faded hangings around the high-post bed were of the
heaviest silken damask. But the atmosphere was close and
stifling, and Mr. Beresford drew back a step or two while Phil,
pressed on until he ran against the sharp corner of the bureau
and uttered a little cry of pain.

'For Heaven's sake come out of this,' Mr. Beresford ex-
claimed. ' Let's give the whole thing up, and let Mr. Hether-
ton fix his own old rookery. We can never make it decent.'

' Just hold on a minute, 'said Phil, making his way to a window.
* Wait till I let in a little air and light. There,' he continued,
as he opened window after window, and pushed back the heavy
shutters, one of v/hich dropped from the hinges to the ground.
' There, that is better, and does not smell so like an old cheese
cupboard, and look, Beresford, just see what a magnificent view.
Ten villages, as I live, and most as many ponds, and the river,
and the hills, with old Wachusetts in the distance. '

It was indeed a lovely landscape spread out before them, and
Phil, who had an artist's eye for the beautiful, enjoyed it to the
full, and declared it as fine as anything he had seen in Switzer-
land, where he went once with his father just before he entered
college. Mr. Beresford was, however, too much absorbed in the
duties devolving upon him to care for views, and Phil, himself
soon came back to the room and examined it minutely, from
the carpet, mouldering on the fioor, to the rotten hanging on
the bed, which he began at last to pull down, thereby raising a
cloud of dust, from which Mr. Beresford beat a hasty retreat.

* I tell you what,' he said, ' it's of no kind of use. I shall

THE INVESTIGATION.

wash my hands of the entire job, and let Miss Eeinette arrange
her own room.'

"^Nonsense ! you won't do any such thing,* said Phil. * It's
not so very terrible, though ! must confess it's a sweet-looking
boudoir for a French lady to come to, but it can be fixed easily
enough. I'll help. I can see the end from the beginning.
First, we'll have two or three strong women. I know where
they are. I'll get 'em. Then we'll pitch every identical old
dud out of the window and make a good bonfire — that falls
naturally to the boys. Then we, or rather, the women, will
go at the room hammer and tongs, with soap, and sand, and
water, and burnt feathers, if necessary. Then we'll get a gla-
zier and have new window-lights put in, and a painter with
paint-pot and brush, and a paperer to cover the walls with —
let me see, what shade will suit her complexion, I wonr • Is
she skim-milky, with tow hair, like the Fergusons generally, or
is she dark, like the Hethertons, do you suppose 1 '

' I'm sure I don't know or care whether she is like a Dutch
doll or black as a nigger. I only wish she would stay in France,
where she belongs,' growled Mr. Beresford, very hot and very
sweaty, and a good deal soiled with the dust from the bed-
curtains which Phil, had shaken so vigorously.

* Take it cool, old fellow,' returned Phil., ' You'll be head and
ears in love, and go down on your knees to her in less than a
month.'

* She'll be the first woman I evet went on my knees to/
said Mr. Beresford, while Phil, rejoined with a saucy curl of
his lips :

* Not even for fair cousin Anna ? '

' Anna be hanged/ retorted Mr. Beresford, who knew that
Anna Ferguson would walk miles for the chance of a smile from
him.

' Upon my word you are very complimentary to my relations,'
said Phil. ; 'but no matter, it's too hot to fight, you know, so let's
finish this room. Reinette is light, of course j there never was
a Ferguson yet who had not a complexion like a cheese, so we
will have the paper a soft, creamy tint, of some intricate pat-
tern, which she can study at her leisure, mornings when she is
awak e and does not wish to get up. That settles the paper,
and no w for the furniture — something light — oak, of course,

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

r, ■ \:

a 1

and real oak, no sham for the qtieen. Musquito net — coarse,
white lace, trimmed with blue, for blondes and blue always go
together. So, we'll loop the muslin window curtains back with
blue, and have some blue and white what do you call 'em.
Beresford — those square things the girls are always making for
backs of chairs, and bureaus, and cushions ; you know what I
mean ] *

' No, I don't. I'm not a fool to know all the paraphernalia
of a girl's bed-chamber,' growled Mr. Beresford, while PhiL re-
plied, with imperturbable good nature :

' Neither am I a fool because I can no more enter a room
without knowing every article and colour in it, and whether
they harmonize or not, than you can help hearing of a projected
law-suit without wondering if you shall have a hand in it,
chacun d son gout, my good fellow. You see I am beginning to
air my French, as I dare say this little French queen speaks
atrocious English. Do you understand French, Beresford 1 '

'Scarcely a word, and I am glad I do not. English is good
enough for me,' said Mr. Beresford, thinking to himself, how-
ever, that he would privately get out his grammar and French
Keader, and brush up his knowledge of the language, for if the
foreigner, in whom he was beginning to feel a great deal of
interest, really cculd not speak English readily, it would never
do to give so much advantage to handsome, winning Phil., who
startled him with the exclamation :

* I've got it ! Tidies ! — that's what I mean. Blue and white
tidies on the bureau, with little fancy scent- bottles standing
round — new-mown hay, jockey club, and eau-de-cologne, the
very best that Mrs. Maria Ferina Regina can make ; and soap !
By Jove ! she shall have the very last cake of the box I got in
Vienna nine years ago ; I keep it in the drawer with my shirts,
and collars, and things, for perfumery, you know ; but I've got
to give it up now. Not but Miss Reinette will bring out a cart-
load, but I wish her to know that we Americans have foreign
soap sometimes, as well as she. Then, there's powder ; I must
get sister Ethel to give me some of Pinaud's.'

* Powder ! What do you mean 1 ' Mr. Beresford asked, in
unfeigned surprise ; and Philip replied :

* Now, Beresford, are you putting on, or what 1 Is it pos-
sible you have lived to be forty years old—*

li i;

THE INVESTIGATION.

* Only thirty-five,' interrupted Mr. Beresford, and Phil, con-
tinued :

* Well, thirty-five, then. Have you lived to be thirty-five,
and don't know that every grand lady has a little powder-pot
and puff-ball on her dressing bureau, just to touch her skin
and make her feel better when she's moist. Some of it costs
as high as three dollars a package — that's the kind Reinette
must have. You ought to have some, too. It would improve
that spot of the dust of the Hethertons which has settled under
your nose. There — don't rub it with your hands ; you make it
worse than ever. We must hunt round for some water to wash
your face before we get back to town. But let's furnish this
room with matting, which we quite forgot, and a willow chair
in the bay-window, and a work-table, with some poetry and
one of Ouida's novels on it, and another chair close by, with
the cat and kittens. That will make the picture complete, and
if she is not satisfied, why, then she's hard to suit. I'll make
this room my special charge ; you needn't bother about it at
all. I was going right down to the Vineyard, but shall wait to
greet my cousin. And now, come on, and let's investigate the
rest of the old hut while there is daylight to do it in.'

Mr. Beresford was not at all loth to leave the close room
which smelled so musty and damp, but which really seemed
in a better state of preservation than other parts of the house.
Everything had gone to decay, and but for Phil, he would have
been utterly discouraged, and abandoned all attempts to restore
the place to anything like a habitable condition. Phil, was all
enthusiasm, all hopefulness, and knew exactly what ought to
be done, and in his zeal offered to see to nearly everything, pro-
vided his friend did not limit him as to means. This Mr. Beres-
ford promised not to do. Money should be forthcoming even if a
hundred workmen were ejaployed, as Phil, seemed to think
there must be, the time was so short, and they would like to
have things decent at least for Miss Eeinette, of whom they
talked and speculated as they rode back to town. Was she
pretty, they wondered, and the decision was, that as all young
girls have a certain amount of prettiness, she probably was not
an exception ; yes, she was pretty, unquestionably, and Prenchy,
and spoiled, and a blonde, Phil, said, for no one with a drop of
Ferguson blood in his veins was ever anything but that, and

i I

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QUEEN IE EETHERTON.

^wn^rn'm^mm*

the young man spoke impatiently, for he was thinking of his
own lilies and roses, and fair hair which he affected to hate.

* Of course she is ptiiiey Mr. Beresford said \ but Phil, did not
agree with him.

He was himself six feet ; his mother was tall ; his Cousin
Anna was tall. All the Fergusons were tall ; and the young
men bet a soft hat on the subject of Reinette's height. They
were getting very much interested in the young lady, nor was
their interest at all diminished when, as they reached the vil-
lage, they called at the post-office and found a letter from her,
which, though sent by the same steamer with her father's, had
not reached Merrivale until that evening. The handwriting
was very small, but very plain and pretty ; the letter was very
short, and ran as follows : —

* Hotel Meurice, Paeis, June — .
' Mr. Arthur Beresford :

' Dcor &\Y ; — I have juat discovered that papa has written to you
and told you among other things to have a little saddle pony in
readiness for me. Now I will not have a pony. I detest a little
horse as much as I do a little woman, and I must have a great tall
horse, who will carry me grandly and high. The biggest and grand-
est you can find.

'Truly, Reinette Hetherton.'

It almost seemed to the young men that they lield the un'
known Reinette by the hand, so near did this letter bring her
to them, and such insight into her character did it give them.

' iShe has a mind of her own and means to exercise it,' said
Mr. Beresford, while Phil. , intent upon the soft hat, said :

' You will lose your bet, old feUow. Nobody but an Ama-
zon would insist upon a great tall horse. It is just as I told
you. She is five feet eleven at least. I want a nice hat, and
if you don't object, I'll pick it out myself and send you the
bill'

* I was just thinking of doing the same by you, for only a
wee little creature would want a tall horse to earry her grandly
and high,' said Mr. Beresford, still studying the gilt-edged sheet
of note-paper, where there lingered a faint, delicate perfume
which miles of travel by land and sea had not quite destroyed.

* Eh ! bierif novs verrons,* said Phil.; then, bidding good- night

PHIL. INTERVIEWS HIS GRANDMOTHER. 31

to his friend, he walked away, humming softly an old French
song, of which Mr. Beresford caught the words, ' Ma Petite
Reine.'

* Confound the boy,' he said to himself. ' He's better up in
French than I am, and that will never do.'

Arrived at his rooms, Arthur Beresford's first act, after put-
ting Keinette'e letter carefully away, was to hunt up his long-
neglected OUendorf, over which he pondered for two hours or
more, with only this result, that his head was full of all sorts
of useless and nonsensical phrases, and that even in his dreams
he kept repeating over and over again, ' Avez-voua mon chor
peau ? Oui, monsieur, je Vai*

CHAPTER V.

PHIL. INTERVIEWS HIS GRANDMOTHER.

FTER leaving Mr. Beresford, Phil, concluded, before
going home, to call on his grandmother and ask if she
had ever heard of a grand-daughter in France. The
house of Grandma Ferguson ^ as she was now universally called,
was the same low, old-fashioned brown building under the pop-
lar trees, where she had sold gingerbread and beer in the days
when Paul Rossiter and Fred. Hetherton came wooing her two
daughters, Mary and Margaret. In her youth Grandma Fer-
guson had been a tall, slender, well-formed girl, with a face
which always won a second glance from every one who saw it.
In fact, it was her pretty face which attracted honest John
Ferguson when he was looking forsome one to be a mother to his
little girl. Margaret Martin was her real name, but everybody
called her Peggy, and everybody liked her, she was so tho-
roughly kind-hearted and good-natured, and ready to sacrifice
herself in every and any cause. But her family was terribly
against her, and getting on was an up-hill business with her.
Her father was coarse and low, and a drunkard, and her bro-
thers were coarser and lower than he, and the most notorious

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QUE FN IE HETHERTON,

fighters in town, while her mother was a shiftless, gossipy,
jealous woman, who would rather receive charity at any time
than work, and who always grumbled at the charity when
given. But against Peggy's reputation not a whisper had ever
been breathed. She was loud-talking, boisterous, and igno
rant, and a Martin, but perfectly honest, straightforward, and
trusty, and from the day John Ferguson, the thrifty stone-
mason, took her to his house to look after his house and child,
her fortune was made, for in less than six months she became
his wife. As Mrs. John Ferguson she was somewhat different
from Peggy Martin, and tried, not without success, to lower
her voice and soften her manners ; but her frightful grammar
remained unchanged, and her slang was noted for its originality
and force. But she was a good mother, and wife, and neigh-
hour, and after her father and mother died, and her fighting
brothers emigrated to California, she shook the Martin dust from
her skirts and mounted several rounds higher on the ladder of
respectability. But she did not get into society until some
years after the Kossitcrs were established in the great house on
the Knoll. Her faithful John was under the sod, and the beer
sign gone from the window of the low brown house where she
lived in comfort and ease, with a coloured servant Axie, who
was very serviceable to her indulgen mistress, making her
bread, and pies, and caps, and frequently correcting her gram-
mar, for Axie knew more of books than Mrs. Peggy.

To Mrs. Rossiter, Grandma Ferguson was a care, and some-
times a trouble : to the young ladies, Ethel and Grace, she was
an annoyance and a mortification, both from her manners, her
grammar, and her showy style of dress, while to Phil., who did
not care in the least how she talked or how she dressed, she
was a source of fun and amusement, and he frequently spent
hours in her neat, quiet sitting-room, or out on the shaded back
porch where he found her on the evening of his return from
Hetherton Place. With increasing years, Grandma Ferguson
had lost the slight, willowy figure of her girlhood, and had
reached a size when she refused to be weighed. So saucy Phil,
■et her down at two hundred and fifty, and laughed at her
sylph-like form, which he said he could not encircle with both
his long arms. All delicacy of feature and complexion had
dex)arted, and with her round red face and three chins »he might

11!!

PHIL INTERVIEW'S HIS GRANDMOTHEB. 33

well have pas^ied for some fat old English or German dowager,
especially when attired in her royal purple moire antique,which
she always called her morey, with the long, heavy gold chain
she wore on state occasions, and her best lace cap with moun-
tains of pink bows upon it. Mrs. Ferguson was fond of dress,
and as purple and pink were her favourite colours, she some-
times presented a rather grotesque appearance. But on the
night when Phil, sought her, she had laid aside all superflui-
ties, and her silvery hair shone smooth and glossy in th'a soft
moonlight, while her plain calico wrapper looked cool and com-
fortable, and partially concealed her rotund form.

' For the massy's sake,' she said, as Phil's tall figure bent
under the door-way and came swiftly to her side, * what brung
you here so late, and why hain't you come afore ] I was round
to your Aunt Liddy Ann's this afternoon, and she told me you
was to home, so I made a strawbry short-cake for tea, hopin'
you'd happen in. 'Twas lickin good, I tell you. There's a piece
on't cold in the buttry now, if you want it.'

Phil, declined the short cake, and, sitting down by his grand-
mother, told her of Mr. Hetherton's letter, and asked if she
had ever heard of a daughter.

Mrs. Ferguson was a good deal startled and surprised, or, as
she expressed it afterward to Keinette herself, ' she was that
beat that a feller might have knocked her down with a straw.'
That there was somewhere in the world a child of her beautiful
young daughter who died so far away, was a great shock to
her, and, for an instant, she stared blankly at Phil., as if not
quite comprehending him. Then, as he added, ' He has a
daughter twenty years old,' she began :

' Fred. Hetherton coming back after so many years, and
bringin' a darter with him ! My Maggie's girl ! That's very
strange, and makes me think of what your gran'ther said afore
he died. Seems if he h^d second sight of somethin', which
ain't to be wondered at when you remember that he was
born with a vail over his face, and could alius tell things.
He said that, in some way, Maggie would come back to
me, and she is comin' ; but it's queer I never hearn of a baby
when Maggie died. Still, it's like that sneak of a Fred. Hether-
ton to keep it from us. We wasn't good enough to know there
was a child. But thank the Lord, there's as much Ferguson in

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I i!

QUEE^IE IIETHERTOI^.

her as Hetberton, and he can't help that. I never could abide
him, even when he came skulkin' after Maggie, and whistlin'
for her to come out At fust I was afraid he didn't mean fair
with her, and I told him if he harmed a hair of her head Td
shoot him as I would a dog. There's fight, you know, in the
Martins ! '

And the old lady's eyes blazed with all the fire of her two
scape-grace brothers, once the prize-fighters of the country.

' What were the particulars of the marriage and her death ?
I've heard, of course, but did not pay much attention, as I knew
nothing of Reinette,' said Phil. ; and Mrs. Ferguson replied :

*■ 'Twas a runaway match, for old Mr. Hetberton rode such a
high horse that Fred, was most afraid of his life, and so they
run away-^the more fools they — and he took her to Europe,
and that's the last I ever seen of her, or heard of her either, as
you may say. It's true she writ sometimes, but her letters was
short, and not satisfyin' at all — seemed as if she was afraid to
tell us she was lonesome for us at home, or wanted to see us.
She had a new blue silk gown, and cassimere shawl, and string
of pearls, and a waitin'-maid, and she said a good deal about
them, but nothin' of Fred., after a spell, whether he was
kind or not He never writ, nor took no more notice of us than
if we was dogs, till there came a letter from him sayin' she had
died suddenly at Rome, and was buried in the Protestant grave-
yard. He was in Switzerland then, I believe, skylarkin' round,
for he was always a great ra '! ler, and we didn't know jestly
where to direct letters ; but your mother writ and writ to the
old pkce in Paris, and never got no answer, and at last she gin
it up. .Vhen old man Hetberton died, Fred, had to write about
business, but never a word to us.'

' It's very singular he did not tell you about the little girl,'
suggested Phil. ; and Mrs. Ferguson replied :

*No, 'tain't He wouldn't of let us know if there had been
a hundred babies. He'd be more likely to keep whist, for fear
we'd lay some claim to her, and we as good as he any day, if
we wasn't quite so rich. Why, there never was a likelier gal
than your mother, even when she closed shoes for a livin' ; and
there ain't a grander lady now in the land than she is.'

* I don't know about the grand,' said Phil, ' but I know there
is not a b«tter woman in the world than my mother, or a hand*

PBtL INTERVIEWS HIS GliANDMOmEB. '^t^

Bomer either, when she's dressed in her velvet, and laces, and
diamonds. I wish you could see her once.'

* I wish to gracious I could/ returned Mrs. Fersuson. * Why
don't she never put on her hest clothes here and let \xa see 'em
once, and not alius wear them plain black silks, and browns,
and greys?'

' Merrivale is hardly the place for velvets and diamonds,' said
Phil. * There is seldom any occasion for them, and mother does
not think it good taste to make a display.'

* No, I s'pose not,' grandma replied ; ' but mabby Rennet will
take me with you to Washington, or Saratoga, or the bea-side,
and then I can see it all. And they needn't be ashamed of me
nuther. There's my purple morey, and upon a pinch I can have
another new silk. Rennet will find her granny has clothes ! '

Phil, did not usually wince at anything his grandmother said,
but now a cold sweat broke out all over him as he thought of
her at the sea-side arrayed in her purple moreyy which made her
look fatter and coarser than ever, with the bright pink ribbons
or blue feather in her cap. What would Reinette say to such
a figure, and what would Reinette think of her any way ? He
was accustomed to her ; he knew all the good there was in hei ;
but Reinett* , with her French ideas, was di^erent, and he
found himsei^ seeing with Reinette's eyes and hearing with
Reinette's ea^s, and blushing with shame for the good old lady,
who went on talking about her new grand-daughter, whom she
sometimes called Rennet^ and sometimes Runnel^ but never by
her rieht name.

At last Phil could bear it no longer, and said :

* Grandma, isn't it just as easy to say Reinette as Rennet ?
Do you know what a rennet is 1 '

' No, what is it 1 ' she asked, and he replied :

' It is what farmers put in milk to make cheese curd.'

* Bless the boy I ' and Mrs. Ferguson laughed till the tears
rolled down her fat cheeks. ' Bless the boy, that's runntt ;
as if I didn't know runnet — I, that lived with a farmer three
summers, and made cheese every day.'

' No matter ; it is spelt rennet^ and I do not believe my cousin
would care to be called that. We want to please her, you know,'
said Phil, and his grandn^other replied :

* To be 8ttr« we do, and we must make quite a time when sh«

^UEENIE HETHERTOK,

I '• :

fust lands here. Your mother and the gals will come home, of
course.'

< Perhaps so. I shall write them about' it/ said Phil. ; and his
grandmother continued : ' We must get up a percession to meet
her, in your father's carriage, and a hired hack, and our best
clothes. I'll see Lyddy Ann to-morrow about fixin' me some-
thin' to wear. Now I think on't, Lyddy Ann talks of sellin'
out her business — so she told me this afternoon. Did you
know it r

' I knew some one had written her on the subject, but not
that she had decided to sell,' was PhiL's reply, and his
grandmother said :

' She ain't, exactly ; but Anny's puttin' her up to it, thinkin'
she'll be thought more on if her mother is not a d^'ess-maker,
and that sign is out of the winder. Silly critter ; She gets
that from the Rices, and they was nothin' extra — I knew 'em
root and branch. I tell you I'm as much thought on as if I
hadn't sold gingerbread and beer ; but Anny says I'm only
noticed on account of the Rossiters — that folks dassent slight
Miss Rossiter's mother, and mabby that's so ; but so long as
I'm treated well, I don't care who boosts me.'

How dreadful her conversation was to Phil, who wondered
if she had always talked in this way, and if nothing could be
done to tone her down a little before Reiuette came. Nothing
he finally decided, and then proceeded to tell her what changes
Mr. Beresford contemplated making at Hetherton Place, and
what Mr. Hetherton had written of his daughter's tastes with
reference to cats, and asked if she could help him there.

* That's the Martin blood in her,' said Mrs. Ferguson. * We are
desput fond of cats, but I can't let her have old Blue, who has
lived with me this ten years, but there's Speckle, with three as
lovely Malta kittens as you ever see. They torment me most
to death killin' chickens and tearing up the flower-beds. Ren-
net can have them and welcome.'

It was Rennet again, and Phil, let it pass, feeling that to change
an old lady like his grandmother was as impossible as to change
the order of the seasons, and hoping his cousin would have sense
enough to overlook the grammar, and the slang, and prize her
for the genuine good there was in her. As it was now getting
very late, Phil, at last said good-night and walked toward home,

GETflNG READY FOR REWETTE.

thinking constantly of Reinette, wondering how he should like
her, and wondering more how she would like him.

CHAPTER VL

GETTING READY FOB REINETTE.

'ITHIN two days it was known all over Merrivale that
Frederick Uetherton was coming home, and was to
bring with him a daughter of whose existence no one
in town had ever heard, and within three days thirty workmen
were busy at Hetherton Place trying to restore the house and
grounds to something like their former appearance. Nomin-
ally Mr. Beresford was the superintendent, but Phil, was
really the head, the one who thought of everything and saw
to everything, and to whom every one finally went for advice.
He had written to his mother and sisters telling them of the
expected arrival, and asking if they would not come home for
a few days to receive Reinette, who would naturally feel more
at her ease with them than with the Fergusons.

To this letter his sister Ethel replied, expressing her aston-
ishment that there should be a cousin of whom she had never
heard, and saying they should be very glad to be in Merrivale
to receive her, but that her mother was suffering from a sudden
and acute attack of muscular rheumatism, and required the con-
stant care both of herself and her sister Grace, so it would be
impossible for them to leave her.

* Mother is very anxious to have father here, because she
thinks he can lift her better than any one else, ' Ethel wrote in
conclusion, ' but she says perhaps he ought to stay and wel-
come Miss Hetherton ; he must do as he thinks best. '

This letter Phil, showed to his father, of course, and as Col.
Rossiter was not particularly^ interested, either in Frederick
Hetherton or his daughter, and as it was very obnoxious to
have Grandma Ferguson coming to him every day, as she did,

QUEENIE HETHERTOrr.

'i V

ill

to discuss the per cession which ought to go up to meet the
strangers, he started at once for the sea-sicle, and as Mr. Ber-
esford was confined to the house with a severe influenza and
sore throat, PhiL was left to stem the tide alone. But he was
equal to the emergency, and enjoyed it immensely. iWery day
was spent at Hetherton Place, except on occasions when he
made journeys to Springfield or Worcester in quest of articles
which could not be found in Merrivale.

It was astonishing to Mr. Beresford, to whem daily reports
were made, how much Phil, knew about the furnishing of a
house. Nothing was forgotten from a box of starch and pep-
per up to blankets and spreads and easy-chairs. Phil, seemed
to be everywhere at the same time, and by his own enthusiasm
spurred on the men to do double the work they would other-
wise have done. He superintended everything in the grounds,
in the garden, and in the house, where he frequently worked
with his own hands. He cut the paper and the border for Rei-
nette's bed-chamber, put down the matting himself, looped the
muslin curtains with knots of blue ribbon, and from his own
room at the Knoll brought a few choice pictures to hang upon
the walls. He asked no advice of anyone, and was deaf to all
the hints his Cousin Anna gave him with regard to what she
thought was proper in the furnishing of a house. But when
toward the last she insisted upon going to Hetherton Place,
he consented, and took her there himself in his light open
buggy.

Anna was never happier than yhon seen by the villagers in
company with Phil, or with any of the Rossiters, of whose rela-
tionship to herself she was very proud, parading it always be-
fore strangers when she thought there was any likelihood of
its working good to herself. Like her grandmother she thought
a great deal of dress, and on this occasion she was very dash-
ingly arrayed with streamers on her hat nearly a yard long, her
dress tied back so tight that she could scarcely walk, her fan
swinging from her side, a black lace scarf which came almost
to her feet, and a white silk parasol which her mother had
bought in Boston at an enormous price. Anna was very much
in love with her parasol, and very angry with Phil, for telling
her it was more suitable for the city than for the country. She
liked city things, she said, and if the Merrivale people were bo

OETTim READY FOR REINETTE;

far behind the times as not to tolerate a white silk parasol she
meant to educate them. So she flaunted her parasol on all oc-
casions and held it airily over her head as she rode to Hether-
ton Place with Phil, and was very soft, and gentle, and talka-
tive, and told him of a schoolmate of hers who had just been
married, and made a splendid match, only some might object
to it, as the parties were own cousinsj not half, but own I For
her part she saw nothing out of the way if they were suited.
Did Phil, think it wrong for cousins to marry each other ?

Yes, Phil, thought it decidedly wicked, and he urged his pony
into apace which drowned the rest of Miss Anna's remarks on
the subject of cousins marrying.

Arrived at Hetherton Place, the young lady, who thought it
smart to be a critic, and fancied that criticism was simply find-
ing fault, criticised things generally with an unsparing tongue.
Everything was so simple and plain, especially in Keinette's
room. Of course it was pleasant and neat, and cool, and airy,
but why did he get that matting for the floor, and that light,
cheap-looking furniture. There was a lovely pattern of Brus-
sels carpet at Enfair's for a dollar fifty a yard, and a high black
walnut bedstead and dressing bureau at Trumbell's ; and why
didn't he get a wardrobe with a looking-glass door, so Keinette
could see the bottom of her dresses. Then she inspected the
pictures, and asked where he got those dark-looking photo-
graphs, and that woman in the clouds with her eyes rolled up,
and so many children around her. She never did like that,
any way, it was such an unnatural position for a woman to
have her portrait taken. Why didn't Phil, get those lovely pic-
tures, * Wide Awake, ' and * Fast Asleep 1 ' They would
brighten up the room so much I

Phil, bit his lips, but maintained a very grave ^ace while he
explained to the young lady that what she called photogr^xphs
were very fine steel engravings, which he found in Frankfort,
one a landscape, after Claude Lorraine, and the other a moon-
light scene on the Rhine, near Bingen, with the Mouse Tower
and Ehrenfels in sight, while the woman with her eyes rolled
up was an oil copy of Murillo's great picture, the gem of the
Louvre.

Anna Ferguson had been to boarding-school two or three
quarters, and had botanies^ and physiologies, and algebras laid

I m

' r

I ■!

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

away on the book-shelf at home ; but for all that she was a
very ignorant young lady, and guiltless of any knowledge of
the Louvre, or Murillo and Claude l4orraine. But she liked
to appear learned, and had a way of pretending to know many
things which she did not know ; and now she hastened to cover
her mistake by pretending to examine the pictures more closely,
and saying, * Oh, yes, I see ; lovely, aren't they ? and so well
done I Why, Mr. Beresford, you here ] ' and she turned sud-
denly toward the door, which Arthur Beresford was just
entering.

He was much better, and had ridden over to Hetherton
Place with a friend who was going a few miles farther, and
hearing voices up stairs, had come at once to Reinette's room,
where he found Phil, and Anna.

Just then a workman called Phil, away, and Mr. Beresford
was left alone with Anna, who was even better pleased to be
with him than with her cousin, and who assumed her prettiest,
most coquettish manners in order to attract the great lawyer,
whose cue she at once followed, praising the airaugement of
the room generally, and finally calling his attention to the
pictures, one of which, she said, was drawn by Mr. Lorraine,
and the other by — she could not quite remember whom, but —
the oil painting was the portrait; of Murillo, whose hands and
hair she thought so lovely. That came from LoOy in France,
but the engravings were from somewhere in Kentucky^ Frank-
fort, she believed.

Mr. Beresford was disgusted, as he always was with Anna,
but did not try to enlighten her, and, as Phil, soon joined them,
they went over the rest of the house together. Only the
upper and lower halls, the dining-room, the library, Mr. Hether-
ton's and Reinette's bed-chambers, the kitchen and servants'
rooms had been renovated, and these were all in comfortable
living order, with new mattings on the floor, fresh paint and
whitewash everywhere, and furniture enough to make it seem
homelike and cozy. But it was in the grounds that the most
wonderful change had been wrought, and Mr. Beresford could
scarcely credit the evidence of his eyes when he saw what had
been done. Weeds and obnoxious plants dug up by the roots ;
gravel walks cleaned and raked ; quantities of fresh green sod
Vfhere the grass had been almost dead; masses of potted

he was a
dedge of
she liked
3w many
I to cover
e closely,
i so well
ned sud-
was just

etherton
her, and
i'B room,

•eresford
led to he
)rettiest,
> lawyer,
3ment of
1 to the
lorraine,
a, but —
ids and
France,
-Frank-

1 Anna,

i them,

ily the

Hether-

jrvants'

brtable

int and

it seem

le most

1 could

at had

roots;

en sod

potted

GETTING READY FOR REINETTE.

flowers here and there upon the lawn and in the flower-garden ;
while the conservatory, which opened from the dining room,
was partly filled with rare exotics which Phil, had ordered
from Springfield.

In its palmy days Hetherton had been one of the finest
places in the country, and, with some of its beauty restored, it
looked very pleasant and inviting that summer afternoon ; and
Anna felt a pang of envy for her more fortunate cousin, for
whom all these preparations were made, and of whom Phil,
talked so much. Anna was beginning to be jealous of
Keinette, and, as she rode home with Phil., she asked him if
he supposed he would make as much fuss for her if she were
coming to Merrivale.

* Why, yes,' he answered her, * under the same circumstances
I should, of course.'

* Yes, that's just the point,* she retorted. * Under the same
circumstances, which means if I were rich like her, and belonged
to the Hethertons. I tell you what, PhiL, '' Money makes the
mare go," and though this girl is not one whit better than I
am, whose mother is a dress-maker, and whose father keep5> a
one-horse grocery, you and that stuck-np Beresford, whom I
hate because he is stuck-up, would run your legs off for her,
when you, or at least he, would hardly notice me. You have
to, because you are my cousin, but if you were not you would
be just as bad as Beresford. Wouldn't you now 1 '

Phil, did not care to argue with his cousin, whose jealous
nature he understood perfectly, so he merely laughed at her
fancies and tried to divert her mind by asking her where she
thought he could find a blue silk spread to lay on the foot of
the bed in Keinette's chamber.

Anna did not know, but promised to make it her business to
inquire, and also to see that some pots of ivies were sent to
Hetherton Place before the guests arrived.

The ruse had succeeded, and Miss Anna, who felt that she
was deferred to, was in a much better frame of mind when she
was at last set down at her mother's door. She found her
grandmother in the sitting-room, and at once recounted to her
all she had seen at Hetherton Place, and how she was to send
over some ivies and hunt up a blue silk quilt for Reinette's bed.

' A blue silk bed-^uilt this swelteriu' weather 1 What under

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

, M

■f

the sun does she want of that ) ' grandma asked, and Anna ex-
plained that Cousin Ethel had a pink silk quilt because her
room was pink, and Cousin Grace had blue because her room
wao blue. It was a fashion, that was all

* Fiddlesticks on the fashion ! ' her grandmother replied.
* Better save the money for something else. If Kennet must
have an extra comforter, there's that patch-work quilt, herrin'
bone pattern, which her mother pieced when she was ten years
old. It took the prize at the cattle show, and I've kep' it ever
sense as a sort of memoir. If Rennet is any kind of a girl
she'll think a sight on't because it was her mother's work. I
shall send it over with the cat and kittens.'

' Cat and kittens ! What do you mean ? ' Anna asked, in un-
feigned surprise, and her grandmother explained that Rennet's
father had written she was very fond of cats, and Phil,
wanted some for her, and she was going to give her Speckle
and the Maltas.

Anna, who was above such weaknesses as a love for cats,
sniffed contemptuously, and thought her cousin must be a very
silly, childish person ; ' but, then, grandma,' she added, ' you
may as well call her by her right name, which isn't Rennet,
but Reinetie, with the accent on the last syllable.'

* Oh, yes, I forgot,' said grandma. ' Phil, told me not to call
her Rennet, but what's ihe difference ? I mean to do my duty
by her, and show Fred. Hetherton that I know what is what.
We must all go up in percession to meet 'em, and then go with
'em to the house, and ypur mother is goii' to fix me a new cap
in caco we stay to tea, and if it ain't too hot I shall wear my
morept and if it is, I guess I'll wear that pinkish spriggled
muslin with my lammy shawl, and you, Anny, must wear
your best clothes, for we don't want 'em to think we are
hack-woodsy!

There was no danger of Anna's wearing anything but her
best clothes, and for the next three days she busied herself
with thinking what was most becoming to her, deciding at last
upon white muslin and blue sash, with her long lace scarf
fastened with a blush-rose, her white chip hat faced with blue
and turned up on one side, with a cream-coloured feather
drooping down the back. This, she thought, would be alto^

GETTING READY FOR REINETTE.

Anna ex-
;au8e her
ler room

replied,
let must
;, herrin'
•en years
>' it ever
>f a girl
rork. 1

d, in un-
^nnet's
id Phil.
Speckle

for cats,
e a very
d, 'you
Rennet,

t to call
y duty

what.
;o with
ew cap
ear my
riggled

wear
^Q are

it her
erself

at last
scarf
blue

ather
altO"

gether au fait^ and sure to impress Reinette with the fact that
she was somebody.

Anna was getting quite interested in her new cousin, with
whom she meant to stand well ; and though she said to the
contrary, she was really glad that Ethel and Grace Rossiter
were both absent, thus leaving her to represent alone the young
ladyhood of the family.

Such was the state of affairs on the morning when the paper
announced that the Rtissia had reached New York the previous
afternoon — a piece of news which, though expected, threw Mr.
Bercsford, and Phil., and the Fergusons into a state of great
excitement

Fortunately, however, everything at Hetherton Place was in
readiness for the strangers. The rooms were all in perfect
order ; a responsible and respectable woman, in the person of
Mrs. Jerry Tubbs, had been found for housekeeper, and with
her daughter Sarah installed in the kitchen. Two beautiful
horses, with a carriage to match, and a man to take care of
them, were standing in the stable, awaiting the approval of
Miss Eeinette ; while in another stall a milk-white steed, tall
and large, was pawing and champing, as if impatient for the
coming of the mistress he was to carry so grandly and high
Chained in his kennel to keep him from running away to the
home he had not yet forgotten, was a noble Newfoundland dog,
which Phil, had bought at a great price in West Merrivale, and
whose name was King. Could Phil, have had his way, he
would have brought a litter of puppies, too, for the young lady ;
but Mr. Beresford interfered, insisting that one dog like King
was enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. If Miss Hether-
ton wanted puppies let her get them herself. So Phil, gave
them up, but brought over Speckle and the three Maltas, and
these were tolerably well domesticated, and had taken very
kindly to the stuffed easy-chair which stood in Reinette's win-
dow. The blue silk quilt had been found in Worcester, and
Grandma Ferguson had sent over the * herrin'-bone ' which
Margaret pieced when ten years old, and which had taken the
prize at the 'Cattle Show.' This Mrs. Jerry Tubbs had
promised faithfully to put on Rennet's bed, and to call the young
lady's attention to it as her mother's handiwork.

And so all things were ready^ and Grandma Ferguson's

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

I !l;ii

sprigged muslin, and lam/my shawl, and new lace cap were laid
out upon the bed when Phil, came with the news that the ship
had arrived, and that, in all probability, they should soon get
a velegram from Mr. Hetherton himself.

This was early in the morning, and as the hours crept on Mr.
Beresford and Phil, hovered about the telegraph office, until at
last the message came flashing along the wires, and the opera-
tor wrote it down, and, with a white, scared face, handed it to
Mr. Beresford, who, with a whiter face and a look of horror in
his eyes, read the following :

' New York, July — , 18 — .
* To Mr. Arthur Beresford :

'' Papa is dead. He died just before the ship touched the shore,
and I am all alone with Pierre. But everybody is so kind, and
everything has been done, and we take the ten o'clock train to
Merrivale, Pierre and I and poor dead papa. Please meet us at the
station, and don't take papa to his old home. I could not bear to
have him there dead. 1 should see him always and hate the place
for ever ; so bury him at once. Pierre says that will be better. I
trust everything to you.

* Beinette Hetherton.*

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE SEA.

I HE Russia was steaming slowly up the harbour^ to her
moorings on the Jersey side of the Hudson, and her
upper deck was crowded with passengers, some strain-
ing their eyes to catch the first sight of familiar forms among
the crowd waiting for them on shore, and others to whom
everything was strange, looking eagerly from side to side at
the world so new to them. Standing apart from the rest, with
her hands locked tightly together, her head thrown back, and
a long blue vail twisted around her sailor hat, stood a young
girl with a figure so slight that at first you might have mis^
taken her for a child of fourteen, but when she turned more

ON THE SEA,

fully toward you you would have seen that she was a girl of
twenty summers or more, whose face you would look at once,
and twice, and then come back to study it again and wonder
what there was in it to fascinate and charm you so. Beautiful
in the strict sense of the word it was not, for if you dissected
the features one by one there was much to find fault with. The
forehead was low, the nose was short and inclined to an up-
ward turn, as was the upper lip, and the complexion was dark,
while the cheeks had lost something of their roundness during
the passage, which, though made in summer, had not been alto-
gether smooth and free from storm.

During the first three days Reinette had been very sick, and
Pierre, her father's attendant, had carried her on deck and
wrapped her in blankets and furs, and watched over and cared
for her as if she had been a queen. Then, when the rain came
dashing down and the great green waves broke over the lower
deck, and she refused to return to the close cabin, and said she
liked to watch the ocean in a fury because it made her think oC-
herself in some of her moods, he staid by her and covered her
with his own rubber cloak and held an tlmbrella over her head
until the wind took it from him, and turning it wrong side out,
carried it far out to sea, where it rode like a feather on the
waves, while Reinette laushed merrily to see it dance up and
down until it was lost to sight. Others than Pierre were inter-
ested in and kind to the little French girl, whose father had
kept his berth from the time he came on board at Liverpool.

It was whispered about that he was a millionaire, and that
Reinette was his only child, and heiress of his vast fortune ;
and as such things go for a great deal on shipboard as well as
elsewhere, this of itself was sufficient to interest the passengers
in Reinette, who, as soon as she was able, danced about the
ship like the merry, light-hearted creature she was, now jabber-
ing with Pierre in hib native tongue, and sometimes holding
fierce altercations with him, now watching the sailors at their
work, and not unfrequently joining her own clear, bird-like
voice in the songs they sung, and again amusing some fretful,
restless child, whose tired mother blessed her for the respite,
and thought her the sweetest type of girlhood she had ever
seen. Everybody liked her, and, after a little, everybody called
her beautiful, she was so bright and sparkling, with the rich,

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

warm colour in her cheeks, her pretty little mouth always break-
ing out in frequent exclamations of surprise or rippling bursts of
laughter, her long eyelashes and heavy brows, her black, wavy
hair, which in some lights had in it a tinge of golden brown, as
if it had been often kissed by the warm suns of Southern France,
and, more than all, her large, dark, brilliant eyes, which flashed
upon you so suddenly and so swiftly as almost to blind and be-
wilder you with their brightness. Taken as a whole, Reinette
Hetherton was a girl who, once seen, could never be forgotten ;
she was so sunny, and sweet, and wilful, and piquant, and
charming every way ; and the passengers on the Russia, who
were mostly middle-aged people, petted, and admired, and sym-
pathized with her, too, when, with the trace of tears in her
beautiful eyes, she came from her father's bedside and reported
him no better.

For months his health had been failing, and he had hoped
the sea voyage would restore him pomewhat ; but he was grow-
ing steadily worse, though as yet there was no shadow of fear
in Eeiuette's heart ; she was only sad and sorry for him, and
staid with him whenever he would let her. Generally, how-
ever, he would send her away after a few passionate hugs and
kisses, and enquiries as to how he was feeling. She must get
all the sea air she could, he said, for he wanted her to be
bright and fresh when he presented her to his friends in
America.

* Not that I have many friends there,' he said, smiling a
little bitterly. ' It has been so many years, and so much has
happened, since I left home, that I doubt if any remember or
care for me ; but they will forgive me, perhaps, for the sake of
you, my daughter,' and he stroked fondly the long silken curls
which Reinette wore bound at the back of her head, and looked
lovingly into the eyes meeting his so tenderly.

Then he sent her away, and turning in his narrow berth,
thought again, as he had thought many times, of all the sin
and evil-doing he had heaped up against himself and others
since the day he last saw his native land. Many and terribly
bitter were the thoughts crowding his btain and filling him
with remorse as he lay there day after day, and knew that with
each turn of the noisy screw he was nearing the home where
there was not a friend to welcome hinr.

IWIIl

ON THE SEA.

8 break-
mrsts of
c, wavy
'own, as
France,
flashed
andbe-
leinette
rgotten ;
nt, and
ia, who
nd sym-
3 in her
eported

\ hoped
IS grow-
of fear
m^ and
^, how-
igs and
ust get
to be
nds in

ling a
ch has
ber or
ake of
curls
ooked

* But once there,' he said to himself, ' once back in the old
place, ril begin life anew. I'll make friends even of my ene-
mies for the sake of my darling ; oh, Queenie, my angel, there
is so much I would undo for you — for you — to whom the great-
est wrong of all has been done, and you so unconscious of it.
Would you kiss me as you do 1 Would you love me as you
do, if you knew all the dark past as I know it? Oh, my child 1
my child ! ' and, covering his face with his hands, the sick man
sobbed aloud.

* If I live to get there,' was now the burden of his thoughts ;
but could he live he asked himself as, day by day, he felt he
was growing weaker, and counted the rapid heart-beats and
saw the streaks of blood upon the napkin his faithful Pierre
held to his lips after a paroxysm of coughing.

The desire for life was stronger within him now than it had
been for years ; but the candle was burned out ; there was only
the snuff remaining, and when at last the scent of the land
breeze was born through his open window, and Beinette came
rushing in to tell him they were entering the harbour, and she
had seen America, he knew that the hand of death was on him,
and that the only shore he should ever reach would be the
boundless shore of eternity, which was looming up so black be-
fore him. But he would let Eeinette be happy as long as pos-
sible, and so he sent her from him, and then, with a low moan,
he cried :

* Pity me, oh, God 1 I have so much need to be forgiven.'
In his gayest, most reckless moods, with his sceptical com-
panions round him jeering at all that was sacred and holy, he had
said there was no God; that the Bible was only an old woman's
fable, but he had never quite believed it ; and now with death
measuring his life by heart-beats, he knew there was a God
and a hereafter by the stiugs of his own conscience, and the
first prayer uttered in years fell from his white lips. Oh, how
many and how great were the sins which came back to him as
he thought of his wasted life, remembering his mother dead so
long ago ; his father, too, whose last words to him had been a
curse , and the beautiful Margaret, whom, for a short period he
had loved with a love so impetuous that in a few short months
it had burned itself out, and left only poisonous ashes where
the fierce passion had been. How gentle, and patient and for*

QUEENIE HETUERTON.

giving she was, and how basely he had requited her faithful-
ness and love.

' Oh, Margaret/ he whispered, ' I am so sorry, and if I could
undo the past I would.'

Then, as another phantom, darker, more terrible than all
the others flitted before his mind, he shivered as with a chill
while the great drops of sweat came out upon his forehead and
the palms of his hands, which he clasped so tightly together,
were dripping with perspiration. And while he lay there
alone sufiering the torments of remorse he could hear the rapid
movements of the sailors, and the excited crowd on deck
watching for the shora And Reinette, he knew, was with
them, looking eagerly upon the new world, which recently he
had tried to teach her to love as her future home.

' Home — America,' he murmured ; ' I must see it again ; '
and, regardless of consequences, he got out of his berth, and,
tottering to his window, looked out upon the beautiful bay,
and saw in the distance the city, which had grown so much
since he last looked upon it

But the exertion was too great for him, and, dizzy and
faint, he crept back to his bed, where he lay unconscious for a
moment ; then rousing himself, and alarmed by the terrible
feeling stealing over him so fast, he called aloud for Keinette.

The call was heard by Pierre, who was never far away, and
who came at once, greatly alarmed by the pallor in his master's
face and the flecks of blood upon the lips and chin.

To go for Eeinette was the work of an instant, and, like a
frightened deer, she bounded down the stairway to her father's
side, and in her impetuosity almost threw herself upon him.
But he motioned her back, and whispered :

* Not so close ; you take my breath away, Pierre,* he added,
as his valet started for the physician, ' don't go for him ; it's
too late now. I am dying ; nothing can help me, and I must
not be disturbed. I must be alone with Queenie. Stand out-
side till I call.'

The frightened Pierre obeyed, and then Reinette was alone
with her dying father. She knew he was dying, but the awful
suddenness stunned her so completely that she could only
gaze at him in a stupefied kind of way, as his eyes were fixed
80 earnestly upon her.

ON THE SEA.

faithful-

I could

than all
1 a chill
lead and
ogether,
y there
he rapid
)n deck
as with
ently he

again ; '
th, and,
iful bay,
BO much

szy and
us for a
terrible
einette.

ay.

and

naster's

like a
'ather's
n him.

added,
m ; it's
I must
id out-
alone
awful
only
fixed

'Little Queenie/ he said, using the pet name he always
gave her, * kneel down beside me and hold my hands, in
yours, while I. tell you something I ought to have told you
long ago.'

She obeyed, and, covering his cold hands with kisses,
whispered :

* Yes, father, I am waiting.*

But if he heard, he did not answer at once ; and when at
last he spoke, it was with difficulty, and like one who labours
for breath. His mind, too, seemed wandering, and he said :

' I can't tell you, but if it ever comes to you, promise you
will forgive me. I have loved you so much, my darling ; oh,
my darling, promise while I can hear you !'

' Yes, father, I promise,' Reinette replied, knowing nothing
to what she pledged herself, thinking nothing except of the
white face on the pillow, where the sigu of death was written.

* Queenie, are you here ? ' the voice said again, and she re-
plied, ' ^ cs, father,' while he continued : ' I meant to have
told you when we reached New York once more, it is so long.
It is too late, forever too late. Oh, Queenie — oh, Margaret,
forgive 1'

* Is it of mother you wish to tell me 1 ' Reinette asked,
bending forward eagerly, and fixing her great dark eyes upon
him.

* Your mother, child — your mother. Yes — no— don't speak
that name aloud. We've left Iter way over there, or I thought
we had. That's why I was going home — to get away from it,
and— if — Queenie, where are you 1 1 cau't see you, child. You
are surely here 1 You are listening ? '

' Yes, yes, father, I am here. I am listening,' and the girl's
rigid face and fixed, wide-open eyes showed how intently she
was listening.

' Yes, child, that's right ; listen so close that nobody else can
hear. We are all alone T

' Yes, father, all alone ; only Pierre is outside, and he un-
derstands English so little. What is it, father ] What are
you going to tell me ? '

There was silence for a moment, while Mr. Hetberton re-
garded his daughter fixedly, and with an expression in his eyes
which made her uneasy and half afraid of him*

I '

QUEENtE HETBERTON.

^ What is it ? ' he said, at last
and goes, as she did. Ah ! now I

*I don't
have it.

ijx.r how
mother —

much I love you, and if you

know ; it comes
Queenie, remem-
ever meet your

' Oh, poor father, his mind is wandering,' Reinette thought ;
but she said to him, soothingly : ' Mother in dead ; she died
in Kome when I was born.'

Again the eyes regarded her with a look of cunning in them,
and a smile, pitiable to see, curled the pallid, blood-stained
lips, as the dying man replied :

' Yes, I know ; but that's our little joke. She's here, or she
was over there in the corner just now, laughing at my pain.
Oh, Queenie, do the torments of the lost begin before they die.
I'm sorry — oh, I am so sorry ! It's too late now — too late. I
can't think ho\, it was, or tell you if I c ild.'

He was quiet a moment, and seemed to be himself again, as
his shaky hands caressed the shining hair of the head bowed
down so near to him.

* Too late, Queenie. I ought to have told you before, but
it's my nature to put off ; and now when they claim you in
Merrivale, accept it ; try to like everybody, be pleased with
everything. America is very different from France. Trust
Mr. Beresford ; he is my friend. He comes of a good race.
Tell him everything. Go to him for everything necessary,
but don't trouble any one when you can help yourself. Don't
cjy before people ; it bothers and distresses them. Be a wo-
man ; learn to care for yourself. Govern your temper ; no-
body will bear with it as I have. Be patient with Pierre —
and — and — Queenie, child, where are you? It's getting so
dark. I can't see you anywhere, nor feel you either. Have
you left me, too ? and Margaret is ^one now. '

* No, no ; Im here ! ' Reinette cried, in an agony of fear ; and
her father continued :

* Remember, when it comes to you, as it may, thai; yo^i pro-
mise to forgive.'

* YeS; fiither. I don't know what you mean, but if I ever
do, I'll forgive everything — everything, and love you just the
Same, forever and ever,' Reinette said to him ; and the cold,
clammy hands upon her head pressed harder, in token that he
had heard. But that was the only response . for a moment.

ON THE SM.

comes
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when he said again, and this time in a whisper, with heavy,
laboured breath :

* One thing more comes to my mind. There will be letters
for me — letters from — from — many people — on business —
nothing but business, and you must not read them, or let
another do it. Burn them, Queenie. Swear to me solemnly
that you will do it ; swear it, child !*

*I swear it, father — swear solemnly that I will burn all
letters which may come to you without reading them,' Kei-
nette said, frightened at the strange look in his face and his
evident eagernes& for her reply.

* God bless you, darling ! Keep your promise to your dying
father, and never try to find — '

He did not say what or whom, but lay perfectly quiet, while
overhead on deck the trampling of feet was more hurried and
noisy, and the ship gave a little lurch as if hitting against
something which resisted its force and set it to rocking again.
The motion threw Reinetto backward, and when she gathered
herself up and turned towards the white face on the pillow,
she uttered a wild cry in French :

* Oh, Pierre, Pierre, come qtlickly, father is dead ! * and
tottering toward the door she fell heavily against the tall
custom-house officer just entering the state-room.

He had come on board to do his duty; had seen the bustling
little Frenchman speak hurriedly to the young girl on deck ;
had seen her dart away, and fancied she cast a frightened look
at him. When others came to declare the contents of their
trunks she had not been with them.

Secreting her * goods and chattels,* no doubt, he thought,
and made his way to the state-room, where he stood appalled
in the awful presence of death.

Reinette might have had the wealth of all Paris in her
trunks and carried it safely off, for her trunks were not molest-
ed, and both passengers, ship's crew, and ofhcers vied with
each other in their care for and attention to this young girl,
whose father lay dead in his berth, and who was all alone in a
strange and foreign country. Understanding but little of the
language, and terrified half out of his wits at the sight of
death, Pierre was almost worse than useless, and could do
nothing but croach ^\, his mistress s feet^ and holding her

QUEENtE HETSEBfOlt,

Es'i

hands in his gaze in her face in dumb despair, as if asking
what they were to do next.

' Children, both of thenL We must take it in hand our!
selves/ the captain said to his mate ; and he did take it in hand,
and saw that Eeinette was made comfortable at the Astor, and
the body was made ready for burial.

When awaked if she had friends or relatives expecting her,
Beinette replied :

* No, no friends or relatives anywhere. Papa was all I had*
There is only Pierre now, and Mr. Beresford, papa's agent I
am to trust him with everything.'

Later, when something was said to her about telegraphing
to Mr. Beresford to come for her, she answered, promptly :

' No, that would make unnecessary trouble, and father said I
was not to do that. Pierre and I can go alone. I have travelled
a great deal, and when papa was sick in Germany and Pierre
could not understand, I have talked to the guards and the por-
ters. I know what to do.*

And on the pale, tear-stained face there was a resolute, self-
reliant look, which was in part born of this terrible shock, and
partly the habit of Beinette^i^life.

' To-morrow morniig 1 will telegraph,' she added. ' You
see us to the right train, and I can do the rest. I can find the
way. I have been studying it up.'

. And she showed him Appleion's Railway Guide, to which
she had fled as to a friend.

Since leaving the ship she had not shed a tear in the
presence of any one, but the anguish in her dry bright eyes,
and the drawn, set look about her ashen lips told how hard it
was for her to force back the wild cry which was constantly
forcing itself to her lips until her throat felt like bursting with
its lumps of pain. Her father, to whom in life her slightest
wish had been a law had said to her in death, ' Don't trouble
people, nor cry if you can help it Be a woman ; * and now
his wish was a law to her, which she would obey if she broke
her heart in doing it. She did not seem at all like the airy,
merry-hearted laughing girl she had been on shipboard, but
like a woman with a woman's will and a woman's capacity to
act. That she could go to Merrivale alone she was perfectly

ON THE SEA.

sure, and she convinced the captain of it, and then with a
voice that shook a little, she said : ^

' Mr. Beresford will meet me, of course, at the station, and
some others, perhaps. I don't quite know the ways of this
country. Will they bury him at once, do you think, or take
him somewhere first % '

The captain understood her meaning and replied by asking
if she had friends — relatives — in Merrivale 1

* None,' she said. * Nobody but Mr. Beresford, father's friend
and lawyer.'

* But you have a house — a home — to which you are going ? '

* Yes, the home where father lived when a boy, and which
he was so anxious to see once more,' Eeinette said, and the
captain replied :

* Naturally, then, they will take your father there for a day
or two, and then give him a grand funeral, with '

* They won't ; they shan't,' interrupted Reinette, her eyes
blazing with determination. ' I won't have a grand funeral,
with all the peasantry and their carts joining in it. Neither
will I have him carried to the lald home. I could not bear to
see him there dead where he wished so much to be, alive. I
should hate the place always, and see him white and dead, |and
cold everywhere. He is my own darling father to do with as
I like. Pierre says I'm my own mistress, and I shall telegraph
Mr. Beresford to-morrow that father must be buried from the
station, and I shall make him do it.'

She was very decided and imperious, and the captain let her
have her way, and sent ofi for her next morning the long tele-
gram which she had written, regardless of expense, and which
so startled the people in Merrivale and changed their plans
summarily.

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER VTII.

REINETTE ARRIVES.

R. Beresford, to whom the telegram was addressed,
naturally read it first, feeling as if the ground was
moving from under his feet, and leaving a chasm he
did not know how to span.

* What is it ? ' Phil, asked, as he saw how white Mr. Beres-
ford grew, and how the Land which held the telegram shook.

* Read for yourself,' Mr. Beresford said, passing the paper
to Phil, to whose eyes the hot tears sprang quickly, and whose
heart went out to the desolate young girl, alone in a strange
land, with her dead father beside her.

' If I had known it last night I would have gone to her,' he
said, ' but it's too late now for that. All we can do is to make
it as easy for her as possible. Beresford, you see to the grave
in the Hetherton lot, and that the hearse is at the station to
meet the body, and I'll notify them at the house not to go on
with the big dinner they are getting up, and I'll tell grand-
mother that her flounced muslin and pink ribbons will not be
needed to-day.*

Shocked and horrified as he was, Phil, could not refrain from
a little pleasantry at the expense of the dress and cap which
Grandma Ferguson was intending to wear ' to the doin's,' as
she termed it.

It was in the midst of these preparations that Phil, came
with the news, which so shocked his grandmother that for a
moment she did not speak, and when at last she found her voice
her first remark was wholly characteristic and like her.

' Fred Hetherton died ! Sarves him right, the stuck-up critterl
But I am sorry for the girl, and we'll give him a big funeral
jest on her account.'

But Phil, explained that this was contrary to Reinette's
wishes ; her father was to be buried from the station, as Reinette
would not have the body taken to Hetherton Place.

' Fraid of fcptrrits, most likely,' said Mrs. Ferguson, thinking

REINETTE ARRIVESi.

to herself that now she should spend a great deal of time with
her granddaughter who would be lonely in her great houso.

Then, as her eye fell upon her muslin dress and lace cap, her
thoughts took another channel. Out of respect to Reinette, who
would of course be clad in the deepest mourning she could find
in New York, she and her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Tom, and Anna,
must at least wear black when they first met her. Mr. Tom
Ferguson, of whom scarcely anything has been said, and who
was a plain, quiet, second-class grocer and as obstinate in some
matters as a mule, refused to have anything to do with the affair.

* Fred Hetherton had never spoken to, or looked at him when
a boy, and he shouldn't go after him now,' he said. ' He should
stay at home and mind his own business, and let the women
felks run the funeral.'

Phil, was very tired, for he had been busy since the arrival
of Reinette's telegram — at his grandmother's, his Aunt Lydia's,
his own home, at Hetherton Place, where he filled the rooms
with flowers brought from the Knoll gardens and conservatory
and with the beautiful pond lilies which he went himself upon
the river to procure.

* I certainly must honour my cousin with a new hat, for this
is unpardonably shabby,' he thought, and remembering his bet
with Arthur Beresford, and how sure he was to win, he went
into a hatter's on his return to town, and selecting a soft, sty-
lish felt, which was very becoming, and added to his jaunty ap-
pearance, he had it charged to his friend, and . iien went in quest
of some labourer to take with him to the grave-yard.

But there was none to be found, and so he set off alone, with
hoe, and rake, and sickle, and waged so vigorous a warfare upon
the weeds, and grass, and briers, that the lot, though far from
being presentable, was soon greatly changed in its appearance.
But Phil, had miscalculated the time, and while pruning the
willows which drooped over Mrs. Hetherton's grave, he sud-
denly heard in the distance the whistle of the train not over a
mile away.

To drop his knife, don his coat, and with the blood from a
bramble scratch on his hand, was the work of an instant, and
then Phil, went flying across the fields the shortest way to the
station, racing with the locomotive, speeding so swiftly across
the meadows by the river-side until it reached the station, where
a crowd of people was collected, and where grandma and Mrs.

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

Lydia waited in their black, and Anna in her white, while Mr.
Beresford, who had come up in his own carriage, stood apart
from them, nervous and expectant, and wondering where Phil,
could be — poor Phil. ! tumbling over stone walls, bounding over
fences, and leaping over bog in his great haste to be there, and
only stopping to breathe when he rolled suddenly down a bank
and was obliged to pick himself and his hat up, and wipe the
dirt from his pants, and rub his grazed ankle. Then he went
on, but the train had deposited its freight, living and dead, and
shot away under the bridge, leaving upon the platform a young
girl with a white, scared face, and great bright black eyes, which
flashed upon the staring crowd glances of wonder and inquiry.

It was an exquisitely moulded little figure with grace in every
movement ; but the crape which Grandma Ferguson had expec-
ted to see upon it was not there.

All this Anna noted at a single glance, as she did the dainty
little boot, which the short dress made so visible.

* She isn't, in black ; you might have saved yourself all that
bother,' Anna said, under her breath, while her grandmother
was thinking the same thing, and sighing regretfully for the
cool, spriggled muslin lying at home, while she was sweating at
every pore in her bombazine.

But she meant well, and secure in this consciousness, she
pressed forward to claim and embrace her grandchild, just as
Mr. Beresford stepped up to the young lady, and offering her
his hand, said, in his well-bred, gentlemanly way :

* Miss Hetherton, I believe ] '

* I'm looking for Mr. Beresford. Please do you know him —
is he here ? '

*I ara Mr. Beresford/ he replied, and the lightning glance
which the bright eyes flashed into his face almost blinded hira,
for Reinette's eyes were wonderful for their brilliancy and con-
tinually varying expression, and few men ever stood unmoved
before them.

It was a very novel position in which the grave bachelor
Beresford found himself — a girl crying on his hands, with all
those people looking on ; and still he rather liked it, for there
was something very touching in the way those fingers clung to
his, and in his confusion he was not quite sure that he did not
press them a little, but before he could think what to say or do.
Grandma Ferguson's crape and two hundred pounds stood close

REINETTE ARRIVES.

;lance

him,

I con-

tnoved

to him, and as Reinette lifted her head a pair of arms waa
thrown around her neck, and a voice which her patrician ears
detected at once as untrained and uneducated, exclaimed :

* My dear Rennet, I am so glad to see ray daughter's girl.*

* Madarae, I don't understand you,' Reinette replied, draw-
ing nearer to Mr. Beresford, and holding faster to his hand,
as if for protection and safety.

* I am your grandmarm — your mother's mother ; and this,'
turning to her daughter-in-law, ' is your aunt Liddy Ann —
your Uncle Tom's wife ; and this one,* nodding to Anna, who
understood this state of things better than her grandmother,
and was hot with resentment and anger, ' this is your cousin
Anny.'

Releasing her hand from Mr. Beresford's, Reinette, with
dexterous rapidity, wrenched oft her gloves, as if they, like the
veil, were burdensome ; and Anna, who hated her own long,
slim, fingers, with the needle-pricks upon them, saw, with a
pang of envy, how soft, and small, and white were her cousin's
hands, with the dimples at the joints, and the costly jewels
shining on them.

Lydia Ann, who felt quite overawed in the presence of this
foreign girl, did not speak, but courtesied straight up and
down ; while Anna, always politic and calculating the future,
put on a show of cordiality, and, offering her hand, made a
profound bow as she said :

* I am glad, Cousin Reinette, to make your acquaintance,
and you are very welcome to America.'

' Thanks,' murmured Reinette, in her soft, foreign accent,
just as Grandma Ferguson spoke again :

* And this 'ere is another cousin, Philip Rossiter — your A'nt
Mary's boy.'

Just then Pierre came to the rescue, and said something to
her in her own language, whereupon she turned swiftly to Mr.
Beresford and said :

* You received my telegram ? You will bury him straight
from here ? '

*Yes,' he answered, 'and I believe everything is ready.
Shall I take you to your carriage ? '

' Yes, yes ! O do ! ' she replied, and placing her hat on her
head again, she took his arm, and entered the carriage.

Reinette must have guessed the intention of her new rela-

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

tives to ride with her, for she said rapidly and low to Mr.
Beresford :

' You CO with me, of course, and Pierre : that is proper ; he
loved father ; he is nearer to me now than any one in the wide
world.'

* Why, yes ; only I think your relatives — your grandmother
will naturally expect to accompany you,' Mr. Beresford an-
swered, and Beinette said quickly :

' My relatives 1 my grandmother ! Mr. Beresford, he said
I was to ask you everything. Are they my grandmother 1
Tell me true.'

Mr. Beresford could not repress a smile at the way she put
tht question, in her vehemence, but he answered her very low
und cautiously, as the Ferguson party were close behind.

* I think they are.'

Then, as a suddeii idea flashed upon him, he continued :

* Was your father twice married ? *

* No. nevei, never ! '

* Tell me, then, please, your mother's name 1 '

* Margaret Ferguson, and she died in Rome, when I was born.'
' If your mother was Margaret Ferguson, and died in Rome,

I am afraid '

He did not go on, for something in the black eyes stopped
him suddenly, and warned him that if these people were indeed
her grandmother's she would sufifer no insinuations against
them. She was like Phil, in that respect ; what was hers she
would defend, and, when Mrs. Ferguson's red face appeared at
the door, Reinette moved to the other side of the seat, and said :

* Here, grandmother, sit by me, please.'

She had acknowledged her by name, at least, and Reinette
felt better, and only clenched her hands hard as Lydia Ann
and Anna disposed of themselves on the soft cusliiotis opposite,
the your.g lady stepping in and tearing her long lace scarf, and
uttering the exclamation •

' My gracious, how awkward 1 '

* You didn't orter wear it. Such jimcracks ain't for funerals.
Rennet ain't got on none,' grandma said, vrhile Ann? frowned
insolently, and Reinette looked o.i and shivered, and held her
hands tignter togettier, and thought bow dreadful io all was,
and how could it be thao these people belonged to her, who at
heart was the veriest aristocrat ever born.

i N

REINETTE ARRIVES.

to Mr.

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At last, as the silence became unbearable to grandma, who
liked nothing better than talking, she said to Keinette :

* I s'pose you don't remember your mother 1 '
Keinette shook her head, and grandma continued :

* How old was you when she died ? '
' I don't know.'

* Wall, now. Don't you think that's singular ? ' and grand-
ma looked at her daughter-in-law and Anna, the latter of whom
seized the opportunity to spit out her venom, and said :

'Not singular at all, and if I's you, grandma, I wouldn't
bother Keinette with troublesome questions.'

Grandma Ferguson, who, since Reinette's pitiful outburst had
been crying softly to herself, wiped her eyes, and said :

* Yes, darling, this is the place ; this is the Hethe: .on lot.
It has been left to run down many a year, but will look better
by-and-by. Hadn't you better stay in the carriage 1 1 ou can
if you want to.'

' No, no, oh, no .1 must be with father,' Keinette replied, and
opening the door herself, she sprang to the ground, and was first
at the open grave, where she stood immovable during the short
prayer and until they began to lower the body. Then she ex-
claimed :

* Oh, are there no flowers for him 1 Did no one bring a flower,
when he loved them so much ? ' and her eyes flashed rebukingly
upon those who had brought no flowers for the dead man.

Meanwhile Phil., with his usual forethought, had interviewed
his grandmother in an aside and suggested to her that as Kei-
nette would undoubtedly prefer going alone with Mr. Beresford
to her new home, the ladies should return to town in the car-
riage of the latter and call on his cousin the following day.

' Phil, thinks you'd rather be alone the first night home, and
I guess he's right/ said grandma, * so if you'll excuse your
Aunt liddy, and me and Anny, we'll come early to-morrow
and see you, and have a long talk about your mother. Good-by,
and Heaven bless you, child.'

While she was speaking, Keinette looked steadily in her face,
and something in its expression attracted more than it repelled
her. It was a good, kind, honest face, and had seen her mother,
and Eeinette's lip quivered as she held out her hand and said :

' Th^k you, it will be better go ; good-by.*

QUEENIB HETUEHTON.

CHAPTER IX.

I<iC»,NETTE AT HOME.

HEN Phil, envied Mr. Beresford his opportunity for
being alone with Reinette and listening to her con-
versation, he made a mistake, for during the first of
the drive from the cemetery to Hetherton Place, she scarcely
spoke to him, bnt sat with closed eyes and locked hands, lean-
ing back in the corner of the carriage, as motionless as if she
had been asleep. Once, however, when they were crossing the
river, she looked out and asked :

- Isn't this the Chicopee ? ' and on being told it was, she said
to Pierre, in French :

* This is the river, Pierre, where papa used to gather the
pond lilies when he was a boy. It empties into the Connecti-
cut as the Seine does into the sea. You know you looked it
out on the map for me.'

P'erre nodded, and Reinette, although she now kept her eyes
open, did not speak again until they reached the long hill
which wound up to the house. Then, as she saw to her left a
lovely little sheet of water sparkling in the sunlight, she started
up exclaiming :

' That must be Lake Petit, where father used to keep his
boat, the Waif.'

' Yes,' said Mr. Bereoford, surprised at her knowledge of the
neighbourhood. * Your grandmother, Mrs Hetherton, called it
Lake Petit, I believe, but to most of the people here it is the
Mill Pond.'

Reinette shrugged her shoulders, and asked :

' Isn't it on papa's land % '

* Yes, it belongs to the Hetherton estate,' was the reply, and
she continued in a decisive tone :

' Then it is never any more to be Mill Pond. It is Lake
Petit forever.'
They were half way up the hill by this time, and a^ they

REINETTE AT HOME.

»5

sep his

reached height after height, and one after another views of the
surrounding country greeted Reinette's wondering gaze, her
delight knew no bounds, and forgetting for a moment the load
of pain at her heart, she gave vent to her delight in true girlish
fashion, uttering little screams of surprise and gladness, and
seizing Pierre by the shoulder and shaking him hard to make
him see what she was seeing, and appreciate it too.

* It's better than Switzerland, better than France — better
than anything ! I like America,' she cried, but Pierre shook
his head, and gave a sigh for ' La Belle France,' the best country
in the world, where he devoutly wished he had staid, adhering
to his opinion in spite of all his mistress said in opposition.

Mr. Beresford could not understand them, but he knew that
some altercation was going on between them, and was as-
tonished to see the different expressions which passed in an
instant over Reinette's face, and how beautiful she grew as the
bright colour came and went ; and she sparkled, and flashed,
and laughed and frowned, and shook up the stupid Pierre all
in the same breath. They were driving up to the house by
this time, and the moment the carriage stopped she sprang to
the ground and began to look about her, gesticulating rapidly
and tali'ing now in French and now in English, now to»
Mr. Eeres-v^rd and now to Piarre, who was almost as excited
as she was. The chateau, as she called it, was so much
larger and fresher than she supposed, and the grounds more
pretentious, and * oh, the flowers ! * she cried, darting in among
them like a little humming-bird and filling her hands with the
sweet summer pinks, which she pressed to her lips and kissed
as if they had been living things and sharers of her joy.

* The flowers are the same everywhere, and I love them so
much, and the world is so bright, just like a picture up here
where it is so high, so near Heaven, and I am so happy,' she
exclaimed, as she hopped about; then suddenly as a cloud
passes over the sun on an April day, a shadow came over her
and great tears rolled down her cheeks as, turning to Mr. Beres-
ford, she said, * What must you think of me to be so gay, and
he dead over in the graveyard. But it is one part of me ;
there's two of me, and 1 can't help it, though all the time I'm
missing him so much, and there's a pain in my heart and a
lump in my throat till it feels as if it would burst. And still

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

•\

I must love the brightness even though it's all dark where he
lies alone. Oh, father, if you, too, were here ! '

She was sobbing now bitterly, and Pierre was crying, too,
oven while he tried to comfort her. Suddenly at something he
said her sobbing ceased, and dashing the tears from her eyes
she smiled brightly at Mr. Beresford, and said :

* Forgive me, do, for troubling you with an exhibition of my
grief. I forgot myself. Father told me not to cry before
people, and I will not again. Come, let us go into the chateau ;
it looks so cool and inviting with the doors and windows open
and the muslin curtains blowing in and out, and the scent of
clover and new hay everywhere. The world is very bright and
full of sweet odours and I mean to be happy.'

During this scene in the grounds Mrs. Jerry, the house-
keeper, had been inspecting the little lady from (behind the
kitchen blinds, and now, as the party entered the wide hall,
she came forward to meet her in her neat calico dress and clean
linen collar, with her snowy hair combed smoothly back from
her frank, open brow. She knew she was there on trial, sub-
ject to Miss Reinette's fancy, and as she liked the place, and
was desirous of keeping it, she naturally felt some anxiety with
regard to the impression she should make upon the girl. Sho
was not long kept in suspense, for something in her face at-
tracted Keinette at once, and without the least hauteur in her
manner she went forward with outstretched hands, and said :

* Mrs. Jerry, I am so glad you are here. I know I shall like
you, and you must like me in all my moods, for I am not al
ways alike. There's two of me, the good and the bad — though
I mean to shut the bad one out of doors in this, my new home
And now, please, take these flowers and put them, into water
for me, and always have flowers standing about. I don't wish
any one to show me over the house.'

Turning now to Mr. Beresford :

' I'd rather find my way alone and guess which is my room
and which was meant for him,' — here hfer lip began to quiver,
but she kept up bravely and went on : * You will cjme and see
me to-morrow, and I shall ask you so many things. Father
said I was to trust you and go to you for everything. By-and-
by, though, I shall take care of myself. And now, good-by till
to-morrow afternoon.'

REINETTE AT HOME,

here he

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She gave him her hand, and he had no alternative but to go,
although he would so gladly have lingered longer, so deeply in--
terested was he already in this strange little girl with the two
natures, one proud, cold, scornful, and passionate ; the other
gentle and soft, and sweet as the flowers she loved so dearly.
He might have been more intei-ested still had he seen her
standing in the door with the great tears dropping from the
long eyelashes as she watched him going down the hill, and felt
that now, indeed,' she was alone in her desolation with the new
life all before her.

' I like him because he was father's friend, and because he
seems a gentleman,' she thought ; and then as she remembered
those other people who had claimed her for their own, and who
were not like Mr. Beresford, she shuddered and felt her other
self mastering her again.

Just then Mrs. Jerry appeared, asking if she could do any-
thing for her, and if she would not like to go to her room.

*No, no — go away.!' Reinette answered, almost angrily:
* I want nothing but to be let alone. I can find my way. I
must work it out myself.'

So Mrs. Jerry went back to the kitchen, and Pierre who
knew the first approaches of his mistress' moods, sat down upon
the grass quietly waiting the progress of events.

Reinette's face was very white, and, as was usual vher she
was trying to repress her feelings, her hands were locked to-
gether as she stood looking about her at the trees under which
her father had played when a boy, and the honeysuckle which
grew over the trellis-work, and which must have blossomed for
him, and more than all at his initials cut by himself on the
door-post. Then with a little smothered cry she turned sud-
denly, and ran up-stairs to the room which she had heard de-
scribed so often, and which at a glance she knew was hers.

^ 58

QVEENIE HETEERTON.

CHAPTER X.

THE TWO REINETTES.

jH, how lovely it is ! ' she cried, as she entered the room
and took it all in as rapidly as Phil, hiiiself could
have done. * What perfect taste Mr. Beresford must
have ! ' she continued. ' It is just as 1 would have it, except
the blue ribbons, which do not suit my black face. But I
can soon change them, and then everything will be faultless ;
and — oh — oh — the cats ! ' she screamed, as she caught sight
of Mrs. Speckle, who, with her three children, was purring con-
tentedly in the cushioned armchair by the window. * Cats !
and I love them so much ; he has remembered everything ! *
and oounding across the floor, Reinette knelt by the chair and
buried her face in the soft fur of the kittens, who, true to their
feline instincts, recognised in her a friend, and began at once
to play with her flowing curls, and to pat her neck and ears
with their velvety paws, while Mrs. Speckle, feeling a little
crowded, vacated the chair and seated herself upon the window-
stool, where Phil, saw her when he rode by.

The sight of the cats carried Keinette back to the day when
her father had written his directions to Mr. Beresford and she
had made suggestions. How careful he had been to remember
all her likes and dislikes, and how pale and tired he had looked
after the letter was finished, and how unjust and thoughtless
she had been to feel aggrieved because he said he was not able
to drive with her in the Bois de Boulogne after dinner was
over. And now he was dead, and she was alone in a strange
new world, with only Mr. Beresford for a friend, unless it were
those people who claimed her — tliose people of whom she had
never heard, and against whom she rebelled with all the strong
force of her imperious nature. She had not had time to con-
sider the matter seriously ; but now, alone in her own room,
with the door shut between her and the outside world, it rose
before her in all its magnitude, and for a time drove every

(

THE TWO REINETTES,

other feeling from her. The proud, aristocratic part of her na-
ture was in the ascendant, and battled fiercely against her better
self.

It was not possible, she thought, that these people — that loud-
voiced old lady, who used such dreadful grammar and called
her Bennet, and the Aunt Lyddy Ann, who looked like a bar-
maid, and the tall, showily-dressed Anna, with the yellow
plume, the cheap lace scarf, and the loud hat, such as only the
common girls of Paris wore — were really the relatives of her
beautiful mother, who she had always supposed was an English
woman, and whom she had cherished in her heart as everything
that was pure and lovely, and refined. Her father had said of
her once : —

* I never knew Mrs. Hetherton ' (he always called her
thus) ' to be guilty of a single unlady-like act, and I should be
glad, my daughter, if you were half as gentle and gracious of
manner as she was.'

It is true she had never been able to learn anything definite
*of her mother's family, for her father, when questioned, had
either answered evasiveljr, or not at all. Once he had said to
her, decidedly :

* There are reasons why I do not care to talk of your mother's
family and it is quite as well that you remain in ignorance.
Mrs. Hetherton was everything that a perfect lady should be.
You must be satisfied with that, and never trouble me again
about your mother't antecedents.'

He had seemed very much excited, and there was a strange
look in his face, as he walked the acUon rapidly, which fright-
ened Reinette a little ; and still she persisted so far as to say :

* I am sure mother was an Englishwoman, by her picture.*

* Be satisfied then that you know so much, and don't seek
for more knowledge. Whatever her friends were, they are no-
thing to me ; they can be nothing to you. So never mention
them again.'

And she never did ; but she almost worshipped the beautiful
face, which had been painted on ivory in Paris when her mo-
ther was a bride and had rooms at the Hotel Meurice. It
was a fair, lovely face, with hair of golden brown, and great
tender eyes of lustrous blue, with a tinge of sadness in them, as
there was also in the expression around the b;reet mouth just

QUEEN IE EETHEUTOh,

breaking into a smile. The dress was of heavy, creamy satin,
with pearls upon the snowy neck and arms, and on the wavy
hair. A high-bred aristocratic face, Reinetto thought, and in
spite of her father's evident dislike of her moth\:r's friends, she
never for an instant had thought of them as other than fully
her equals in position and social standing. Probably there had
been some quarrel which had resulted in lasting enmity, or her
mother might have been the daughter of some nobleman, and
eloped with the young American, thus incurring the life-long
displeasure of her family. This last was Reinette's pet theory,
and she had more than once resolved that when she was her
own mistress she would seek her mother's friends, never doubt-
ing that she would find them, if not dukes and duchesses, fully
equal to the Hethertons, who, her father said, had in their veins
the best blood of New and Old England both.

Everything pertaining to her mother was guarded by Rein-
ette with great fidelity, and in the bQx where her favourite trea-
sures were hidden away was a long bright tress of hair and a
few faded flowers, tied together with a bit of blue ribbon, to
which was attached a piece of paper, with the words, * My
mother's hair, cut from her head after she was dead, and some
of the flowers she held in her h^nds when she lay in her coffin.'

Among Reinette's books there was also an old copy of * The
Lady of the Lake,' on the fly-leaf of which was written in a
very pretty hand, * Margaret. From her sister Mary. Christ-
mas, 18 — .' This was the only link between herself and her
mother's family which Reinette possessed, and she guarded it
relii^iously, building upon it a multitude of theories with regard
to the Aunt Mary whom she meant sometime to find, and whom
she always saw clad in velvet, and jewels, and old lace, and pos-
sibly with a coronet on her brow.

Such were Reinette's ideas of her mother's friends, which
her father had suff'ered her to cherish, only smiling faintly at
some of her extravagant speculations, but never contradicting
them. And now, in place of dukes and duchesses, or, at least,
of lords and ladies, and English nobility, to have these people
thrust upon her, this grandmother, and aunt, and cousin, with
unmistakeable marks of vulgarity stamped upon theru, was too
much, and for a time the proud, sensitive girl rebelled against
it with all the fierceness of her nature, while, mingled with her

THE TWO REINETTES.

bitter humiliation, was another, a better and deeper feeling,
which hurt her fi\r more than the mortification of knowing that
she was not what she had believed herself to be. Her father,
whom she had so loved, and honoured, and believed in, had not
dealt fairly with her.

Why had he not told her the truth, especially after he knew
they were coming to America, and that she must certainly
know it some time.

' If he had told me, if he had said a kind word of them, I
should have been prepared for it and loved them just because
they were mother's people. Oh, father, whatever your motive
may have been, you did me a grievous wrong,' she said, and
into her eyes there crept a hard, strange look of resentment
toward the father who had kept this secret from her.

Then, as her thoughts went backward to the little state-
room where her father died, and the words he said to her, she
cried out :

* I understand now what he meant, when he tried to tell me,
what I was to forgive if ever it came to me. He meant to have
told me before, 'ae said ; he was sorry that he had not. Yes,
father, I gee. While we were in France there was no need for
me to know, and when we started for America it \/as hard to
confess it to me, hard to destroy my beautiful air-castles filled
with a line of ancestry nobler, better even than the Hethertons,
and so you put it off, as you did everything unpleasant, as long
as possible. You were going to tell me when you reached New
York, you said, but before we were there you were dead, and I
was left to meet it alone. Oh, father, I promised to forgive and
love you just the same, and I will, I do — I do, but it's very
hard on me, and I must fight it out and cast the demon from
me before I meet one of them again.'

And in truth Reinette did seem to be fighting with some foe
as she stood in the centre of the room, her face as white as
ashes, her tearless eyes flashing fire, and her hands beating the
air more rapidly and fiercely than tiey had done when, in the
carriage, her grandmother questioned her of her knowledge of
her mother. That was a feeble effort compared to what she
was doing now as she flew about the room striking out here
and there as if at some tangible object, and sometimes clutching
at the long curls float! ig over her shoulders. It was a singular

I '

QUEENIE EETHERTON,

sight and not strange at all that Mrs. Speckle, from her seat in
the window, looked curiously on at the young girl acting more
like a mad than sane woman, and the three kittens upon the
floor, who, fancying all these gyrations were for their benefit,
jumped and scampered, and spit, and pulled at Heinette's feet
and dress in true feline delight.

Suddenly the door opened cautiously, and Pierre looked on,
saying, softly :

* Please, Miss Reinette wouldn't you come out of it quicker
if you was to shake me a bit. I should't mind it a spell, if you
didn't use your nails, and would let my hair alone. There is'nt
much of it left, you know ! '

Pierre had not lived in his master's family fourteen years
without understanding his mistress thoroughly, and that in his
heart he worshipped her was proof that he had found far more
good in her than bad. He knew just how kind and loving, and
self-sacrificing she was, and how she had cared for him when he
had the fever in Eome, and her father was away in Palestine. In
spite of the remonstrances of friends, she had stood by him, night
and day, for weeks because he missed her when she was absent,
r^nd called for her in his delirium. It did not matter that the gay-
eties of the carnival were in progress, and that rare facilities
were offered her for seeing them. She turned her back on them
all and staid by the sick old man who needed her, and who, the
physicians said, owed his life to her nursing and constant care.
Pierre had never forgotten it any more than he had forgotten
the time when, in a fit of anger she had pounced upon his back
like a little tiger-cat and scratched, and bit, and pulled his hair
until he shook her off and held her till the humeuTy as he called
it, was over. Her father had punished her severely for that
ebullition of temper, ^nd she had never behaved so badly since,
though she sometimes shook Pierre furiously, for by contact
with some living thing which resisted her she could conquer
herself more readily, she said ; and when there was no one near
whom she dared touch, she sometimes gave vent to her excite-
ment by whirling round in circles and beating the air with her
hands. Pierre knew this peculiarity, and when he came to the
door and heard the tempest v/ithin, he offered himself at once
as a kind of breaker for the storm to beat against. !6utEeinette
did not need him. The battle was nearly over, for at its height.

THE TWO EETNETTES, '

when it seemed to her that she could not have it so — could not
lose one grain of respect for her father for having thus deceived
her — could not exchange the ideal friends of her mother for
tJiese people so different from herself, there came suddenly before
her mind a fair, handsome face, with eyes as tender and pitiful
as those of a woman, and yet with something strong and mas-
terful in their expression as they smiled a welcome upon her.

It was then she was most bewildered and confounded by the
unknown relations claiming her that somebody had said, * This
is another cousin ;' but in her excitement she had scarcely
heeded it, and made no response when the young man's hat
was lifted politely from his head by way of a greeting.

It was the same young man, she was sure, who had held her
back from the open grave, and spoken to her so kindly, in a
voice which she recognised at once as belonging to her class.
Reinette laid great stress upon the human voice, insisting that
by it she could tell how much of real culture or natural, inborn
refinement its owner possessed. The sharp, loud voices of the
Fergusons, with their peculiar intonation had grated upon her
nerves, but the well-modulated, well-trained tones of the young
man had fallen on her ear like a strain of music among jarring
discords.

Who was he ? Not the brother, surely, of that tall blonde
with the yellow plume and long lace scarf. That was impossi-
ble ; and yet some one had said, ' Here is another cousin,' and
he had acknowledged it with a smile, which came to her now
like sunshine breaking through a rift of clouds and clearing up
the sky.

* Oh ! if he only were my cousin, I could bear it so much
better,' she thought, just as Pierre came in, offering himself as
a sacrifice provided she spared his hair, of which he had so
little.

The whole thing was so unexpected and droll that it quieted
Reinette at once, and, sitting down in a chair, she laughed and
cried alternately for a moment ; then dashing her tears away
and taking the kittens upon her lap, she bade the old man sit
down beside her, as there was something she wished to tell him
—to ask him.

* Pierre,' she began, * it was right nice in you to offer your-
self a victim to my fury ; and, had you come sooner, I might

!;;:

QVEENIS BET BURTON.

have shaken you a little, for when I'm fighting with my other
self I always like to feel something in my power — something
which stands for that other girl I'm trying to conquer, and I
was half tempted to take one of these little kittens and wreak
my temper on that, but I didn't, and I am glad, and I am going
to govern myself hereafter, for I must be a woman now and not
a child.'

* Yes, miss, that's very good,' Pierre said, wondering how he
should like his little mistress if she were always as mild and
gentle as she seemed now, without any fire or spirit at all.

' Pierre,' Reinette continued, * how long have you !ived with
us?'

* Fourteen years come Christmas.'

*I thought so ; and did you know papa before you came to
us ? ' she asked, and he replied :

' No, miss ; only as I had heard of him as the rich American,
who lived so extravagantly at the Hotel Meurice, and had such
a handsome chateau in the country.'

' Yes, Chateau des Fleurs. It was lovely, and I was so happy
there. Then of course, you never saw my mother.'

* Never,' said Pierre, and Reinette continued :

* And did you never hear anything of her from people, from
strangers ? Did you never hear where she came from, where
papa found her 1 '

' I heard from you that she was very beautiful and good, and
died at Rome where you were born, and I think you told me
she was English. Surely you would know about your own
mother ;' and Pierre looked curiously at his young mistress,
who coloured painfully and beat the matting with her little
boot.

Reinette was hesitating as to how much she would tell Pierre,
for it hurt her to confess to any one how little she really knew
of her mother's antecedents, so wholly silent and non-commit-
tal had her father been on the subject. At last, deciding that
she must be frank with Pierre if she wished him to be so with
her, she said :

* Pierre, you are all I have left of the life in France, and I
must tell you everything. There was always a mystery about
mamma which I could not solve, and all I know of her was her
name, Margaret Ferguson, and that papa loved her very much,

THE TWO REINETTES.

so much that he could not bear to talk of her, and all I knewr
besides the name I guessed , and now I am afraid I did not
guess right. I have never met anybody who had seen her but
papa, except the nurse, Christine Bodine, who was with her
when she died, and who brought me to Paris. She, too, left
me when I was a year or so old, and I have not seen her since,
aud it made father very angry if I ever spoke of her. She
was not a nice woman, he said, and he did not wish me to
mention her name. Do you know where she is ; know any-
thing of her ? '

* What was the name, please ? ' Pierre asked, and Reinette
replied :

* Christine Bodine, and if living now she must be forty or
more. Mother would be forty-three.'

' I don't know where she is, and I never saw her,' said Pierre ;
* but the name brings something to my mind. Years ago, as
much as a dozen or more, when we were staying at Chateau des
Fleurs, I went with monsieur to Paris — to the ofl&ce of Monsieur
Polignac, a kind of broker or money-agent in town, and your
father gave him a note or cheque of 1,250 francs, to be sent to
Mademoiselle Christine Bodine. I remember the name per-
fectly, Christine Bodine, becaused it rhymed, and I said it to
myself two or three times, but who she was or where she lived
I don't know ; only master's face was very dark, and he was
silent and gloomy all the day, and I thought, maybe, Mademoi-
selle Bodine was some woman to whom he had to pay money,
whether he liked it or not. You know many fine gentlemen in
Paris do that.'

He saw that she did not understand him, and though he
might have told her that her father had not always been the
spotless man which she believed him to be, he would not do it,
preferring that she should be happy in her ignorance;

* I remember that day so well,' he continued, * because the
emperor, and empress, and prince imperial were all driving
through the streets and your father remarked to a friend, who
said something sneering of their majesties, as if they were up
starts aud not the real at all, that it pleased him to know that
they were not born in their present high position, for it showed
that democracy could rise to the top even in monarchical
France. I remember, too, that he bought you a big wax doll in the

,'*

QUEENIE UETHERTON.

Palais Royal, and although you were in bed when we reiarned
to the chateau, he had you up to give it to you, and fondl 1
and caressed you more than usual, as if making up for soi.
thing.'

Reinette's eyes were full of tears at these reminiscence? f
Pierre's, but she forced them back, and said :

* You. have no idea where Christine is now ] '

* None whatever, but I think monsieur hoai J xro^n her or of
her "len Wc 'e in Dverpoo' waiting to sail. You remember
tnat setreral letters were forwarded to him, and one excited him
ver' nuiiii, was in the room when he read it, and heard him
say somt wiling ' English, which I think was a swear, and 1
know he said " that accursed Christine," for 1 understood that
plain. He was very white and weak all day, and that night
asked you if you would feel very badly to turn back to Paris,
and not go to Amerioa after all. You remember it, don't
your

Reinette did remember it, though at the time she had laid
little or no stress upon it, thinking it a mere idle remar]., as
her father was naturally changeable. Now she could recall how
sick and sad he had looked, and how much he had talked of
France, and she cou' J see, or thought she could, that had she
been willing, he would have gone back so gladly.

He had written several letters that night and posted them
himself, and the next morning they had gone on board the
Russia, and he had taken his bed at once and died before they
reached New York.

Was it homesickness which had hastened his death, or was
there something in that letter which Pierre said had troubled
him and made him swear ? She could not tell, and with her
frank and open nature, and great love for her father, was far
from suspecting any wrong doing in him, wh' "» had followed
him even across the sea.

Surely there could have been nothing between him and her
nurse, Christine, which should make him curse her. Pierre
did not understand English well ; it was easy for him to blun-
der, though he had not done so in the name * Christine Bodine '
to whom her father had sent money. Why he had done so,
and where was Christine now ? She had known her mother.

Bturned
fondl 1
•r SOL -

BDce? f

er or of
member
ted him
ard him
r, and 1
>od that
it night
) Paris,
b, don't

lad laid
larL, as
lall how
liked of
had she

d them
ard the
>re they

or was
roubled
rith her
was far
)llowed

md her
Pierre
o blun-
Sodine '
one so,
nother,

THE TWO REINETTES.

and Keinette meant to find her if it should cost her half her
fortune
Turning to Pierre, she said :

* This mor y agent, this Polignac, is still ir Pans ] '

* Yes, mids, I think so/

* Ard you know his address V

* I know where we went that day your father paid the money;
but he may have moved since many times.'

* No matter, he must be well known ; a letter will find him,
and I shall write and ask for this woman, Christine Bodine, for
I mean to find her if I cross the ocean to do it. She knew
mother, and I must know something f her, too, for — oh, Pierre,
my brain is all in a whirl with whu h. happened to-day ; but
I can't tell you in here, I feel so i ^.otf 'id when I think of it.
Let's go to that ledge of rocks o. ier on the hill-side. We
must see the sun set from ther^, t n? . maybe we can see poor
papa's grave.'

She put on her hat and prec >d Pierre down the stairs and
through the dining-room, where she found Mrs. Jerry arrang-
ing a very dainty-looking tea-table, with silver, and glass, and
decorated china, with a basket of white lilies in the centre.

Supper would be ready very soon, Mrs. Jerry said, suggest-
ing that her young mistress wait till it was served, as the
muffins would all be cold. But Reinette was not hungry, she
said, and Mrs. Jerry must eat the muffins herself. By and by
she would perhaps have some toast and tea in her room ; she
would tell Mrs. Jerry when she wanted it, and she flashed upon
the woman a smile so sweet and winning that it disarmed her
at once of the resentment she might otherwise have felt because
her nice supper was slighted, and she must keep up the kitchen
fire in order to have toast and tea whenever it should suit the
young lady's fancy.

Meanwhile Reinet^e went on her way , through the back yard
toward the ledge of rocks, when suddenly she heard a pitiful
whine, and, turning, saw the dog tuggin» at his chain to get
away. In an instant she was at his side, with her arms round
his neck, while she cried :

* Look, Pierre, what a noble fellow he u\ Why do they
keep him tied up ? I mean to set him free.'

And she was about to do so, when the coi chman, who was
watching her, at a little distance, called out ;

QUE EN IE UETHERTON.

* Miss Hetherton, you must not do that. He is strange here,
and will run home. He has done so twice already.'

* Who are you % ' Reinette asked, rather haughtily, and he
replied :

* I am Stevens, and take care of the horses. Maybe you
would like to see them ; they are real beauties.'

* Yes, when I unchain the dog,' Reinette replied. * He'll
not run from me ; I can tamo him. What's his name.'

' King,' said Stevens : and taking the dog's face between her
hands, and looking straight into his eyes, Reinette said :

' Mr. Doggie, you are my king, and I am your queen. You
must not run away from me. I'll take such good care of you,
and love you so much ; and in proof thereof 1 give you your
liberty/

She slipped the chain from his neck, and, with a joyful bark,
King sprang upon her, licking her face and hands in token of
his grateful allegiance. Every brute recognised a friend in
Reinette, and King was not an exception, and kept close to her
side as she went towards the stables to see the horses, which
Stevens led out for her inspection.

First, the splendid bays, Jupiter and Juno, with which she
could find no fault, unless it were that Juno carried her head
a trifle higher than Jupiter, and might be freer in the harness.
She could not quite decide until she saw them on the road, she
said : and then she turned to the milk-white steed, her saddle
pony, with which she was perfectly delighted ; she was so white
and clean, and tall and gentle, and ate grass from her hand,
followed her about as readily as King himself.

' What's her name ? ' she asked.

And on Stevens replying that he did not know, she said :

* Then she shall be called Margery, after the dearest friend I
ever had except papa. She was so fair, and beautiful, and tall,
and I loved her so much. Oh, Margery ! ' she continued, lay-
ing her hand upon the neck of her steed ; * where are you now,
and do you know how sad and lonely your little Queenie is ? '

There was a shadow on Reiuette's bright face, but it quickly
passed away ; and sending the horses back to their stalls, she
went, with Pierre and King, toward the ledge of rocks on the
grassy hill-side.

ON THE ROCKS.

CHAPTER XI.

ON THE ROCKS.

|T was very pleasant on the ledge of rocks, with the soft,
rose-tinted glow of the summer sunset in the western
sky, and the long line of wooded hills and grassy mea-
dows stretching away to north, and south, and east, as far as
the eye could reach. Through a deep cut to the westward a
train of cars was coming swiftly into view, while over the tops
of the pine trees to the east wreaths of smoke were curling,
heralding the approach of another train, for Merrivale was on
the great thoroughfare between Boston and Albany. At the
foot of the hill the waters of Lake Petit lay like a bit of silvery
moonlight amid the green fields around it, while further to the
left another lake or pond was seen, with the Chicopee winding
its slow course through strips of meadow land and green pas-
tures, where the cows fed through the day, and from which
there now came a faint tinkle of bells, as they were driven
slowly home. Everything was quiet, and calm, and peaceful,
and Eeinette felt quiet and peaceful, too, as she seated herself
in the ' Lady's Chair' and scanned the lovely landscape spread
out below her.

* America is beautiful,' she said to Pierre, who stood at her
side ; ' beautiful and fair as Switzerland itself — the play-
ground of Europe — and I should be so happy in papa's old
home, if only he were here. And I mean to be happy, as it is,
for I know he would wish it to be so, and I understand now
what he meant when he said such strange things to me just
before he died. He was preparing me for a surprise — a — a —
Pierre — * and, forcing down a great sob, Reinette began rapid-
ly, ' Pierre, did you notice those people — those ladies, I mean,
who came to meet me at the station 1 '

* Yes,' said Pierre ; ' they rode with you to the grave. I
thought, maybe, they were the servants of the house : who
were they^ mademoiselle V

QUEEN IE HETEERTON.

* Servants ! ' and the dark eyes flashed angrily, for if they
were hers — her flesh and blood — nobody must speak against
them. * Servants ! Pierre, you are an idiot 1 '

' Yes, mademoiselle,' the old man answered, humbly, and
Reinette continued :

* You don't yet understand how different everything is in
America. There is no nobility here — no aristocracy like what
we have in Europe. Your son, if you had one born here,
might be the President, for all of his birth. It's worth and
education which make nobility here, with, perhaps, a little bit
of money, and, Pierre, those ladies — mind you, lad%e,s — whom
you thought servants, were my own grandmother, and aunt,
and cousin — my mother's relatives.*

' Mon Dieu /' dropped involuntarily from the old man's lips,
as he looked searchingly at his mistress for an instant, and then
dropped his eyes meekly as he met her threatening gaze.

* Yes, I do not quite know how it is, or why papa never told
me of them ; some family quarrel most likely,' Reinette con-
tinued. ' He tried to tell me when he was dying. He said
there was something he must explain ; something he ought to
have told me, and this was it. My mother was American and
not English, as I supposed, and these are her relatives and
mine, and it's nice to find friends where one did not expect
them.'

* Yes, mademoiselle, very nice,* Pierre said, with a nod of
assent, though, knowing the proud little lady as he did, he
knew perfectly well how hotly she was rebelling against these
new friends, and how it was her great pride which prompted
her to exalt them in his estimation if possible.

But it was not for him to express any opinion, so he remained
silent, while Reinette went on :

* Mother's own blood relations, who can tell me all about her,
though I mean to find Christine Bodine just the same, and hear
•what she has to say of mamma. Pierre, there was another
cousin at the station — a young man, with such a fair, winning
face and perfect manners. He was at the grave, too. Did you
see him ? You must have seen him. He was a gentleman, I
am sure.*

* Yes, mademoiselle,* and Pierre brightened at once. * He
is quite the gentlemen, the nobility, the aristocracy, like Mon-

if they
against

>ly, and

ig is in
ke what
rn here,
rth and
little bit
— whom
id aunt,

a,n'8 lips,
Eind then
se.

jver told
;tte con-
He said
ought to
ican and
ves and
expect

nod of

did, he

}t these

rompted

^mained

lout her,
Ind hear
lanother
rinning
>id you
3man, I

'He
Mon-

ON THE HOCKS.

sieur Hetherton. He rode with Monsieur Beresford and my-
self, and spoke kind-like to me in my own tongue ; not as you
talk it, but fair, very fair, though he do not understand me bo
well.'

Pierre was growing eloquent on the subject of Phil, and
Reinette was greatly interested, and asked numberless questions
concerning the young man whom Pierre so frequently declared
was a gentleman.

* What was his name ? What did Mr. Beresford call him,
and what did he say 1 '

* He asked much of you,' PieiTe replied, * and once there
was something like water in his eyes when I told him how sad
you were, but seems like he was ashamed to have the other
one see him, for he pulled his hat down over his eyes, and said
something about it in English which made them both laugh, he
and the other gentleman who called him Pill.'

* Pill I ' Reinette repeated. * What a name. You could not
have understood.'

But Pierre insisted that he did ; it was Pill and nothing
else ; and, as just then Phil, himself rode by, the old man pointed
him out to Reinette just after the bow, which she did not see,
and consequently could not return ; but she watched him as
far as she could see him, admiring his figure, admiring his
horse, and wondering how it could be that he was so different
from those other people, as she mentally designated the Fergusons,
of whom she could not think without a shiver, and whom, try
as she would, she could not accept willingly as her mother'
friends. If she could find Christine Bodine, who knew he®
mother, she could solve all doubts on the subject; and shr
meant to find her, if that were possible, and set herself aboue
it at once — to-morrow, perhaps, for there was no time to bt
lost. If Christine had, as Pierre believed, been a pensioner oe
her father's, and if he had heard from her at Liverpool, then of
course she was living, and through the Messrs. Polignac shef
could trace her, and perhaps bring her to America to live with
her, as something to keep fresh in mind her past life, now so
completely gone from her.

Thus thinking, she walked back to the house just r^ it was
growing dark, and Mrs. Jerry was beginning to 1. el some
anxiety with regard to the tea and tciist, and the time they
would be called for.

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

Ill

Reinette's long fast, and the fatigue and excitement of the
day were beginning to tell upon her, and after forcing herself
to swallow a few mouthfuls of the food which the good woman
pressed upon her, she announced her intention of retiring to
her room. ' .

Mrs. Jerry carried up the wax ca.idles, which she lighted
herself, and after setting them upon the table and seeing that
everything was in order, she stood a moment, smoothing the
hem of her white apron, as if there was something she had to
say. She had promised Grandma Ferguson to call Reinette's
attention to the patch-work spread quilted * herrin'-bone,' and
which, as the work of a young girl, had taken the prize at the
Southbridge Fair, but she did not quite know how to do it.
* Herrin'-bone ' quilts did not seem to be in perfect accord with
this little foreign girl, who, though so plainly dressed, and so
friendly and gracious of manner, bore unmistakable marks of
the highest grade of aristocracy. Like the most of her class,
Mrs. Jerry held such people in great esteem, and as something
qrtite different from herself, whose father had worked side by
side many a day, in plaster and mortar, with honest John Fer-
guson, and she could not understand how one like Reinette
Hetherton could care for a patch-work quilt, even if her mother
had pieced it in years gone by. But she had promised, and
must keep her word, and laying her hands upon it, and pulling
it more distinctly into view^ she began :

* I promised your grandmother to tell you about this bed
quilt, which 'pears kind of out of place in here, but she sent it
over — the old lady did — thinkin* you'd be pleased to know
that your mother did it when she was a little girl, and that
many of them is pieces of her own gownds she used to wear.
I remember her myself with this one on ; it was her Sunday
frock, and she looked so pretty in it ; ' and Mrs. Jerry touched
a square of the blue and white checked calico which had once
formed a part of Margaret Ferguson's best dress.

* I don't think I quite understand you,' said Reinette, who
was wholly ignorant of that strange fashion of cutting cloth in
bits for the sake of sewing it up again.

But one idea was perfectly clear to her, Mrs Jerry had seen
her mother, and her great dark eyes were full of eager inquiry
fts she continued :

ON THE ROCKS.

* You have seen mother ; you knew her when sh'; was a
little girl ; knew her for certain and true ] '

There was still a doubt — a rebelling in Reinette's miml
against the new relatives, but Mrs. Jerry knew nothing of it,
nor guessed that Reinette was not fully acquainted with all the
particulars of her mother's early life and marriage.

'Yes,' she answered, ' Margaret Ferguson and I was about
the same age ; mabby I'm two years or so the oldest ; but we»
went to school together and was in the same class, only she was
always at the head and I mostly at the foot, and we picked
huckleberries together many a time out in old General Hether-
ton's lot, never dreaming that she would one day marry Mr.
Fred. I beg your pardon, your father, I mean,* she added,
hastily, as she met the proud flash of Reinette's dark eyes, and
understood that to speak of her father as Fred was an indignity
not to be tolerated.

But for this slip of the tongue Reinette might have ques-
tioned her further of her mother, but she could not do it now,
though she returned to the bed-quilt and managed to get a
tolerably clear comprehension with regard to it.

* Made every stitch of it, and I warrant she pricked herself
over it many a time,' Mrs. Jerry said, and being fairly launched
on her subject she was going on rapidly when Reinette sud-
denly interrupted her with ;

' Yes, yes, I know : I see ; mother did it. Mother's hands
have touched it ; and now go away ; go away, please quick, and
leave me alone.'

She pomted to the door, and Mrs. Jerry went swiftly out,
half frightened at the look in the young girl's eyes, as she bade
her \e21\Q the room. ♦ '

* It is true ; it must be ti.'ue ; everybody and everything con-
firm it, and I have lost my ideal mother,' Reinette whispered
to herself as she closed the door after Mrs. Jerry.

Yes, she had lost her ideal mother, but the loss ha^^ not been
without its gain — its compensation — and Reinette felu that this
was so as she knelt in her anguish by the bedside and laid her
hot, tear-stained cheek against the coarse fabric which had been
her mother's work.

* Mother's dear hands have touched it,' she said, ' and that
brings her so near to me that I aHiost feel as if she were here

if' ''

^ 11!

i4 :;i

am *^'

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

herself. " Oh, mother, did your hands ever touch your baby,
or did you die before you saw me 1 " Nobody ever told me.
W' hy was father so silent, so proud 1 I would have loved
these people for her sake, and I will love them now in time.
But it is all so strange, and mother's girlhood was so different
from what 1 have fancied it was.'

Then, remembering what Mrs. Jerry had said of the bits of
calico, she brought the candles close to the bed and examined
the pieces carefully, especially the blue and white one in which
Mrs. Jerry had said her mother had looked so pretty. It was
delicate in colour and in pattern, but to Reinette, who had
never in her life worn anything coarser than the fine French
cambrics, it seemed too common a fabric for the picture she held
in her heart of her mother. It did not at all match the lovely
pearls she kept so sacred among her treasures. Her trunks
and boxes had been brought from the station, and in one of
them were the pearls.

Unlocking the box, ReinetiB took out the exquisite necklace,
bracelets, and ear-rings which her father had bought at a great
price in Paris, and which he told her her mother had worn to a
ball at the Tuileries, where she had been noted as the most
beautiful woman present.

Reinette admired them greatly, and on the occasion of her
first ball had begged her father to allow her to wear them, but
he refused, and seemed so disturbed and distressed that she
had put them away, wondering why just the sight or mention
of them affected him so strangely.

Taking them now to the bedside, she laid them upon the
squares of blue and tried to picture to herself the beautiful
woman in creamy white satin who had worn them and the girl
v;ho had picked berries with Mrs. Jerry, and worn the dress of
blue.

* Pearls and calico ! There's a great distance between them,*
she thought, ' but not greater than the distance between my eld
life and the new, which I mu»t live bravely and well.'

Then returning the pearls to their casket, with a feeling that
now she should never wear them, she undressed herself rapidly,
for her head was beginning to ach^^ ^^^ throv.'ing herself upon
the bed, drew the patch-work over her, caressing it as if it had
been a living thing, and whispering, softly ;

;

REINETTE AND MR. BERESFORD.

* Dear mother, I do not love you one whit the less because
you once picked berries in father's fields and wore the cotton
gown, and you seem near to me to-night, as if your arms were
round me, and you were pitying your desolate little girl, who
has nobody to pity her, nobody to love her, nobody to pray for
her now, and she so wretched and bad.'

Poor little Reinette, she was mistaken when she thought
there was no one to pity, to pray for her now, for across the
river, over the hill, and under the poplar trees, a light was still
burning in the chamber where Grandma Ferguson knelt, in
her short night-gown and wide frilled cap, and prayed for the
young girl, Margaret's child, that God would comfort her and
have her in his keeping, and * make her love her mother's folks
a little,* while at the Knoll, in a larger and far more luxurious
chamber, Phil, was thinking of his cousin and the great sad
eyes which, though they had flashed only one look at him,
haunted him so persistently, they were so full of pathos and
pain.

' Poor little girl,' he said, * alone in a new country, with
such a lot of us whom she never heard of thrust upon her. I
pity her, by Jove ! '

CHAPTER Xir.

REINETTE AND MR. BERESFORD.

EINETTE slept heavily that first night in her new home
— so heavily, that the robins had sung their first song,
and the July sun had dried the dew-drops on the green-
sward and flowers before she awoke, with a very vague percep-
tion as to where she was, or what had happened to her.
Through tho window which she had left open came the warm
summer air, sweet with the scent of clover and the newly-mown
hay, which a farmer's boy was turning briskly not far from the
house. And Reinette, who was keenly alive to everything
fresh and beautiful, inhaled the delicious perfume and felt in-

lili

\l .'

-/"

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

stinctively how much of freshness and beauty she was losing.
But when she rose and, going to the window, threw back the
shutters and looked for an instant at the lovely picture of the
Merrivale hills and valleys spread out before her, a sharp, cut-
ting pain across her forehead and in her eyes warned her that
her old enemy, the nervous headache, was upon her in full
force, and there was nothing for her that day but pain and suf-
fering in the solitude of her room. Then, as she remembered
what Mrs. Ferguson had said of an early visit for the sake of
* talking over things,' she shuddered, and grew cold and faint,
and thought with that strange feeling of incredulity to which
she clung :

' If I was only positive and sure, beyond a doubt, that mother
did once pick huckleberries with Mrs. Jerry, and wear a cotton
gown, I could bear everything so much better. Mr. Beresford
knows all about it ; he will tell me, and I must see him first,
for those people will not be long in coming to pay their respects.
I'll send Pierre immediately with a note asking him to come to
me as soon as possible.'

What Eeinette willed to do she did at once, and in spite of
the blinding pain in her head, she opened her desk and wrote
as follows :

Mr. Beresford :-

-I must see you. Come without delay.

'Miss Hetherton.'

1' i

This done she attempted to dress, but finding an elaborate
toilet too much for her, weak and sick as she was, she contented
herself with a cool, white cambric wrapper, with rows of lace
and embroidery down tl\.e front, and bows of delicate pink rib-
bon on the pockets and sleeves. Over this she threw a dainty
Parisian jacket or sacque of the same hue, letting her dark
wavy hair fall loosely down her back. She always wore it so
when she had this headache, and she made a most beautiful
and striking picture for Mrs. Jerry to contemplate when, in
answer to her ring, that lady presented herself at the door to
know what her mistress would have. Like most women, Mrs.
Jerry had a hundred remedies for the headache, but Reinette
wished for none of them. Nothing was of any avail until the
pain ran its course, which it usually did in twenty-four hours,
and 3.11 she asVed was to be left in quiet in the library below,

iiiiiHiiiliriiiiliBtfliiMiifti'

REINETTE AND MR. BERESFOBD.

)w.

where she proposed going to wait for Mr. Beresford, whom
Pierre found in his office and with him Phil. Rossiter, the two
talking together of the young lady at Hetherton Place and
comparing their impressions of her.

' Not so very pretty, but bright and quite agreeable, with a
will of her own,' Mr. Beresford said, guardedly, remembering
what Phil, had predicted with regard to the immediate surren-
dre of his heart to the foreigner.

* Yes, and proud as Lucifer, too, or I'm mistaken,' answered
Phil. ' Why I really believe she means to ride over us all.
Odd, though, that she'd never heard of a soul of us. That snob
of a Hetherton must have been a queer chap.'

At this moment Pierre appeared in the door, cowing and
gesticulating, and jabbering unintelligibly as he handed the
note to Mr. Beresford, who read it aloud, while Phil, said laugh-
ingly, though in reality he secretly felt aggrieved :

' You see, it is you for whom she has sent. She does not
care for me.*

•Strangely enough, notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge
of English, Pierre understood the last part of Philip's speech,
and his gestures were more vehement than ever as he tui ned
to Phil., for whom he had conceived a liking because he could
speak a little of his own language, and assured him tb *» he
was mistaken. Miss Reinette cared for him very much m deed,
very much, and had asked much about him, and noticed him
much at the grave, and when he went by on horseback. It
was business alone which had pro? nted her to send for mon-
sieur ; later she would be most hap to see young nxonz "u r, her
cousin.

Phil, could not follow the old -an readily, but ho tlioughl
he made out that Reinette had it this message to him, or
something like it, and he changt . his mind about starting for
Martha's Vineyard that after; x a, as he had half resolved to
do. He would see Reinette fiiat, and hear her speak to him
face to face.

* Tell her I shall be there somr time to- day,' he said to his
more fortunate friend, the lawy* r, who, r.othing loth to meet
the glance of Reinette's bright eyes onoe more, was soon
riding rapidly toward Hetherton Place.

Reinette's head was worse th ;a it had been earlier in the

;,i '

I! II

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

morning, but she insisted upon seeing Mr. Beresford, wlio was
admitted at once to the room, which Mrs. Jerry had made as
dark as possible, but which was still light enough for him to
distinguish dibtinctly the little figure in pink and white, re-
clining in the easy-chair, with masses of long dark hair
rippling down its back, and a wet napkin upon the forehead,
partially concealing the eyes, which, nevertheless, flashed a
welcome upon him as he came in, feeling himself a little
abashed in the presence of this foreign girl in her pretty
deshabille, with her loose wide sleeves, showing her round,
white arms to her elbows, and her little high-heeled pink-
rosetted slippers resting on the footstool. She, on the con-
trary, was as composed and unconscious as if he had been a
block of wood, instead of a man, with all a man's impulse to
worship and admire.

* Oh, Mr. Beresford,' she began, offering him one wet hand,
while with the other she took the napkin from her head, and,
dipping it in the bowl of water on the stand beside her, wrung
it lightly and replaced it on her forehead, letting a bit of the
fringe hang over her eyes, while drops of water ran down her
face and fell from the end of her nose. Reinette was not
thinking of herself : she was intent upon a more important
matter, and determined to have it off her mind ; she plunged
at once into the subject : ' Oh, Mr. Beresford, it was so kind
in you to come so soon when you must have so much to do,
but you see I could not wait. Yes, thank you, it's an awful
headaehs but I'm accustomed to them, and T don't mind, if
you don't. Mrs. Jerry said it was hardly the thing to receive
you in this way, but I am sure it does not matter. A girl
with the headache cannot be expected to dress as for a dinner,
and I can't bear my hair bound up, though I might fix it a
little,' and with a dexterous quick movement, Keinette took
the whole mass of wavy hair in her hand, and giving it a twist
and a sweep backward, wet the napkin again, and spatting it
down on her forehead, went on again :

*I must see you this morning, because father said I was to
ask you everything — trust you with everything — and T want to
know — I want you to tell me — these peo — these ladies — my
grandmother said she was coming to-day tc talk over matters,
and how can I talk if I don't know what to say 1 '

Mr. Beresford was sure he didn't know, and she continued :

BEINETTE AND MR. BERESFORD.

git

* It must seem strange to you, who did not know father inti-
mately, to know how little he talked of his affairs to any one.
Even with regard to mother, he was very reticent, and never
told me anything, except that she died in Rome, when I was
born, and that her name was Margaret Ferguson. I always
thought she was English, and built many castles about her and
her relatives, and so, you see, I was a little surprised yesterday
when they claimed me — such a number of them, it seemed.
Were there many ? '

* Only three,' Mr. Beresford replied, knowing that she had
no reference to Phil, when she talked of * these people.*

* Yes, three,' she continued, * and I fear I was not as gracious
as I might have been, for I was so astonished to be claimed
when I did not know for sure that I had a relative in the world.
Mr. Beresford, would you mind telling me all you know about
my mother 1 Did she ever live in Merrivale ? Did father find
her here ? Did she pick huckleberries withers. Jerry, and cut
up bits of calico for the sa^'^ of sewing them together again 1 '

The napkin went into t; water with a great splash, and
then back to her forehead as sho said this, but her eyes were
fixed on Mr. Beresford, who, not knowing what she meant by
the berries and the bits of calico, said he did not, but continued
laughingly :

* I dare say she did pick berries, for almost every girl born
in Merrivale does so at some period of her life.'

* Then she was born here, and you have seen her, ard there
is no mistake, and these people they are — they are my grand-
mother 1 '

This was the second time Reinette had put her question m
this form, and this time Mr. Beresford laughed heartily, as he
replied :

' Yes, they are your grandmother decidedly : but,' he added,
more quietly, 'it is strange your father never told you.*

* Not strange at all if you knew him,' Reinette said, resolved
that no blame should attach to her father * But tell me,' she
went on, ' tell me all about it — the marriage, I mean, and who
are the Fergusons ? — nice people, of course, or my mother would
not have been one. Who are they, Mr. Beresford 1 *

The lawyer could not look that proud, high-bred girl in the
face and tell her of Peggy Ferguson's beer-shop under the elms,

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

1 I !

II Al

of the Martins, prizefighters of the town, or of the wonder and
surprise when Fred. Hetherton made Margaret Ferguson his
wife. But he dwelt upon the honesty and respectability of
John Ferguson, and the great beauty of his daughter Margaret,
whose loveliness had attracted the heir of the Hethertons.

Reinette saw he was evading her questions, and with an im-
patient stamp of her little high-heeled slipper she said ;

* Mr. Beresford, you are keeping things from me and I will
not buar it. If there is anything wrong about the Fergusons I
wish to know it. Not that I shall turn against them,' she said,
with a flash in her eyes which made her visitor wince. * They
are mother's people, and if they are thieves and robbers, then
I am a thief and robber, too. I see by your face that there w
something — that you don't fancy these people of mine, but I
do. If they are mine they are mme, and I won't hear a word
against them ! '

What a strange, contradictory crc;3,ture she was, one mo-
ment insisting that he must tell her something, if there was
anything to tell, and the next warning him that she would not
listen to a word. AVhat could he do but stare wonderingly at
her, as, dropping the napkin into the bowl of water, she leaned
back in her chair, and holding him with her bright eyes, said,
imperiously :

* I am waiting, go on ; father made a misalliance I suppose.*

* Yes, that's about the fact of the case,' Mr. Beresford replied,
foeling compelled to speak out. * Your mother's family did not
stand as high socially as your father's. They were poor, while
Mr. Hetherton, your grandfather, was rich, and that makes a
difference, you know.'

* No, I didn't.' she replied. * I thought nothing made a dif-
ference in America, if you behaved yourself. But go on. How
poor were they 1 Did they work ? What did they do 1 '

The look in her eyes brought the answer promptly :

* Your grandfather built chimneys and laid cellar walls.'

* Well, that's dirty, sticky, nasty work, but no disgrace —
people must have chimneys and cellar walls, and I've no doubt
he built them well. What did she do — grandmother, I mean ?
Was she a bar-maid ? *

She had aim st hit it, but not quite, and Mr. Beresford
replied :

tiiii'iririiii

kEINETTE AND MR. BERESfORV.

ftl

' She sold gingerbread and beer ; kept a kind of baker^s
shop.'

Reinette drew a quick, gasping breath, put the wet napkin
again on her head without wringing it at all, and said :

* Yes, I see — I understand. They were unfortunate enough
to be born poor ; they did what they could to get their living ;
but that is nothing against them ; that's no reason why you
should despise them. They are mine, and I won't have it, I
say.'

* My dear Miss Hetherton,' Mr. Beresford began, puzzled to
know how to treat this capricious creature, * what can you mean?
I do not despise them.'

* Yes, you do,' she answered : * I see it in your face. I saw
it there yesterday when they claimed me. But I won't have
it ; they are mine. Who was that young man with them ]
Why didn't you tell me of him, and not of them all the time ?
He is not a Ferguson, sure ? ' *

No, Phil, was not a Ferguson, and Mr. Beresford launched at
once into praise of Phil., and the Rossiters generally, dwelling
at length upon the handsome house and grounds at the Knoll,
the high position they held in both town and country, the ac-
complishments of the young ladies, Ethel and Grace, the sweet-
ness and dignity of Mrs. Rossiter, and, lastly, Phil, himself, the
best-hearted, most popular fellow in the world, with the most
exquisite taste in everything, as was shown in what he had
done to make Hetherton Place attractive.

It was strange how Reinette's whole attitude and expression
changed as she listened. The Rossiters were more to her lik-
ing than the Fergusons, and she became as soft and gentle as
a purring kitten, forgetting in her interest to wipe the drops
of water from her face as the napkin made frequent journeys
to the bowl and back.

Mr. Beresford felt that he deserved a great deal of credit for
bus extolling Phil, feeling, as he did, a horrible pang of jea-
tousy when he saw the bright, eager face flush, and the dark
eyes light up with pleasure and expectancy.

* And this young man, this cousin Philip, will call on me
soon — to-day, I hope. I am so anxious to see him. It is so
nice to have a real flesh and blood cousin, to whom I can talk
more freely even than to you. Tell him, please, how I want

Ml'

MiM

QVEENIE EETIIERTon.

to see him/ she said ; and again a pang, like the cut of a knife,
thrilled through Mr. Boresford's nerves, as he felt that his
kingdom was slipping away.

Reinette was growing tired, and as there was no necessity
to prolong the interview longer than was necessary for her
pleasure, she gave a little wave of her hand towards the door,
and said :

* Thank you, Mr. Beresford : that is all I care to ask you
now. You will, of course, continue to look after me as you did
after papa until I am of age, and then I shall look after myself.
Until then I wish you to see to everything, only stipulating
that you let me have all the money I want, and I give you
warning that I shall ask for a great deal. I mean to make this
place the loveliest spot in the world. You accept, of course ?
You will be my agent, or guardian, or whatever you choose to
call it, but you must let me do exactly as I please, or you will
find me troublesome.'

She smiled up at him very brightly, while he bowed his ac-
ceptance, thinking to himself that he niight sometimes find it
hard to deal with this spoiled girl wb j warned him so prettily,
and yet so determinedly, that she riust have her way.

* I will serve you to the best of my ability,' he said : * and if
I am to look after your interest* it is necessary that I fully
understand how much your father died possessed of, and where
it is invested. I know, of course, about affairs in this country,
but he must have had money, and perhaps lands, abroad. Do
you knowl Did he have any box where he kept his papers;
and will you let me have the box as soon as possible ; not to-
day, of course, but soon % '

For an instant Reinette looked at him .*ixedly, while the re-
membrance of her father's words came bi\ck to her : ' If let-
ters come to me from abroad, or anywhere, burn them unopened.
Promise, Reinette.*

She promised, and she would keep her wc^d, and with the
instincts of a woman who scents danger from afar, there flashed
into her mind the thought that if there were l«}tters no one
must read there might be papers which nc eye bu > her's must
see. She would look them over first before tntrusfing them to
the care of any one, and if there were a secret in her fathers*
past life, only she, his child, would know it.

THESE PEOPLE.

* Yes,' she said at last, * there are papers — many of them —
in a tin box, and when yon come again I will give them to you.
Father had houses in Paris, and Avignon, too, I think. Pierre
knows more of that than I do. Ask him anything you please.
But hush ! Isn't that a carriage driving up to the door ? It
may bo cousin Philip. I hope so. I am quite sure of it ; and
now go, please, and send Mrs. Jerry or Susan to me. I must
do something with all this hair, or he'll think me a guy ;* and
gathering her long, heavy hair in a mass, she twisted it into a
large flat coil, which she fastened at the back of her head with
a gold arrow taken from her morning jacket.

It was not very complimentary to Mr. Beresford to know
that while she was willing to receive him en deshabille^ as if he
had been a block, the moment Phil, came she was at once alive
to all the proprieties of her personal appearance. Nor was it
very gratifying to be thus summarily dismissed to make way
for another, and that other the fascinating, good-for-nothing
Phil, whom every woman worshipped ; but there was no help
for it, and bidding good-morning to the little lady who was
standing before the mirror with her back to him, fixing her
hair, he went out into the hall — to meet not Phil, but Grandma
Ferguson and Anna, with the long scarf and wide-awake hat.
They had entered without ringing, and as Mr. Beresford opened
the door of the library grandma caught sight of Reinettfi, and
entered, unannounced, into her presence.

CHAPTER XIII.

THESE PEOPLE.

'ITH a little start of surprise and disappointment, Rein-
ette recognised her visitors, and for an instant her an-
noyance showed IvSelf upon her face, and then she re-
covered herself, and went forward to meet them with far more
cordiality in her manner than she had evinced toward them the
previous day. . / '

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QVEElirtE HiTHERfOif,

* Good morning, Rennet ! ' grandma began. * I meant to have
come earlier, so as to have a good long visit before noon, for I
sha'n't stay to dinner to<lay. We are goine to have green peas
from my own garden, and they'd spile if kept till to-morrow.
Oh, my sakes, now hot I am ! ' and settling in the chair Reinette
had vacated, the good lady untied her bonnet-strings, took off
her purple gloves, and fanned herself rapidly with the huge
palm-leu she carried. * Please open one of them blinds,' she con-
tinued ; * it's darker than a pocket here, and I want to see Mar-
garet's girl by daylight.'

ReiiQette complied with her request, and then for the first time
Mrs. Ferguson noticed the bowl of water, and the dark rings^
about Reinette's eyes.

* Why, what's the matter ? ' she asked. ' Got the headache %
Oh; I'm so sorry. You take it from your mother. She never
could go nowhere, to camp-meetin', nor pic-nics, nor cattle-show,
nor dances of any kind, without comin' vomitin' home with sick
headache. 'Twas her bile that was out of kilter, though she was
fair as a lily. But you look bilious. Better take some blue
mass, or else sulphur and molasses, and drink horehound tea.
That'll cleanse your blood.'

As she listened, Reinette began to grow rebellious again, or,
as she afterwards confessed to Phil, her evil spirit took posses-
sion of her, and she could have screamed with disgust at what
she knew was well meant, but what seemed to her the height
of vulgarity. Sinking into a chair, with her back to the window,
and her visitors in front where she could see them distinctly, she
scanned them closely. Grandma in her * sprigged muslin ' and
'lammy shawl,' with lavender ribbons in her bonnet, which
made her look redder and coarser than had the crape worn the
previous day, and Anna, with her yellow plume and banged hair,
/Bittii^ stiff and straight, with just the tips of her boots visible
beneath her dress, and her hands folded on her lap. She had
heard that this was the proper manner for a well-bred ladv to
assume when sitting, and was surprised to see Reinette lean
wearily back in her chair, and cross her little feet upon a foot-
stool, while one hand hung listlessly at her side, and the other
supported her head.

' She evidently cares nothing for us,' Anna thought, and she
was be^nning to feel angiy and resentful, when Mrs. Jerry
looked in, and seeing Mrs. I^rguson, exclaimed :

THESE PEOPLE,

or.

ean

* Just the one I wanted. I'm making some currant jam, and
wish you'd come to the kitchen a minute.'

Mrs. Ferguson went out at once, and, left to themselves, the
two girls began to talk, Reinette asking numberless questions by
way of drawing her cousin out and judging what sne was. It
did not take long for her to learn that Anna had been for three
quarters to a young ladies' seminary in Worcester, after gradu-
ating at the High School in Merrivale ; that she had studied
algebra, geometry, astronomy, chemistry, philosophy, physio-
logy, botany, rhetoric, zoology, English literature, German and
French ; she had dabbled a Uttle in water colours, had taken
lessons on the piano, and sometimes played the melodeon in Sun-
day-school

' Dear me,' said Reinette, drawing a long breath, and chang-
ing the position of her feet ; ' how learned you must be. I have
never studied half those things. I hate mathematics and rhe-
toric, and geology, and literature, and you are posted in them
all. But tell me, now you are through school, what do you do ?
How do you pass your time ) Merrivale is a small place ; there
cannot be much to occupy one outside. What do you do all day,
when it rains, for instance, and you can't go out f and when you
first came from school, time must have hung heavily then.'

Reinette had no particular object in asking so many (questions ;
she only wished to make talk, and she bad no suspicion of the
effect her words had upon Anna, who turned scarlet and hesi-
tated a moment ; then thinking to herself, ' It don't matter ; I
may as well spit it out,' she said :

' Reinette, you will know some time how I live, and so I'll
tell you myself, and let you judge whether my life is a happy
one. You know of course that we are poor. I don't mean that
we have not enough to eat and wear, and a roof to shelter us,
but we toork for our living, and that in Republican America
makes quite as much difference as it does in Monarchical
Europe. Father keeps a small grocery, and mother is a dress-
maker, with a sien in her window, and, talk as you please of
the nobility of labour, and that " a man's a man for a' that,"
the man must have money, and the woman, too ; and there are
lots of girls in town no better than I am, with not half as good
an education, and if you'll excuse me for saying it, not half as
good looking, or half as stylish, who look down upon me be-
F

QUEEXIE IlETHERTON,

cause my mother makes their dresses, and I help, and some-
times carry them home, for I have done that ; but you don't
catch me now carrying parcels through the street like a common
drudge. I wouldn't take one to the Queen. You ask what I
did when I first came from school. I'll tell you. Mother was
very busy, for there was a grand wedding in progress to which
I was not bidden, but I had to work on the dresses, and take
some of them home, and when I rang the front door bell at Sue
Granger's, I was told by an impudent house-maid to step round
to the side door, as her lady had visitors in the parlour, and
it was no place to receive parcels. I tell you I was mad, and
I've never carried a budget since, and never will ; and I shall
be so glad if we ever get out of the business, for I hate it, and
I am just as good as Sue Granger, whose mother they say once
worked in a cotton mill. Thank goodness I am not so low as
that. There's good blood in my veins, too, if I am poor.
The Rices (mother was a Rice) are highly connected with some
of the best families in the State. Governor Rice is a distant
relative of mine, and the Fergusons — are well enough.'

Here Anna paused to take breath, and Reinette, who had
listened to her wonderingly, said :

* And do your cousins, Ethel and Grace, share your opinions ? '

* Of course not. Why should they 1 Aren't they big bugs.
Colonel Rossiter's daughters 1 Don't they go to Saratoga, and
to Newport, and Florida, and the sea-side, and have a maid,
and drive their carriage, and live in a big house 1 Such people
can never understand why girls like me feel as I do. Ethel and
Grace argue with me by the hour, and say I am just as good as
they are, and so I am, though the world don't think so. Their
mother, my Aunt Mary, used to close shoes for the shop when
a girl, and sell gingerbread across the counter sometimes, just
as your mother did. You know, perhaps, that Grandma Fer-
guson kept a kind of baker's shop.'

Reinette flushed to the roots of her^hair as she replied .

* Yqs, I know, but I supposed — I thought one's respectability
depended upon himself — his conduct, I mean, rather than what
h^ does for a living — if the business is honest and justifiable.'

* There's where you are grandly mistaken,' said Anna. * O^f 's
position depends upon how much money he has, or how m^li;^^
influential friends. Is my Aunt Mary any better than wh^n

THESE PEOPLE,

she closed shoes and sold gingerbread % Gf course not She's
John Ferguson's daughter just the same ; but she's rich jiow.
She is Mrs. Colonel Rossiter, and looked up to, and admired,
and run after by the whole town, while ma and I are just tol-
erated because of our relationship to her. " Who is that stylish-
looking girl 1 " I heard a stranger say once to Sue Granger, who
replied : " That's Anna Ferguson ; her mother V9 a dressmaker,"
and that settled it. The stranger — a stuck-up piece from Bos-
ton — wanted nothing of a girl whose mother made dresses for
a living. Sometimes I get so mad I hate everything and every-
body.'

Here Anna stopped a moment, and Reinette, to whom she
had twice spoken of her style and good looks, scanned her very
closely from her head to her feet, deciding, mentally, that in
spite of her banged hair and flashy dress she toaa good-looking,
and had about her a certain style which strangers would natur-
ally remark, even though it was rather fast than refined. But
she was not a lady, either by nature or education, and Reinette,
who, iu some things, was far-seeing for her years, saw readily
tiie difficulty under which her cousin laboured. She was not
naturally refined, but, on the contrary, vulgar and suspicious,
and jealous of those who occupied a position above her ; and
while she took pains with her person, and affected a certain
haughtiness of manner, her language was decidedly second-
class, and frequently interlarded with slang and harsh denun-
ciations of the very people whose favour she wished to gain.

While Reinette was thinking all this, Anna be^an again :

* If mother would sell out and take that odious sign from
our front window, we can live without dressmaking, but I've
given it up. She had a chance a few weeks ago. A French-
woman from Martha's Vineyard wrote, askiue her terms,
which she put so high that Miss La Rue declined, and so that
fell through.'

' What did you call the woman — Miss who ? ' Reinette asked,
rousing up suddenly from her reclining posture, and looking
earnestly at }^nna, who replied :

' Miss La Rue— Margery La Rue, from Martha's Vineyard.
She has done some work, I believe, for my cousins, who think
highly of her, and suggested her buying out ma's business.
Why, how excited you seem I Do you know her 1 ' she asked^

1 ■

1
1

;
1

J*'

i
1

1
;

■

Lr-

.^P

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

as Keinette sprang up quickly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes
sparkling, and her whole appearance indicative of pleasurable
surprise.

' Margery La Rue,' she repeated. ' The name is the same,
and she's French, too, you say, but it cannot be my Margery,
for the last I heard from her she was in Nice, and talked of
going to Rome, but it is singular that there should be two dress-
makers of the same name. What do you know of her 1 Is she
old or young $ '

* I know nothing except the name,' Anna replied, astonished
at her cousin's interest in and evident liking for a mere dress-
maker. ' Is your Miss La Rue young, and was she your friend 1 '
she asked, and Reinette replied :

* Yes, she was my friend — the dearest I ever had — and the
only one, I may say, except papa ; and she is beautiful, too ;
she has the loveliest face I ever saw — sweet and spirituelle as
one of Murillo's Madonnas, with lustrous blue eyes and sunny
hair. Why, Anna,' she added, as if impressed with a sudden
idea, * her huir is just the colour of yours, and she has your
complexion, too.'

Anna coloured, pleased with the compliment to her complex-
ion and her hair, the latter of which she affected to dislike, al-
though it was the then fashionable colour.

' Maybe she has some Ferguson blood in her, ' she said,
laughingly. * As PhiL says, we all have skim-milk faces, and
tow or yellow hair, but how came you so intimate with Miss
La Rue, and she only a dressmaker 1 '

* It's too long a story to tell you bow. ' Reinette replied.
' I've known her ever since I was a child. I never thought
anything about her being a dressmaker. She is educated and
refined, and good, and true, with not a single low instinct in
her nature, and that, I think, is what constitutes a lady rather
than money or what one does for a living.'

Anna shrugged her shoulders incredulously. In her own es-
timation she was refined and educated, and yet she was not re-
cognised as a lady by those to whose notice she Spired ; but
she made no reply, and Reinette continued :

' I shall take steps at once to ascertain if this Mrs. La Rue
you speak of is my Mareery, and if she is, and it is merely a
matter of money which Keeps her from accepting your mother's

THESE PEOPLE,

ra es-
)t re-
; but

Rue
sly a
Iher's

offer, I think I can make two people happy ; you first, if taking
that sign from your window will do it, and myself, by bringing
her here where I can see her every day I wish to. '

Before Anna could reply, Grandma Ferguson came in puf-
fing with exercise, and apologizing for her long absence.

' I didn't mean to be gone more'n a minit, ' she said, ' but
Mrs. Jerry offered to show me all over the house, and I kinder
wanted to see it, as it's my fust chance. The last, and I may
say the only time I was ever here, I was turned out o' door
afore I could look about me. '

* Turned out of doors ! For what, and by whom ? ' Rei-
nette asked, in astonishment, and grandma replied :

* Turned out by your Granther Hetherton, because I came
over to tell him his son Fred, had run off with your mother.
Why, Rennet, child, what's the matter 1 You are white as a
sheet, ' she continued, as with a long gasp for breath Reinette
clasped both hands to her forehead and leaned helplessly back
in her chair.

* It's nothing, ' she said faintly, ' only the pain which was
gone has come back again. What you told me was so dread-
ful — my mother ran off with my father 1 What for 1 Why 1
Were they not married at home 1 Was there any reason 1 '

* Reason 1 No, ' grandma returned. ' There was a nice, big,
best room back of the shop, and if it was good enough for Paul
Rositer to be married in, and for your father to spark your
mother in, as he did many a time, it was good enough for him to
be married in. But no ; he was afeard, mabby, that he should
have to notice some of us, who he thought no more on than so
much dirt, and so he ran off with her to New York and got
married, and then started for Europe, and I've never seen her
sence. But surely, Rennet, you must have known something
about it, theueh Anny here, and Phil, too — that's Miss Rossit-
ter's son — will have it that you never heard of us till yesterday,
and so never knew who your mother was. Is that so 1 '

It was a direct question, and hurt Reinette cruelly, suffering
as she was both mentally and physically. The wet napkin was
again applied to her throbbing temples, and then, in a voice full
of anguish, and yet defiant in its tone, she said rapidly, like one
who wishes to have a disagreeable task ended :

QUEENtS HETHERTON,

' No, I did not know who my mother was ; father never told
me. '

' That's smart, but just like him, ' grandma interposed ; but
Keinette stopped her short, and said :

' Hush, grandma ! I will not hear my father blamed for
anything. He may have acted hastily and foolishly when he
was young, but he was the dearest and best of fathers to me.
He did not talk much ever, and never of his private affairs ;
and since I know that — that — he ran away with my mother,
I am not surprised that he did not tell me who she was or any-
thing of her early life. He knew it would pain me, and so he
let me think her an Englishwoman, as I always did '

' Yes, but when you started for America a body'd s'pose he
would have told. He knew you'd have to see us then and
know, ' grandma said, and Reinette replied :

'* Yes ; and he meant to tell me when we reached New York.
He had a habit of putting off things, and he put that off, and
when he was dying on the ship he tried to tell me so hard. I
know now what he meant when he said : * * When it comes to
you forsive me and love me just the same ; ' ' and I do — I will
— and I'll stand by father through everything ; ' and Reinette's
eyes, where the great tears were standing, fairly blazed as she
defended her dead father ; and grandma cried, too, a little, but
her animosity toward the Hethertons was so great and this si-
lence of her son-in-law seemed so like a fresh insult, that she
was ready to fire up in an instant, and when Reinette said to
her, * It's very painful for me to hear it, and still I wish you to
tell me aU I ought to know of mother and father both. Why
did you say they ran away ) ' she began as far back as the first
time her daughter Margaret handed Fred. Hetherton a glass of
beer across the counter, and in her own peculiar way told the
story of the courtship and marriage, ending with a graphic de-
scription of her call on Gen. Hetherton, who turned her from
his house, and bade her never enter it again.

* And I never have till today, ' she said, * when I wouldn't
wonder if he'd stir in his coffin if he knew I was here, seein' he
felt so much above me. If I'd been a man I b'lieve I'd a horse-
whipped him, for there's fight in my make-up. My two broth-
ers, Jim and Will Martin, were the prize-fighters of the town,
and could lick any two men single-handed. They are dead now

THESE PEOPLE.

both on 'em — died in the war, fishtin' for their country, and I
s'pose it's better so than if they'd lived to do wus. '

' Yes, oh, yes, ' Reinette said, faintly, neither knowing what
she said or what she meant, knowing only that every nerve was
quivering with the excitement and pain, and that she felt half
crazed and stunned with all she had heard of the father and
mother she had held so high.

Nothing had been omitted, and she knew all about the beer
and the gingerbread her grandmother sold, the shoes her mo-
ther closed, the berries she had picked to help buy the blue
chintz gown — the pride of the Hethertons and the inexcusable
silence of her father with regard to her mother's death and her
own existence. There was nothing more to tell and Reinette
could not have heard it if there had been. Proud and high*
spirited as she was, she felt completely crushed and humiliated,
and as if she could never face the world again. And yet in
what she had heard there was nothing derogatory to her moth-
er's character, or her father's either for that matter. Only it
was so different from what she had believed. By and by, wnen
she could reason more calmly she would feel differently and see
it from a different standpoint, but now she felt as if she could
scream outright if her visitors staid another minute, and she was
glad when reminded by the twelve o'clock whistle of her green
peas cooking at home, grandma arose to go. She had no in-
tention of wounding Reinette, but she had no sensitiveness her-
self, no delicacy of feeling, no refinement and could not under-
stand how.crushed, degraded, and heart-broken Reinette felt as
she fled up the stairs to her own room, and throwing herself
upon the bed sobbed and moaned in a paroxysm of grief and
despair.

* And ihese people are mine,' she said : * they belong to me,
who was oone so proud of my blood. Prize-fighters and brew-
ers, and bakers, and mercy knows what, in place of the dukes
and duchesses I had pictured to myself ! Why did father bring
me here, when he had kept the knowledge of Ihem from me so
long, or at least why did he not tell me of them. It is dreadful,
dr^ful, and I hope I may never see one of them again.'

Just then her ear caught the sound of horse's feet galloping
into the yard, and starting up from her crouching position
among the pillows and pushing back her heavy hair from her

QVEENIE HETHERTON.

forehead Reinette listened intently, feeling intuitively that she
knew who the rider was, and experiencing a thrill of joy when,
a few moments later, Pierre broueht her a card with the name
* Phil. Bossiter ' eneraved upon it. Taking the bit of paste-
board in her hand she exammed it critically, and pronouncing
it au fait in every respect, announced her intention of going
down to meet her cousin.

* But, mademoiselle, your dress, your hair ; monsieur is a
eentleman,' Pierre said, * but Beinette cared nothing for her
dress then — nothing for her hair, which had again fallen over
her shoulders.

Gathering it up in tresses at the back of her head, and let-
ting a few tresses fall upon her neck, she wrapped her pink
sacque a little more closely around her, and went hurriedly
down to the library where Phil, was waiting for her.

CHAPTER XIV.

REINETTE AND PHIL.

E was gotten up after the most approved manner of a
young man of elegant leisure and taste. From his
short, cut-away coat to the tip of his boots' everything
was faultless, and his fair, handsome face impressed you
with the idea that he was fresh from a perfumed bath, as, with
his soft hat under his arm, he stood leaning on the mantel and
looking curiously about the room. She, in pink and white
deshabille, a good deal tumbled and mussed, her hair just ready
to fall down her back, her cheeks flushed and her eyelids
swollen and red, showed plainly the wea'r and tear of the last
few days. And still there was a great eagerness in her face,
and her eyes were very bright as she stood an instant on the
threshold looking intently at PhiL as if deciding what manner
of man he was. That something in the expression of his face
which won all hearts to trust him, won her as well, and when
he stepped forward to meet her, holding out his hand, she went

REINETTE AND PHIL.

swiftly to him, and laying her head upon his bosom as naturally
as if he had been her brother, sobbed like a child.

' Oh, I^hilip, oh, cousin, I'm so glad you have come at last,'
she said. ' Why didn't you come sooner, come first of all,
before — those — before my — , Oh, I am so glad to see you
and find you just like my father ! '

Phil did not quite know whether he felt complimented or
not to be thus likened to her father, but to say that he was
taken aback faintly portrays his state of mind at the novel
position in which he found himself, Although warm-hearted
and affectionate he was not naturally very demonstrative, or
if he were, that part of his nature had never been called into
action, except by his grandmother. His sisters were very fond
and proud of him, but they never caressed or petted him as
some only brothers are petted, and only kissed him when part-
ing with him, or after a long absence. As to the other girls of
his acquaintance, his lips had never touched theirs since the
days of his boyhood when he played the old-time games in the
school-house on the common, nor had he held a girl's hand in
his except in the dance, and when assisting her to the carriage
or her horse ; and here was this stranger, this French girl,
whom till yesterday he had never seen, sobbing in his arms,
with his hands clasped in hers as her face bent over them so
that he could feel the touch of her burning cheek, and the great
tears as they wet his imprisoned fingers. And with that queer
perversity of man's nature Phil, liked it, and drew her closer
to him, and felt his own eyes moisten, and his voice tremble
as he said gently and pityingly, as women are wont to speak :

* Poor little Reinette, I am so sorry for you, for I know how
you have suffered ; and you have the headache, too, grand-
mother told me. She was here this morning, she and Anna. I
hope you liked her, Reinette. She is the kindest-hearted
woman in the world.'

' Yes,' came faintly from the neighbourhood of his hands,
where Reinette's face was hidden for a brief instant longer ;
then, freeing herself from him and stepping backward, she
looked at him fixedly, until all the tears and grief left her
eyes, which had twinkled mischievously as she burst into a
merry laugh, and said : ' No, I'll be honest with you, Philip,
and let you know just how bad and wicked I am. I didn't

QUEENIE HETHERTOK

like her ! Oh, I know you are horrified and hate me, and
think me awful/ she continued, as she sank into an easy chair,
and plunginff the napkin into the bowl of water still standing
there, spread it upon her head. * But you can't understand
how sudden it all is to me, who never knew that I had a rela-
tive in America, unless it were some distant one on father's
side, and who, had I been told that I was first cousin to Queen
Victoria, would not have been surprised, but rather have
thought Her Majesty honoured by the connection, so proud was
I of my fancied blood. And to be told all these .

* Wliat have you been told V Phil, asked, and she replied :

' Everything, I am sure, or if there is anything more I never
wish to hear it I know about the chimneys and the cellar
walls, the gingerbread and the beer, and closing shoes, though
what that is, I can't'even guess, and the runaway match worse
than all the rest unless it be those dreadful men who fought
each other like beasts. What were their names 1 I cannot re-
member.'

' You mean Uncle Tim and Uncle Will Martin,' Phil, said,
calling the men uncle for the first time in his life, although
there was not a drop of their blood in his veins.

But he would not tell her so, or hint that he was not as
much a Martin as herself.

* You mean Uncle Tim and Uncle Will, grandmother's bro-
thers ; they were only great uncles, and had the good taste to
get killed in the war. They can't hurt you.'

' I know that, but something hurts me cruelly,' Beinette re-
plied, clenching her hands together. 'And you don't know
how much I hate it all — hate everybody — and want to fight
and tear somebody's hair ; that would relieve me, but it would
not rid me of these dreadful people.'

She looked like a little fury as she beat her hands in the air,
and forgetting that they were strangers, Phil said to her :

' You surprise me, Reinette, by taking so strange a view of
the matter. Can you not understand that in America, where
we boast of our democracy, there is no such commodity as
blood, or if there is, it is so diluted and mixed that the original
element is hard to find. It does not matter so much who you
are, or who your parents were, as it does what you are yourself.

' '* Honour and shame from no condition rise.
Act well your part, there all the honour lies."

REINETTE AND PHIL.

re-

air,

' That used to be written for me in my copy-book at school,
and I puzzled my brain over it to know what it meant, under-
standing at last that it was another version of that part of the
church catechism which tells us to do our duty in that state of
life to whicb God has called us.'

' I'm sure I don't know what you mean by talking poetry
and catechism to me/ Reinette said tartly, and Phil, replied :

* I meant that you should look on the brighter side and not
hate us all because we chance to be your relatives, and not
rebel so hotly and want to fight and tear somebody's hair be-
cause, instead of being the grand-daughter of a duchess, you
prove to be the grand-daughter of— of a Ferguson.'

* Who calls me Bennett and talks such dreadful grammar, and
wears purple gloves 1 ' interrupted Reinette, with a half-laugh
in her eyes, where the great tears were shining.

Phil, smiled a little, for tne purple gloves, into which Grand-
ma Ferguson persisted in squeezing her coarse red hands,
shocked his fastidious taste sorely, but he was bent upon de-
fending her, and he replied :

' Yes, I know all that ; grandma is peculiar and old-fashioned
but she does not hurt you, as Reinette Hetherton, one whit.
She never had a chance to learn; circumstances have been
against her. She had to work all her early life, and she did it
well, and is one of the kindest old ladies in the world, and
some day you will appreciate her and think yourself fortunate
to have so good a grandmother, and you'll get used to us all.'

' I never shall,' Reinette replied, * never can get used to these
people. You know I don't mean you, for you are not like
them, though I do think it very mean in you to stand there
lecturing me so, when I wanted you to come to me so badly,
and thought you would comfort me and smooth the trouble
away, and instead of that you've done nothing but scold me
ever since you've been here, and nobody ever dared do that be-
fore but father, and you know how awfully my head is aching,
and you've made it ten times worse. I'm disappointed in you,
Philip Rossiter : yes, I am, and I meant to like you so much.
But you don't like me, I see it in your face, and you are a
Ferguson, too, and I hate you — there ! '

Ab she talked Reinette half rose from her chair, and in her
excitement upset the bowl of water, which went plashing over

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

the floor. Then sinking back to her seat, she began to cry
pit-eously as Phil, had never heard a girl cry before. Crossing
swiftly to her side he knelt down before her, and taking her
flushed, tear-stained face between both his hands, kissed her
upon her forehead and lips, while he tried to comfort her, by
assuring her that he was not scolding her, he was only defend-
ing his friends, that he was sorry for her, and did like her, and
begmng to know what he could do to prove it.

^ Flease forgive me, Keinette/ he said, ' and let us be friends,
for I assure you I like you.'

*Then don't call me Beinette,' she said. 'Father always
called me Queenie, and so did Margery, and they are the only
people I ever loved, or who ever loved me. Call me Queenie,
if you love me, Philip.'

* Queenie, then it is — for by Jove, I do love you ; and you
must call me Phil, if you love me, and so we seal the compact,'
the young man said, touching again the sveet, girlish lips,
which this time kissed him back without the least hesitancy or
token of consciousness.

And so they made it up, these cousins who had quarrelled on
the occasion of their first interview ; and Phil, picked up the
bits of broken china and the napkin, and wiped up the water
with his handkerchief, and told her he could cure her hei^dache
by rubbing, just as he had often cured his mother's. And
Queenie, as he called her, grew as soft and gentle as a kitten,
and, leaning her head upon the back of her chair, submitted to
the rubbing and manipulations of her forehead until the pain
actually ceased, for there was a wonderful mesmeric power in
Phil.'8 hands, and he threw his whole soul into the task, and
worked like a professional, talking learnedly of negative and
positive conditions, and feeling sorry when his cousin decided
the pain gone, and asked him to throw open the blinds and let
in the light, and then sit down where she could look at him.

There was a perfect harmony between them now, and for an
hour or more they talked together, and Eeinette told Phil,
everything she could think of with regard to her past life, and
asked him numberless questions concerning his own family and
the Fergusons generally.

' I am ashamed of myself, ' she said, * and I am going to re-
form — agoing to cultivate the Fergusons, though I don't believe

REINETTE AND PHIL.

pam

rer in

and

Icided

id let

im.

)r an

>hil.

and

re-
lieve

I can ever do much with Anna. What ails her, PhiL to be so
bitter against everybody ? Are they so very poor 9'

* Not at all, ' said Phil ' Uncle Tom— that's her father— is
a good, honest, hard-working man, odd as Dick's hat-band, and
something of a codger, who wears leather strings in his shoes,
and never says his soul is his own in the presence of his wife
and daughter; but he is perfectly respectable, though he doesn't
go to church much on Sundays, and always calls my mother
" Miss Eossiter, " though she's his half-sister. '

' What ? ' and Keinette looked up quickly. * Aren't we own
cousins, and isn't your mother my own aunt 9 '

' No, ' Phil, answered, reluctantly ; then, thinking she would
rather hear the truth frcm him than irom any one else, he told
her of his grandfather's two wives, one of whom was his grand-
mother and one hers.

* And so the Martins and the prize-fighters are not one bit
yours ; they are all mine, ' Reinette said, the hot tears rushing
to her eyes again.

* Nonsense, Queenie ; that doesn't matter a bit Remember
what I told you ; blood does not count in this country. No-
body will think less of you because of those fighters, or feuicy
you want ta knock him down. '

' But I feel sometimes as if I could ; that must be the Mar-
tin of one, ' Reinette said, laughingly ; and then she spoke of
Anna again, who Phil, said was too sensitive, and jealous, and
ready to suspect a slight where none was intended.

* But once give her a chance, ' he added, ' and she'd ride
over everybody's head, and snub working* people worse than
she thinks she is snubbed because her mother makes dresses. '

Thir allusion to dressmaking reminded Reinette of what
Anna had said with regard to we Miss La Rue who had pro-
posed buying her mother's business, and she questioned Phil,
of her, but he knew nothing, and Reinette continued :

*0h, if it only were my Margery, I should be so hi^py.
You don't know how I love her ; she is so sweet, and good, and
beautiful, with such lovely blue eyes, and hair, and complexion.
Why, Phil, as I live, there is a look in your eyes like hers, and
Anna reminded me of her, too. Funny, isn't it ? '

' Maybe she's a Ferguson, or a Martin, ' Phil, said, and his
cousin replied :

QU[EENIE HETHERTON.

* Oh, no, she is genuine French of the blonde type. She was
born in Paris, and I have been in the very room. I've known
her since we were little girls at school together. It was a pri-
vate English school, where I was a boarder, and she a day scholar
at half-rate, because they were poor. I never saw Mrs. La
Rue but once or twice, and she impressed me disi^reeably as
quite a common woman, and not at all like Margery. She had
been a hair-dresser at one time, I think. O, if this Miss La
Rue should prove to be my friend ! When will you see her 1
When are you going to the Vineyard 1 '

Phil, could not tell. He had intended going at once, but
since coming to Hetherton Place he had changed his mind, for
there was something in this wilful, capricious, sparkling girl
which attracted him more than all the gaieties of the Sea View
House, and he said it was uncertain when he should go to the
Vineyard — probably not for two weeks or more.

' Oh, I'm so sorry, ' Reinette said, frankly, ' for I do want to
know about Margery ; but then, ' she added, with equal frank-
ness, * it's real nice to have you here, where I can see yoii every
day. We must be great friends, Phil, and you must like me
in all my moods ; like me when I want to tear your eyes out
just the same as when I would tear mine out to serve you ; like
me as well as you do Anna, whom you have known always.
Will you promise, Phil. 1 '

* Yes, ' was his reply, as he took in his the little hand she
offered him, feeling strongly tempted to touch again the red,
girlish lips which pouted so prettily as she looked up at him.

One taste of those lips had intoxicated him as wine intoxi-
cates the drunkard ; but there was a womanly dignity now in
Reinette's manner which kept him at a distance, while she went
on to tell him of her good intentions. She was going to culti-
vate the Fergusons, especially her grandmother, and she should
commence by calling there that very afternoon, but Phil must
go with her. She would order an early dinner, at half-past
four, to which Phil, should stay, and then they would take a
gallop together into town.

* You've nothing to do but to stay with me. Your business
will not suffer 1 ' she asked : and colouring crimson at this al-
lusion to his business, Phil, replied that it would not suffer

REINETTE AND PHIL.

very much from an absence of half a day or so, and that he
was at her disposal.

" ' Then I'll interview Mrs. Jerry at once, and have dinner on
the big piazza which overlooks the river and the meadows.
That will make it seem more like Chateau des Fleurs, where
we ate out doors half the time, ' she said as she disappeared
from the room in quest of Mrs. Jerry, who heard with aston-
ishment that dinner was to be served upon the north piazza
instead of in the dining-room.

But even a few hours' experience had taught her that Miss
Hetherton's ways were not at all the ways to which she had
been accustomed, and so she assented without a word, while
Reinette went next to her room and transformed herself from
an invalid in a wrapper into a most stylish and elegant young
lady.

How lovely she was, in her dress of dark-blue silk, with a
Valenciennes sleeveless jacket, such as was then fashionable,
her wavy hair arranged in heavy curls, which were fastened at
the back of her head with a scarlet ribbon, while a knot of
the same ribbon was worn at her throat.

Phil, had thought her bewitching even in her wrapper, with
the wet napkin on her head, but when she tripped into the
room in her new attire he started with surprise at the transfor-
mation in her. There was a bright flush on her cheeks and her
eyto shone like stars as they flashed smile after smile upon him,
until he became so dazed and bewildered that he scarcely knew
what he was doing. She had her sun-hat in her hand, and
led him out into the grounds, where she told him of the im-
provements she meant to make, and asked what he thought of
them.

She should not change the general appearance of the house,
she s^id. She should only add one or two bay-windows and
balconies, and enlarge the north piazza, as she wished the
rooms to remain as they were when her father lived there, but
the park was to undergo a great change, and be remodelled, as
far as possible, after the park at Chateau des Fleurs. There
were to be more winding walks,, and terraces, and plateaus of
flowers, and fountains, and statuary gleaming among the ever-
greens, and clumps of cedar trimmed and arranged into a laby-
rinth of little rooms, with seats and tables in them, and lainps

100

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

suspended from the branches. But the crowning glory of the
whole was to be a rustic summer-house, or an open chalet, large
enough to accommodate three or four sets of dancers, when
she would give an out-door f&te, and to seat at least forty peo-
ple at a breakfast or dinner. Her ideas were on a most mag-
nificent scale, and Phil listened to her breathlessly till she
had finished, and then asked if she had any idea as to how
much this would cost.

* A heap of money, of course,* she said, arching her eyebrows
and nose a little, as she scented disapprobation ; ' but what of
that 1 Father had lots of money, I know, and never denied me
anything. What is money for, except to spend and let other
people have a good time ? I mean to fill the house with com-
pany, summer and winter, and make life one grand holiday for
them, and you must stay here most of the time and help me see
to things, or would that interfere too much with your business
— ^your profession)'

This was the second time she had alluded to his business, and
Phil.'s cheeks were scarlet, and he was conscious of a feeling of
shame in the presence of this Active, energetic girl, who took it
for granted that he must have some business — some profession.
He could not tell her that he had none, and had she pressed the
pointy would have fallen back upon that two months' trial in Mr.
Beresiford's law office, when he started to have a profession ; but
fortunately for him the dinner was announced, and they went
together to the north piazza, where Beinette presided at one end
of the table, and he at the other.

It was quite like housekeeping, Beinette said, and she made
Phil, promise to dine with her every day when he was in town.

* Not always here,' she said, * but around in different places —
under t^ trees, in my new summer-house, which must be built
directly, and every where.'

She was the fiercest kind of a radical, always seeking some-
thing new, and Phil, felt intuitively that to follow her would be
to lead a busy, fatiguing life, but he was is^ady for it ; ready for
anything ; ready to jump into Lake Petit, if she said so, he
thought a little later, when he saw her in her riding-habit,
mounted upon the snow-white Margery, who held her neck so
higa, and stepped along so proudly, as if conscious of the grace-
ful burden she bore. Beinette was a fine horsewoman, and sat

REINETTE AND PHtL

101

y of the
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the saddle and handled the reins perfectly, and she and Phil,
made quite a sensation as they galloped into town, with King
in close attendance, for Reinette had insisted that he should ac-
company them, as a kind of body guard.

Their first call was upon Mr. Beresford, who came out and
stood by Keinette's horse as he talked to her, maxvelling at the
change in this sparkling, brilliant creature, so different from the
tear-st-ained, swollen-eyed girl he had seen in the morning. She
told him of her plans for improvements, which she meant to
begin immediately, and which Phil, had said would cost at least
fifteen hundred dollars, but that it did not matter. When she
wanted a thing, she wanted it, and would Mr. Beresford give
her the money at once, as she had only two or three hundred
dollars in her purse at home. She talked as if gold grew on
bushes, and Mr. Beresford listened to her aghast, for unless he ad-
vanced it himself, there were not fifteen hundred dollars for her
in his possession. The repairs at HethertonPlace had already cost
enormously, and there were still debts waiting to be paid. Mr.
Hetherton's death would of course retard matters a little, but it
was impossible to refuse the eager, winsome girl, whose eyes
looked so straight into his own, and he promised to give her
what she asked for, and said he had already written to Paris to
Messrs. Polignac & Co., who he believed had charge of her fath-
er's foreign business, adding that he should like the papers as
soon as possible.

Beinette said he should have them the next day, and added :

* I too, am going to write to Messrs. Polignac, to inquire for
my old nurse, Christine Bodine. She knew mother, and I mean
to find her if she is alive."

* Not that it matters so much about finding her, as there is no
doubt that my mother was Margaret Ferguson,' she said to PhiU
as they rode off, ' and I am getting quite reconciled to it now
that I know you. Would you mind,' and she dropped her voice
a little, * would you mind showing me the chimneys and celhr
walls our grandfather built 1 and the beer shop where mother
sewed the pieces of cloth together, and sowed those shoes and
things r

Phil, could not show her the chimneys John Ferguson had
built, for though there were those in the town who often pointed
them out when Mrs. Kossiter, his daughter, drove by in her

lod

QUEEKtE HET^ERTOif.

handsome carriage, he didn't know where they were, but he
could show her the beer shop, its she termed it, though it bore
no traces now of what it used to be. It was lone and low, like
many of the old New England houses, but it looked deliciously
cool and pleasant under the tall elms, with its plats of grass and
its sweet, old-fashioned flowers in full bloom. Grandma Fergu-
son, too, in her clean calico dress and white apron, with her hair
combed smoothly back, made a different picture from what she
did in the morning, with her wide ribbons and purple gloves.
She was delighted to see them, and took Reinette all over the
house, from the parlour where she said Paul Rossi ter and Fred.
Hetherton had courted their wives, to the room where Reinette's
mother used to sleep when she was a girl, and where the high-
post bed she occupied, and the chair she used to sit in, were still
standing.

* Mary — that's Miss Rossiter — wanted me to git some new
furniture,' she said, as they stood in the quiet room, * and I could
afford it as well as not, for your granther left me pretty well off,
with what Mary does for me ; but somehow it made Margaret
seem nigher to me to have the things she used to handle, and
so I kep' 'em, and sometimes when I'm lonesome like for the
days that are gone, and for my girl that is dead, I come up here
and sit awhile and think I can see her just as she used to look
when I waked her in the mornin', and she lay there on that pil-
ler smilin' at me like a fresh young rose, with her hair fallin'
over her pretty eyes ; and then I cry and wish I had her back,
though I know she's so happy now, and some day I shall see
her again, if I'm good, and I do try to do the best that I know
how. Poor Maggie, dear little Maggie, dead way over the seas.'

Grandma was talking more to herself than to Reinette, and
the sreat tears were dropping from her dim old eyes, and her
rou^, red hands were tenderly patting the pillows, where she
had so often seen the dear head of the child * dead way over the
seas.' But to Reinette there was now no redness, or roughness
about the hands, no coarseness about the woman ; for all such
minor things were forgotten in that moment of perfect accord
and sympathy, and Reinette's tears fell like rain as she bent over
the hands which had touched her mother.

* Blessed child,' grandma said, ' I thank my GU)d for sending
you to me, and that you are good and true like Margaret.'

'1*<""^irg;ia

' UEtNETTE AND PHtL.

lOS

This was too mach for the conscious-smitten Reinette, who
burst out impulsively :

' I'm not good ; I'm not true ; I'm bad and wicked as I can be,
and I am going to confess it all here in mother's room, hoping
she can hear me, and know how sorry I am. I was proud and
hot, and felt like fighting yesterday when I met you all, because
it was so sudden, so different ; and this morning I rebelled again,
and wanted to scream, but I'll never do so again, and I'm going
to make you so happy ; and now, please, go away and leave me
for a little while.'

Grandma Ferguson understood her in part, and went out,
leaving the girl alone in the low, humble room, which had been
Margaret's. Kneeling by the bed, and burying her face in the
pillows, which seemed so scanty and small, Reinette sobbed like
a child as she asked forgiveness for all her proud rebellion
against the grandmother whom in her heart she knew to be kind
and loving.

' Humble me in any way, if that is necessary to make me
love her as I ought,' she said, and in the after time when the
great storm burst upon her she remembered that petition made
in the lowly chamber where Margaret Ferguson once had
prayed, and felt that it had been most terribly answered.

But there was no shadow over her now ; she had confessed
to her grandmother ; she had confessed to God, and she was
going to confess to Phil. There was nothing more she could
do, and her's was an April nature, she was as bright and play-
ful as a kitten when she went down the steep, narrow stairs,
and bidding her grandmother good-night, mounted her horse
and started with Phil, for Mrs. Lydia Ferguson's. They found
that lady very hot and nen'ous over a dress which must be
finished that night, and on which Anna was working very un-
willingly, with her banged hair hanging over her eyes, and her
dress tied back so tight that as she sat the tops of her boots
were visible and a portion of her striped stockings. Through
an open door Reinette caught a glimpse of a disorderly supper-
table, at which a man was sitting in his shirt sleeves, regaling
himself with fried cakes and raw onions.

*Come father,' Mrs. Lydia called, in a loud, shrill voice,
* hain't you done eating yetl Hero's Reinette, your niece.

104

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

Keinette this is your uncle Tom, who is said to look enough
like your mother to have been her twin.'

His face was pleasant, and his manner was kindly, as he
shook hands with Reinette, and said he was glad to see her,
and told her that she favoured the Uethertons more than the
Fergusons, but Keinette saw that he belonged to an entirely
different world from her own, and after they had left ' Uncle
Tom's ' and were going over the house at the Knoll, she said
to Phil, that she felt as if she was backsliding awfully.

* Isn't there a couplet,' she asked, ^ which runs thus : —

' " The dell when sick a saint would be,

But when he got well the de'il a saint was he."

* Now I'm just like that. Over at grandmother I felt real
good — as if I never could be bad again ; and I never will to
grandmother. I shall cultivate her, and make her caps, and
fix her dresses, and coax her not to wear purple gloves, or call
me Rennet. But oh, Phil., shall I be so wicked that I can never
go to Heaven if I don't rave over those other people 1 They
are so different from anything I ever saw before. Now, this
suits me ; this is more like Chateau des Fleurs,' she said, as
she followed Phil, through the house until they came to his
room, where, on the table, he found a telegram from his father,
and which was as follows : —

* Come to us at once as I must go to Boston on business, and your
mother needs you.

*Paul Rossiteb.'

He read it aloud to Keinette, who exclaimed :
'I am so sorry, for now I shall be alone, and I meant to have
you with me every day.'

Phil, was sorry, too, for the dark-eyed French girl had made
sad havoc with his heart during the few hours he had known
her, but- there was no help for it ; he must go to his mother,
and the next morning when the Springfield train, bound for
Boston, left Merrivale, it carried Phil, with it on his way to
Martha's Vineyard.

DOWN BY THE SEA.

105

CHAPTER XV.

DOWN BY THE SEA.

RS. HOSSITER occupied the handsomest rooms at the
Sv..i View House, and on the morning of PhiL's arrival
she lay on her couch hy the open window, occasion-
ally looking out upon the water, but mostly with her eyes fixed
fondly upon her handsome boy, who sat by her side fanning
himself with his soft hat, and answering the numerous ques-
tions of his sisters, Ethel and Grace — questions concerning
Keinette, their new cousin, whose existence had taken them so
by surprise. How did she look ) What was she like ? What
did she wear 1 What did she say % and who was to live with
her in that great lonely house ?

* Don't hurry a chap so,' said Phil. * There's a lot to tell,
and I'd better begin at the beginning.'

So he described for them first the arrival at the station,
where grandma and Aunt Lydia were waiting in their weeds,
and Anna was gorgeous in her white muslin and long lace scarf,
while he flourished with a dirty face and torn, soiled pants.

* Oh. if you could have seen her face when we were presented
to her as her " cousins^ and her uncleSy and her aunts I "
I tell you it was rich, the whole thing. I never saw such eyes
in a human being's head as those which flashed first upon one
and then on another of her new relations.'

* Do you really mean she had never heard of us at all 1 ' both
Ethel and Grace asked in the same breath, and Phil, replied by
telling them everything that had transpired since Eeinette's ar>
rival up to the time he left her at her own door.

All except the quarrel and the kisses with which they had
made up. That was something to be kept to himself; but he
dwelt much upon her sparkling beauty, which, would not per-
haps be called beauty in the strict sense of the word. Some
might think her too small and too dark to be pretty, while
others would object to her forehead As too low, and her nose

106

QUEENIE HETHBRTON.

as a little too retroussS, but to Phil, who had seen the rich
warm colour come and go on her clear olive cheeks, who had
seen her dark eyes flash, and sparkle, and dance until her
whole person seemed to shine and glow like some rare diamond,
she was supremely beautiful, and he dwelt long upon her love-
liness and piquancy, and freshness, while his mother and sisters
listened breathlessly, but not as breathlessly as the girl in the
adjoining room, who sat making some changes in a dress Miss
Ethel was to wear that night to a hop in the hotel.

The door between the two rooms was only slightly ajar, and
Margery La Rue had not heard ^ word of the conversation
between the brother and sisters until her ears caught the name
of Reinette, followed soon by Hetherton and Paris. Then the
work dropped from her hands. And a sudden pallor crept into
her cheeks, which ordinarily were like the delicate roses of
June.

* Reinette : Reinette Hetherton,' she whispered. * Is there
another name like that in all the world ? Is it my Reinette,
the dearest best friend I ever had 1 Impossible, for what can
she be doing here in America, in Merrivale, where I have
thought to go 1 '

There was a death-like faintness in the heart of this girl,
whose whispered words were in French, and were scarcely words,
so softly were they spoken.

* Reinette, Reinette ! ' she repeated, as with clasped hands,
and head bent forward in the attitude of intense listening, she
heard the whole story Phil, told, and laughed a little to herself
at the ludicrous description of the Fergusons, and the impres-
sion they made upon the stranger. * I can imagine just how
cold and haughty, and proud she grew, and how those great
eyes blazed with scorn and incredulity, if it is my Reinette he
means,' she thought ; ' but it cannot be. There is some mis-
take.' Then, as the name Queenie was spoken, she half rose to
her feet and laid both hands upon her mouth to force back the
glad cry which sprang to her lips. ' Queenie ! Queenie ! ' that
settled it There could be no longer a doubt This foreigner,
this girl from France, this cousin of the Rossiters — this near re-
lation of the Fergusons, whoever they might be, was her Queenie,
her friendf her darling, whom she loved with such devotion as
few women have ever inspired in another, Uow she longed to

DOWN BY THE SEA,

107

rush into the next room and pour out question after question
concerning her friend ; but this she could not do ; she was onlv
a seamstress, come to make some changes in her patron s
dresses. She must remain quiet, for the present at least, for
she did not know how the Kossiters would like her to claim
acquaintance and friendship with their kinswoman. So she re-
sumed her work while the talk in the next room flowed on, al-
ways of Queenie, as they called her because Phil did, and in
whom the mother and sisters were so greatly interested.

They had intended stopping at the sea-side for the summer,
but now they spoke of an earlier return to Merrivale on
Queenie's account, a plan of which PhiL highly approved, for
he would far rather be at home than there where his services
were needed for his mother, who, thoueh much better, could
only get oiit in her invalid chair, which PhiL could manage
much better than a servant.

' And Anna 1 How is she 1 ' Ethel asked. ' Does she take
kindly to our cousin, or is she jealous of her, as of us T

The mention of Anna reminded PhiL of the Miss La Rue,
who had written to his aunt, and in whose identity with her
friend Queenie had been so much interested.

* By the way,' he said, ' there's a dressmaker here somewhere,
a Margery La Rue, from Paris, whom Queenie thinks she
knows, and over whom she goes into rhapsodies. Do you know
her, and is she the person who wrote to Aunt Lydia with re-
gard to her business] '

A warning * sh-sV came from both the young ladies, with a
nod toward the slightly open door, indicating that the person
inquired for was there. Then the voices were lowered, and the
door was shut, and the wonder and interest increased as Ethel
and Grace heard all which Reinette had said of their dress-
maker, whose taste and skill they esteemed so highly that they
had suggested her going to Merrivale, or rather they had en-
couraged it after the mother, Mrs. La Rue, had asked them, if
it would be a good opening for her daughter. That Margery
had written to their aunt they did not know, for the girl was
very reticent concerning herself and her business, and only
spoke when she was spoken to.

' It is very strange that she should know our cousin so well,'
Ethel said, * or that they should have been intimat<e enough for

108

QUEBNIB HBTUBRTON:

Queenie to rave over her as PhiL says she doe& I mean to
sound her on the suhject, and hear what she has to say/ and as
it was time for Mrs. Kossiter to take her airing, the conference
broke up, and on pretext of seeing to her dress Ethel went into
the room where Margery now sat sewing as quietly and com-
posedly as if she had never heard of Queenie Uetherton.

CHAPTER XVI.

MARGERY LA RUE.

HE was a tall, beautiful blonde, with reddish golden hair,
and lustrous blue eyes shaded with long curling eye-
lashes and heavy eyebrows, which made them seem
darker than they really were. The features were finely cut and
perfectly regular, and the whole face and figure were of that re-
fined, delicate type supposed to belong mostlv to the upper
classes in whose veins the purest of patrician blood is flowing.
She said she was twenty-one, but she seemed older, on account
of the air of independence and self-reliance in her manner, like
that of a person accustomed to care and think for herself. She
had come to America the April previous and stopped at Mar-
tha's Vineyard with her mother, who was as unlike her as it
was possible for a mother to be unlike her daughter.

Short, and stout, and dark, Mrs. La Rue was a fair represen-
tation of the ordinary French woman, with some signs ofxulture
and education in her manner. In her early childhood she must
have been very pretty and attractive, with her bright com-
plexion and large black eyes, which had not yet lost their bril-
liancy, though there was in them a sad, brooding expression,
as if she were continually haunted with some bitter memory.

It was she who had been most anxious about Merrivale, and
Miss Ethel, who was prouder and more reserved than her sister
Grace, had thought her very forward and quite too familiar in
her questionings of the place and its people. Margery had
been introduced to the Misses Rossiter by a friend from Boston

MAROERY LA RUE.

109

who had employed her in Paris, but, occupied as they were with
their mother, and the gay world around them, they had hardlv
thought whether she were unusually pretty or not, until Phil,
electrified them with the news that she was the friend of their
cousin, who said she was beautiful.

' I'll look her out now for myself,' Ethel thought, as she en-
tered the room where Margery sat sewing, with a deep flush on
her check and a bright, eager look in the blue eyes lifted re-
spectfully but inquiringly to the face of her employer.

During the last ten minutes Margery's thoughts had been
travelling back over the past to the early days of her childhood
when her home was on the upper floor of a dilapidated dwelling
in the Rue St. Honore, where her days were passed in lonelinesp,
except for the companionship of a cat and her playthings, of
which she had a great abundance. Her parents were poor,
and her mother was busy all day at a hair-dresser's going out
early and coming home late, while her father worked she
did not know where, and sometimes it entered her little ac-
tive brain that perhaps he did not work at all, for on the days
when she went to walk, as she ruscasionally did with the woman
who had the floor below, and who looked after and was kind
to the lonely little girl in the attic, she often saw him lounging
and drinking at a third-class caf6 which they passed when her
friend, Lisette Verteuil, had clothes to carry to her patrons,
for Lisette was a laundress, and washed for many of the upper
class. Sometimes too, Margery heard her mother reproach her
father for his indolence and thrifblessness, and then there was
always a quarrel, into which her name was dragged, though
in what way she could not tell. She only knew that after
these quarrels her mother was, if possible, kinder to her than
before — petted her more, brought her more playthings, and said
her prayers oftener in a little closet off* from the living room^
Her father, too was kind to her in his rough ofi-hand way, but
she did not love him as she did her pretty mother, and when
at last he died her grief for him, though violent at first, was
very short-lived and soon forgotten, as the griefs of children
are.

Among the patrons of Lisette Verteuil was Mr. Hetherton,
the reputed millionaire, wliose elegant carriage and horses
sometimes stood on the Eue St Honore while his housekeeper

QUJSAyiE HEIHERTON.

talked to Lisette of the garments she had brought to be
washed for her little mistress, Miss Eeinette — ^garments dainty
enough for a princess to wear, and which Lisette took great
pride in showing to her neighbours, as a kind of advertisement
for herself.

One morning when Margery was spending an hour or
two with the laundress, helping to fold and lay away the
clothes preparatory to being sent home, Lisette had shown her
the lovely embroidered dresses, with the tucks and puffs and
yards of real lace upon them, and told her of the little black-
eyed girl who lived so grandly, and who occasionally came
there with her maid, and who seemed so much like a playful
but spitty kitten, in her quick, varying moods, from mirth to
wrath and back again.

' Oh, how 1 wish I was rich like her, and had such lovely
dresses, and how I'd like to see her I Do you think she'd
come up to our room sometime, if you asked her Y Margery
said, and Lisette replied that she did not know, but said she
would try what she could do.

Accordingly, the next time Reinette came to the. laundry,
in her scarlet hood and cloak, trimmed with white ermine
and lined with quilted satin, Lisette told her of the little girl
who lived on the floor above, and who was alone all day, with
only her doll and cat to talk to, and who would like to see her.

The cat and doll attracted Reinette quite as much as the
little girl, and, with the permission of her maid, who demurred
at first, saying she did not know how her master would like
his daughter's going into such places, she was soon climbing
the steep, narrow but perfectly clean stairway which led to
Numero 40. Mr. La Rue had been home to lunch that day,
and Margery, though scarcely nine years old, was clearing
away the remants of their plain repast, and brushing up the
hearth, when the door was pushed softly open, and a pair of
bright, laughing eyes looked at her under the scarlet and er-
mine^ and a sweet, bird-like voice said :

* Please, Margie, may I come in ? I am Reinette Hetherton
— Queenie, papa calls me, and I like that best. Lisette said
you lived up here all alone with the cat. Where is shel I
don't see her. '

Margery was standing before the fire, broom in hand, with

MAE&EBY LA RUE.

the
of
er-

a long-sleeved apron on, which came to her feet and concealed
her dress entirely, while her hair was hidden in a cap she
always wore at her work. At the sound of Reinette's voice she
started suddenly, and dropping her broom, gazed open-mouthed
at the vision of loveliness addressing her so familiarly. The
mention of the cat struck a cord of sympathy, and she replied
at once :

*■ She isn't she ; she's Ad, and his name is Jacques* There he
is, under father's chair/ and the two girls bumped their heads
together as they both stooped at the same moment to capture
the cat, who was soon purring in Keinette's lap, as she sat
before the fire, with Margery on the floor beside her, admiring
her bright; sparkling face and beautiful dress.

' I've nothing half so pretty as this,' Margeiy said, despond-
in gly, as she touched the scarlet cloak. * My best coat is plaid,
and I only wear it on Sundays '

*■ Oh, my ! ' Eeinette replied, with a great air of self-impor-
tance, and tossing her head a little : ' I have three more. One
is velvet, lined with rose-colour, which I wear to church when
I go, and when I drive with papa in the £ois. Do you ever
go there, or on the ChaTips Elyseea'

^ I walk there sometimes on Sundays with mother, but I
was never in a real carriage in my life,' was Margery's reply,
and Reinette rejoined :

* Then you shall be. I'll make Celine — that's my maid —
take us this very afternoon. Ther^Ul be a crowd, and it will
be such fun ! But why do you wear that big apron and cap 1
— they disfigure you so.'

Margery blushed scarlet, and explained that she wore them
at work to keep her clothes clean ; then, divesting herself of
the obnoxious garments, c^he shook down her rippling hair, and
stood up before Reinnette, who exclaimed :

* How sweet you are, with that bright sunny hair and those
lovely blue eyes ! I wish mine were blue. I hate 'em — the
nasty old things, so black and so vixenish, Celine says, when
I'm mad, as I am more than half the time. But, tell me, do
you really live here alone with the cat 1 '

* Oh, no.' And in a few words Margery explained ker mode
of life, which to the pampered child of luxury seemed deso-
late in the extreme.

112

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

i-'i

* Oh, that's dreadful ! ' she said ; * and I'm so sorry for you I
You ought to see our apartments at the Hotel Meurice. They
are just lovely ! and Chateau des Fleurs, our country home,
is prettier than the Tuileries — the grounds, I mean — ^and most
as pretty as Versailles.'

Margery listened with rapt attention to Eeinette's descrip-
tion of her beautiful home, and then, as Eeinette said some-
thing of her father being an American, she suddenly inter-
rupted her with :

* Can you speak English 1 *

* Of course I can,' said Eeinette. * I always speak it with
papa, who wishes me to know it as well as French. Mamma
was English and died at Rome when I was born, aud I go to
an English school on Bue d'Antin, and when papa is away in
Switzerland or Russia, as he is a great deal, I board at the
school, and have such fun, because they don't dare touch mb,
papa is so rich.'

' Oh, if I could only go to that school I I want to speak
English more than anything else in the world, and mother
wishes me to learn it, too, and says I shall, by and by, when
she can afford it. She speaks it a very little,' Margery said ;
and after a moment, Reinette replied :

'I'll tell you what i'm going to do. Papa has more money
than he knows what to do. with, and I mean to tease him and
tease him till he gives m^ some for you, and you shall go to
that school with me ; only you must do everything I say.
You must be my little — little — " fag" they call them at boys'
schools in England. Papa told me about it, and they treat
them mean sometimes, but I shall not do that to you.'

* Oh, I'll be that— what did you call it 1 I'll be anything,
do anything, if I can only go, and I'll tell mother to-night ! '
Margery exclaimed, feeling unbounded faith in Reinette's
ability to accomplish anything.

Nor was her faith at all shaken when a few minutes later,
Reinette's smart maid, Celine, came up the stairs after her lit-
tle mistress, who horrified her with the announcement that she
meant to take her new friend for a drive in the Champs
Elysees.

' I shall ; I will,' she said, as Celine protested against it ' I
like her, and she's never been in a carriage ia her life, and she

MAMERY LA RUE.

113

khe

stays here all day with the cat, and washes the dishes, and she's
going to ride with me, and I'll spit and bite, if you don't let
her.'

Celine knew better than to oppose the imperious child when
in this mood, and besides there was something very winning
and attractive in the bright-haired, blue-eyed little girl, whose
dress, though plain, was becoming and faultlessly clean. She
certainly was no ordinary child, and the beautiful face would
not disgrace the carriage. So Celine consented, and with joy
beaming in every feature Margaret brought her plaid cloak and
hood, which presented so striking a contrast to the rich scarlet
one of Keinette that she drew back at once, and with swim-
ming eyes and quivering lip said to Celine :

* You are right. I must not go. I'm so shabby beside her.
She would be ashamed, and that I could not bear. Oh, I wish
I was her and she me, just for once — wish I could wear a scar-
let cloak and see how it seemed.'

* You shall ! you shall ! ' Reinette cried, with great tears in
her eyes, too. * You shall know how it seems. We'll make
believe you are papa's little girl, and I am Margery,' and be-
fore Celine could divine her intention, she was removing her
dainty scarlet cloak and hood, and trying them on Margery,
who was too much astonished to resist, but stood perfectly
still, while Reinette wrapped the ermine and satin, and merino
around her, and put the plaid cloak and hood upon herself.
* Oh, how lovely you are,' she said, gazing admiringly at the
child, 'and how ugly I am in this plaid. Nobody will know
but what you are really papa's little girl, Queenie Hetherton,
and I am Margery,' and she dragged the bewildered Margery
down the stairs, through the court, where the old concierge
stared wonderingly at them, and out into the street, where at a
coruOT the Hetherton carriage was waiting.

Reinette gave Margery the seat of honour, and then sat
down beside her, looking somewhat like a dowdy bit of hu-
manity in the plain plaid cloak, with the large hood hiding her
face. But she enjoyed it immensely, playing that she was
Margery, and bade the coachman drive straight to the Champs
Elysees, and as far out as the Arch of Triumph.

It was a lovely winter afternoon, and all the Americans and
English, with many of the Parisians, were out, making the

QUESNIE BEfHERTOir,

;'t

!1I

Champs Elysees and the Bois beyond seem like a brilliant pro-
cession of gaily dressed people and splendid equipages. And
among the latter none was handsomer or more noticeable than
the finely-stepping bays and elegant carriage of Mr. Hetherton,
in which Margery sat making believe that she was Queenie, and
enjoying it all as much as if she had really been the daughter
of the millionaire, instead of humble Margery La Kue, whosr
mother was a hair-dresser^ and whose father was a nothing.

How happy she was, and how in after years that winter af-
ternoon when she rode in the Champs Elysees in borrowed
plumes, stood out before her as the bright spot in her life
from which dated all the sunshine and all the sorrow, too,
which ever came back to her. Nor was it hard for her in the
least to go back to the humble lodgings — to give up the scarlet
cloak, and be Margery again, for she had so much now to think
of ; so much to tell to her mother, whom she found waiting at
the head of the narrow stairs, with white, scared look on her
face, and an eager, wistful expression in her eyes which seemed
to look past Margery, down the dark stairway, as if in quest of
some one else.

* Oh mother,' Margery cried, * you are home early to-night,
and I am so happy. Heaven can never be any brighter than
this afternoon has been to me, playing that I was Mr. Hether
ton's little girl, and wearing her scarlet cloak.'

She was in the room by this time, taking off her own plaid
coat, which she had put on in the court below, and talking so
fast that she did not see the pallor on her mother's face, or how
tightly her hands clinched the back of a chair as she stood
looking at her.

Mrs. La Rue had been dismissed by her employer earlier
than usual, and finding Margery gone, had been to Lisette's
room to make enquiries for her.

* Are you sick 1 ' Lisette asked, as Mrs. La Rue dropped sud-
denly into a chair when she heard where Margery had gone
and with whom. * You look as if you had seen a ghost.'

Making an excuse that she was tired, and not feeling quite as
well as usual, Mrs. La Rue soon went back to her own apartment,
and kneeling down by the wooden chair before the fire, cried
bitterly as people only cry when some great wrong done in the
past, or some terrible memory which they had thought dead

MAROEttT LA RVt:.

115

id-
ne

3d
10

and buried forever, rises suddenly from its grave and confronts
them with all ths olden horror.

* Reinette and Margery, together, side by side ! ' she said.
* Oh, if I could see it—see her ; but no, I have promised, and I
must keep my vow. I dare not break it. I swore by heaven
and the cross 1 '

For a long time she lay with her head upon the chair, and
then remembering that Margery would soon be coming home
and must not find her thus, she arose, and wiping the tear-
stains from her face, busied herself with preparations for the
evening meal until she heard upon the stairs the bounding
step which always sent a thrill of joy to her heart, for what-
ever Mrs. La Rue might have been in the past, whatever wrong
she might have been a party to, and whatever she was nor, she
was wholly unselfish in her love for Margery, for whom sL- would
at any time have given her own life. And well might she love
the beautiful child whose presence brightened their humble
home as sunshine brightens the November sky, and who came
dancing in with her blue eyes shining like stars and her cheeks
glowing with excitement, as she talked of the wonderful things
she had seen, and of Queenie, * who,' she said, ' acted as if I
was just as good as she, and her father so rich, too, with such
a lovely chateau, and she was just like a picture, as she sat
talking to me in this hard old chair,' and she indicated the one
by which her mother had knelt, and on which the tears were
scarcely yet dried.

* This one ? Did she sit in this one 1 ' Mrs. La Rue asked,
eagerly, laying her hand caressingly on the chair where Queenie
Hetherton had sat in her scarlet cloak and talked to Margery.

* And what is the best of all,' Margery continued, * she goes
to an English school, and when I told her how much I wanted
to learn English, she said she'd tease her father for money to
pay for me, too : and she'd get it, for he gives her everything
she wants. Oh, I do hope he will. I mean to ask God to-night
to make him. Lisette says I must ask for what I want, and
Jesus will hear and answer. Do you think He will ) Does He
answer you % '

* Oh, Margery, Margery, I never pray. I am too wicked.
God would not hear me, but He v "

you ; 80 pray.

pray.

Mrs. La Rue replied, and seizing the little girl, she hugged her

116

QUEEirtE HETHERTOir.

passionately, and raining kisses upon her forehead and lips,
released her as suddenly, and turned quickly away to hide her
anguish from her.

Mrs. La Rue was not a religious woman. She did not believe
in much of anything except that there was a God, and that a
vow must not be broken, but she taught Margery her prayers
and to read the Bible, and encouraged her to be much with old
Lisette, who had lived a year in London, and become a zealous
Methodist. But for herself she never prayed, and still, when
later in the evening she saw Margery kneeling by her little
bed, and knew that she was asking Him to make Mr. Hether-
ton give Queeuie the money which would send her to school,
she whispered to herself :

* Please, God, do it. Please answer her.'

CHAPTER XVIL

QUEENIE AND MARGERY.

T the same hour when Margery La Rue was praying by
her bedside in the humble apartment in Rue St.
Honore, Mr. Hetherton sat in his handsome acdon at
the Hotel Meurice, smoking his after-dinner cigar, and occa-
sionally reading a page or two in the book on the table beside
him. He was a very handsome man in his middle age — hand-
somer even than he had been in his youth, for there was about
him now a style and elegance of manner which attracted atten-
tion from every one. And yet he was not popular, and had
no intimate friends. He was too reserved and uncommunica-
tive 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 seme 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

QUEENIE AND MARGERY,

117

occa-
)8ide
laad-
ibout
^tten-

had
^nica-

and
I from

.,of
[with
|ized,

the
rkest

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 steal 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 fat hand, tell him no matter how bad he was she loved
him just the same, and should for ever and ever. Queenie was
the very apple of his eye, the sun of his existence, and he lav-
ished upon her all the love of which a strong nature is capa-
ble. Queenie could do anything with him, and approach him
in all sorts of times and places, and so as ho sat alone with his
cigar, as he liked best to be in the evening, 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 favourite 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 sud-
denly faint and cold, for that was the pet name he had some-
sometimes given his wife in the early days of their acquaint-
ance and married life, when he loved her, or thought he did.
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's her name and who she is ) ' Queenie said,

118

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

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 t '

And then the story came out Of the little girl who lived
alone 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 bus her hard — as if she belonged to me ; and you'll
do it, papa, I know you will 1 You'll send little Margery La
Rue to the same school with me, and she s to be myyoj^, as the
boys are at Eton.'

This last remark provoked a smile from Mr. Hetherton, who
asked numerous questions concerning his daughter's acquaint-
ance with Margery La Rue, the child of 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 eo there, and to
worse places, too. I'll go to Jardin McihUle, if you don't give
me the money for Maigery, and if you do I'U promise never to
go there again — only Odline shall go for her to ride with me.
I'm 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 inquiries proved satisfactory, arrangements were made
with the principal of the English school to receive little Mar-
gery as a day pupil at half pay, in consideration of her per-
forming some menial service in the school, by way of dusting
the desks and putting the books in order after school was over.
This plan was the result of Mr. Hetherton's great pride, for
though willing to pay for Margery's education to please Rein-
ette, he was not willing to put her on a footing with his daugh-
ter, and thought, by making her a kind of servant, to place a

QUEENIE AND MARQERY.

119

gulf between them, for he knew that in some respects Queenie
was prouder than himself.

But in this respect his project failed, for from the day when
Margery became a pupil in the English school, Beinette was
her avowed champion and sworn friend, and though at times
she tyrannized over her, and literally made her a fag, she pet-
ted and caressed her, 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.

And Margery in return was quite as devoted to her friend,
through whom a new life was opened to her. Naturally quick
to learn, and easier to retain than Reinette, she soon out-
stripped her in all their studies, and was of great service to her
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 scho-
lar. Once when she had committed a grave misdemeanor which
had been strictly forbidden on pain of heavy punishment, Mar-
gery 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 adminis-
tered in the presence of the whole school, and was to be unur
sually severe as a warning to others. Margery was very pale
as she took her place upon the platform, and held out her
behutiful white arm and hand to the master, and her blue eyes
glanced just once wistfully and pleadingly towards the corner
where Queenie sat, her own eyes shut, and her fists clenched
tightly together until the first blow fell upon the innocent Mar-
gery. 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 1*11 pull every hair out of your head. You might have
known she didn't do it. It was /, and 1 am iMstier and viler
than you, for I kept still just because I was afraid to be hurt,

120

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

and let her bear it for me. 1 am the guilty one. / did it, and
she knew it, and never told. Beat me to pummice 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, dimpled hand for the punish-
ment 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 first, she had at the last
shown so much genuine moral courage and nobleness.

Queenie wrote the whole transaction to her father, who wan
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 were spent
by Margery at Chateau des Fleurs, which seemed to her like
the New Jerusalem come down to earth before its time. No-
thing could exceed Queenie's devotion to her, and in her man-
ner there was this difference, that where it had before been
imperious and commanding, it was now humble in the extreme,
for Queenie never forgot the great sacrifice her friend was ready
to make for her, or her own cowardice in ihinking for a moment
to allow it.

From that time onward Margery's good fortune was secured,
and when, at eighteen, she left the English school, Queenie
stood by her still, and got her a position as governess in an
English family, who lived in Geneva, and then when Margery
came home, and said she did not like the life of a governess, as
it deprived her of all 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 friend's per-
fect taste in everything pertaining to a lady's toilette, and the
skill with which she fitted her own dresses, suggested that she
should try dressmaking as an experiment, without the formal-
ity of regularly learning the trade, which would take so much
valuable time, and in her case seemed unnecessary. So Mar-
gery set up as an amat/eur in the pleasant apartm^'v^t? in Rue
de la Paix, where Mrs. La Rue had Uved since the death of

QUEENtE AND MARGERY.

121

her husbaiid, 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 very 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 now 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, Reinette was her good angel, and brouzht
her more work, and paid her more money than any four of her
other customers.

Once, and only once, did Reinette encounter Mrs. La Rue,
who seemed rather to avoid than seek her, and that was on the
occasion when she came in from the country, unexpectedly, and
found Margery busy with a lady in the fitting-room.

* Tell her that it is 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 a kind of upper
servant.

* Miss Hetherton ! Reinette ! Margery's Reinette 1* 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 :

'I am Miss Hetherton. Yes ; tell your mistress I am here,
at once.'

All the blood had rushed to Mrs. La Rue's face, which was
almost purple, except her lips, and these were ashen white, and
her voice shook as she said :

* She is my daughter, and I am Mrs. lia Rue. I beg your
pardon if I seemed rude, but you have been so kind to Mar-
gery, and I have so wished to see you. Don't mind my look-
ing at you this once, for I muat^ I mtut*

* Deliver my message first,' Reinette said, with the air of a
princess, for the woman's manner displeased her, and she could
see ho reason why she should stand there staring so fixedly at
her with that strange look in her glittering eyes as of one
insane.

122

QVEENIE BETHERTOir,

At the command Mrs. La Hue turned to leave the room, but
ere she went she laid her hand on Reinette's tenderly, cares-
singly, as we touch the hauds of those we love, and said :

' &case me, but I mutt touch you, must thank you. You
need not tell your father, for I hear he is prouder than you, and
he might forbid your coming here again.' So saying she left
the room and did not return, nor did Reinette ever see her
again, except on an occasion when she was driving with Mar*
eery 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 the slight nod of the woman's head, or
pretend to see her, notwithstanding that Margery exclaimed :

* There's mother, way out here ! She will have a long walk
home 1 '

It was, possibly, a gentle hint for Reinette to ask her to take
the vacant seat opposite the two young ladies ; but if so, it was
not noticed, and they passed swiftly on and left the woman
sitting there alone, with swimming eyes, and a peculiar ex-
pression on her face, as she looked after the fast receding car-
riage. This was in October, and not long afterward Margery
startled Reinette by telling her she was going for the 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 i lands bade each other good-by,
and after one or two letters had passed between them, Keinette
wrote as follows :

* Come home, Marge^— come back to. Paris, where I can
see you face to face, for I must not write you any more. Papa
has forbidden it. He says I have plenty to occupy my mind
with music and dancing, and society, without keeping up a pro-
miscuous correspondence ; and when I told him you were my
only correspondent, and you were not promiscuous^ he said it
did not matter, I was not to write even to you. I never saw
him so decided about anything, and when I rebelled, and grew
angry, as you know I did, and said I would, he grew angrier, and
said I shouldn't ; and so I promised that this should be my last.
But when you return I shall manage to see you again. So,
come at once, that's a dear old Margery. Paris is so stupid

QUEENIE AND MARGERY.

123

without you, and Madame Isaacs fits me horriedly. Ck)me, Mar-
gery, come.

But Margery neither came nor wrote, and there was silence
between the two friends, who knew nothing of each other's
whereabouts until each was startled to hear the other was in
America.

Such was in part the history of Margery up to the day when
Miss Ethel Bossiter entered the room where she was sewing,
and after moving about a little and trimming of her dress, be-
gan, 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 she says she knew Margery La Rue in Paris.
Is it possible she means youl Did you ever know any one of
that namel'

' Yes, oh, yes 1 ' and Margery's face was all aglow with ex-
citement as she looked quicUy up. ' Yes, Miss Rossiter ; you
must excuse me, but the door was open, and I could not help
hearing some thjngs 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
loved her since the wintry afternoon when she brought so much
sunshine into my life — when she came into our dreary home,
in her scarlet and rich ermine, and sat down on the hard old
chair, and acted as if I were her equal, and said how much she
liked me, and made believe I was she, Queenie Hetherton,
and she was I, Margery La Rue, and I wore her scarlet cloak,
and she my poor, plain plaid, as we drove in the Champs
Elysees. 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 situatioL as governess, and
when I rebelled against the confinement and the degradation —
for I was only as a block in the family — she persuaded me to
take up dressmaking, for which I had a talent, and encour-
aged and stood by me, and brought me more work than any
four of my other customers. Oh, I would die for Queenie
Hetherton r

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 beautiftd she was, and wondered.

124

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

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 are
perfect

' And she is your cousin/ Margery said ; ' that is strange, for
I always understood that her mother was an Englishwoman —
one of the nobility, Queenie thoucht/
Ethel coloured 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 infuie 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. Hossiter had returned by this time, and, ente 'ng 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
'I was so happy the summer I spent there,' she said —
' happy in making believe it was mine instead of Queeni^'B
This " making believe " was our favourite play, when I was
the mistress and she the guest, and T wore her dresses and she
wore mine and called herself Margery. We could hardly do
ih&l, now, for I have grown so tail, and die is a wee bit of a
cre8,ture.*

' Is she pretty, as Phil, says she is ? ' Grace asked, and Mar-
gery replied ,

' You might not think her very pretty 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 beau-
tiful than anything I ever looked upon, and she takes your
breath away with her brilliancy and brightness.'

' You must have heard her speak oiten 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. Eossiter

QUEENIE AND MARGERY.

126

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 Bossiters that this foreigner
should know so much more than themselves of the Hether-
tons, and for a long time they continued to ply her with ques-
tions concerning the new cousin whom t^ey 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 questionably. 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 towards 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 her, will you ? Look at that figure, and the way she
carries her head, as if " to the manor born." I don't wonder
Qeenie raves over her ! such eyes, and hair, and complexion —
only a little too much like the Fergusons ; and now I remem-
ber Queenie said she was like me. I must be confounded good-
looking ! '

'Oh, PhiL, what a conceited, vain coxcomb you are I' both
his sisters exclaimed ; and yet there was a resemblance be-
tween the handsome^ fair-haired Phil, and the young girl who
was walking rapidly toward the cottage where she and her
mother had rooms.

' Oh, mother,' Margery 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 Heatherton — is
here ! '

' Here ! Reinette Hetherton here ! and her father 1 * Mrs.
La Rue exclaimed, springing to her feet as suddenly as if a bul-
let had pierced her.

But Margaret's back was towards her, and she did not see

126

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

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 Merrivplo.'

* Mr. Hetherton dead ! dead\ ' Mrs. La Eue 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 Mar-
gery, who turned to look at her.

* Why, mother, what is iti Are you sickl * she cried, cross-
ing swiftly to her and passing her arm around her as she leaned
back heavily in the chair.

* IVe been dizzy-like all the morning. It's 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.

* Coyer me up, Margery/ she said, as a shiver like an ague
chill ran through her veins. * I'm so cold and shaky-like.
There, that will do : and now sit down beside me, and let me
hold your hand while you tell me of your friend and hci 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 granp ' ^ch 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 the Rossi-
ters are cousins, and her father's old home is Merrivale, where
I have thought of going ! Oh, if I could only go there now I'
Margery said : but her mother did not express surprise at any-
thing.

On the contrary, a more suspicious person than Margery
would have said that the story was not new to her, for she oc-
casionally 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 from her closed eyes and perfectly motionless figure
she argued that she was sleeping.

OLD LETTERS,

127

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, for she was
wretched — was always wretched even when the smile was
brightest on her lips ; and now it would seem as if some light-
ning shaft had struck to the depths of her conscience and lashed
it into freniy. Clenching her fists together so that the nails
left their impress in her flesh, she whispered :

* Dead ! dead ! Frederick Hetherton dead ! and she sole
heiress of 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
miist scream it out. Oh, Margery ; oh, my daughter, my
daughter ! Dead t And will his face haunt me as hers has —
the sweet pale 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 wake me when I want to sleep 1
Mrs. La Rue said, almost angrily, for the sight of that beauti-
ful young face, and the sound of that silvery voice nearly
made her mad; so Margery went away again, and left her
mother alone to fight the demons of remorse, which the
news of Frederick Hethertoa's death had aroused within her.

CHAPTER XVIII.

jery
oc-
Ige

|rve.

Iwas

sure

OLD LETTERS.

EINETTE was up and at her window on th_ morning
when Phil, left Merrivale, and had his seat been on the
opposite side of the car from what it was, and had his
powers of vision been long enough and strong enough, he
migh have seen a pair of little white plump hands waving
kisses and good-bys to him as the train shot under the bridge,

128

QTJEENIE HETHEETON,

> l!

round the curve, and off into the swamps and plains of East
Merrivale.

' I shall miss him so much/ Beinette thought. ' He is just
the nicest kind of a boy cousin a girl ever had. We can go all
lengths without the slightest danger of falling in love, for that
would be impossible. Falling in love means getting married,
and I have been educated too much like a Koman Catholic ever
to marry my cousin. I would as soon marry my brother, if I
had oda I think it wicked, disgusting ! So, Mr. Phil., I am
going to have the best time flirting with you that ever a girl
had. But what shall I do while you are gone 1 Mr. Beres-
ford is nice, but I can't flirt with him. He's too old and dig-
nified, and has such a way of looking you down.'

This mental allusion to Mr. Beresford reminded Reinette
that he was to come that day for any papers of her father's
which she had in her possession, and that she must look them
over first Ringing for Pierre, she bade him bring the small
black trunk or box in which her father's private napers were
kept. Pierre obeyed, and was about leaving the room when
Beinette bade him bring a lighted lamp and set it upon the
hearth of the open fire-place.

* I may wish to bum some of them,' she said.

The lamp was brought and lighted, and then Queenie began
her task, selecting first all the legal-looking documents which she
knew must pertain strictly to her father's business. A few of
these were in English and related to affairs in America, but the
most were in French and pertained to matters in France and
Switzerland, where her father held propeity. These Queenie
knew Mr. Beresford could not well decipher without her help,
and so she went carefully over each document, finding nothing
objectionable — nothing which a stranger must not see — nothing
mysterious to her, though one paper might sgem so to others.
It was dated about twenty years before, and was evidently a
copy of what was intended as an order setting apart a certain
amount of money, the interest to be paid semi-annually to one
Christine Bodine in return for services rendered ; the principal
was placed in the hands of Messrs. Polignac, with instructions
to pay the interest as therein provided to the party named who,
in case of Mr. Hetherton's death, was to receive the whole un-
less orders to the contrary should be previously given. This

OLD LETTERS,

129

lie

ip>

i»g

IS.

la
in
le

paper Reinette read two or three times, wondering what were
the services for which her old nurse received this annuity, and
thinking, too, that there was a chance to find her. The money
must have been paid, if she were living, and through the Messrs.
Polignac she could trace her, and bring her to America.

* I ought to have some such person living with me, I sup-
pose,' she said, ' and I hate a maid always in my room and in
my way.'

The business papers disposed of, and laid away for Mr. Beres-
ford's inspection, Queenie turned next to the letters, of which
there were not very many. Some from Mr. Beresford on busi-
ness — one from her father's mother, Mrs. General Hetherton,
written to him when he was at Harvard, and showing that
the writer was a lady in every thought and feeling, and one
from herself, written to her father when he was in Algiers, and
she only ten years old. It was a perfect child's letter, full of
details of life at the English school, and of Margery, who was
with her there.

' Queenie's first letter to me,' was written on the label, and
the worn paper showed that it had been often read by the fond,
proud father.

Over this Reinette's tears fell in torrents, for it told how much
she had been loved by the man whose hand she seemed to touch
as she sorted the letters he had held so often.

' Darling father,' she sobbed, * there's nothing here that a
saint from Heaven might not see,' and laying aside the enve-
lope which bore her childish superscription, she took up next a
packet which to her aristocratic instincts seemed out of place
with those other papers, in which there lingered still a faint
odour of the costly perfume her father always used.

There were three letters in envelopes, inclosed in one hurge
envelope, on which Reinette recognised her father's monogram.
Taking out the largest one first, she studied it carefully, noting
that the paper was cheap, the handwriting cramped and un-
educated, and Chateau des Fieurs, to which it was directed,
spelled wrong.

' It looks coarse; it feels coarse^ and it smells coarse* Queenie
said, elevating her little nose as she caught a whiff of some-
thing very different from the delicate perfumery pervading the
other paperkj. < Who sent this to papa, and what is it about 1 '

130

QUEENIE UETHERTON.

were the questions which passed rapidly through her mind, as
she held the worn, soiled missive between her thumb and fin-
ger, and inspected it curiously.

Once something prompted her to return it whence she found
it — to put it away from her sight, and never seek to know its
contents. But woman's curiosity overcame every scruple, and
she at last drew the letter itself from the envelope. It was quite
a large sheet, such as Reinette knew ladies seldom used, and
the four pages were closely written over, while there seemed
to be something inside which added to its bulk.

Turning first to the last page, Queenie glanced at the signa-
ture, and saw the two words * From Tina,' but saw no more ;
for the something inside which, slipping down, dropped upon
her hand, around which it coiled like a living thing, with a grasp
of recognition. A tress of long, blue-black hair — a woman's
hair — with just a tendency to wave perceptible all through it.

Shaking it off as if it had been a snake, Queenie's cheek
paled a moment with a sensation she could not define, and
then, as she defined it, crimsoned with shame and resentment ;
resentment for the dead mother, who, she felt, had in some way
been wronged, and shame for the dead father to whom some
other woman had dared to write, and send a lock of hair.

* Who is this Tina. ? ' she said, with a hot gleam of anger in
her black eyes, * and how dare she send this to my father — the
bold, bad creature ! I hate her, with her vile black hair ! ' and
she ground her little high heel upon the unconscious tress of
hair as if it had been Tina herself upon whom she was tramp-
ling. * I'll burn it,' she said at last, but I'll never touch it
again.' '

And reaching for the tongs, which stood upon the hearth,
she took up the offending hair and held it in the lamp, watch-
ing it with a grim feeling of satisfaction, and yet with a sense
of pain, as it hissed, and reddened, and charred in the flame,
and writhed and twisted as if it had been something human
from which the life was going out.

Through the open window a breath of the sweet summer air
came stealing, and catching up a bit of the burnt, crisped hair,
carried it to Queenie's white morninjg wrapper, where it clung
tenaciously until she shook it off as if it had been pollution.

' Tina ! ' she exclaimed again. * Who, I'd like to know, is

OLD LETTERS,

131

le,

lair
lir,

Tina 1 ' Then, remembering the surest way to find out who
she was was to read the letter, she took it up again, but hesi-
tated a moment, as if held back by some unseen influence ;
hesitated as we sometimes hesitate when standing on the thres-
hold of some great crisis or daa^er in our lives. 'If it's bad/
she said, * I do not want to thmk ill of him. Oh, father, it
itnH bad ; it miiat not be bad ; ' and the hot tears came fast,
as the daughter who had believed her father so pure and
good turned at last to the first page to see what was written
there.
It was dated at Marseilles twenty years before, and b^an :

' Dear Mr. Hetherton, are you wondering why you do not hear
from your little Tina ? — *

* Miss Hetherton, your erandmothe? is here asking for you,'
came from the door outside where Pierre stood knocking, and
starting, as if caught in some guilty iu:t, Reinette put the letter
back in its envelope, and went down to meet her grandmother,
who had come over for what she called a * real sit-down visit,'
and brought her work with her.

There was nothing now left for Reinette but to leave the
letters and devote herself to her guest, who staid to lunch, so
that it was not until afbemoon tluit Queenie found an oppor-
tunity to resume the work of the morning. Meanwhile her
thoughts had been busy, and over and over again had she re-
peated to herself the words, * Your little Tina,' until they had
assumed for her a new and entirely different meaning from the
one she had given them in the first heat of her discovery. There
might be — ^nay, there was no shame attaching to them — no
shame in that blue-black tress of hair which she could feel
curling around her fingers still, and see as it hissed and
writhed in the flame. The letter was written after her
mother's death. Her father was human — was like other men
— and his fancy had been caught by some dark-haired girl
of the working class who called herself his * Little Tina.'
She had undoubtedly bewitched him fpr a time, so that
he might have thought to make her his wife. His
first marriage was what they called a mesalliance ; and here
Queenie felt her cheeks flush hotly as if a wrong was done to

132

QUEEN IE HETHERTON,

I !

her mother, but she meant none ; she was trying to defend her
father ; to save his memory from any evil doing. If he stooped
once, he might again, and the last time Tina was the object.
He had meant honourably by her always, and tiring of her
after a little, had broken with her, as was often done by the
best of men. Of all this Queenie thought as she talked with
her grandmother, answering her numberless questions of her
life in France, and her plans for the future ; and by the time
the good lady was gone and she free to go back to her work,
she had changed her mind with regard to Tina's letters, and a
strange feeling of half pity for the unknown girl had taken
possession of her, making her shrink from reading her words of
love, if they were innocent and pure, as she fain would believe
them to be, for the sake of her dead father ; and if they were
not innocent and pure, * I do not wish to know it. I should
hate him — hate him always in his grave ! ' she said, as she
picked up the letter and resolutely put it back in the envelope
with the other two.

Once she thought to burn them, as she had the hair, and
thus put temptation away forever ; but as often as she held
them toward the lamp she had lighted again, as often some-
thing checked her, until a kind of superstitious conviction took
possession of her that she must not burn those letters written
by * Little Tina.'

* But I'll never^ never read them,' she said ; and dropping
on her knee, with the package held tightly in her hand, she
registered a vow, that so long as she lived she would not seek
to know what the letters contained, unless circumstances should
arise which would make the rea'iing of them a necessity.

This last condition came to her mind she hardly knew how
or why, for she had no idea that any circumstances could arise
which would make the reading of the letters necessary.

Searching through her trunks and drawers, she found four
paper boxes of different sizes, and putting the envelope in the
smallest of them, placed that in the next larger size, and so
on, writing upon the cover of the last one, * To be burned with-
out opening in case of my death.' Then, tying the lid securely
with a strong cord, she mounted upon a chair, and placed the
package upon the topmost shelf of the closet, where neither
she nor any one could see it.

OLD LETTERS,

133

' There, little black-haired Tina/ she said, as she came down
from the chair and out into her chamber, * your secret, if you
had one with my father, is safe — not for your sake, though,
you blue-black haired jade ! ' and Queenie set her foot down
viciously : ' not for your sake, but for father's, who might have
been silly enough to be caught by your pretty face, and to be
flattered by you, for, of course, you ran after him, and widowers
are fools, I've heard say.'

Having thus settled the unknown Tina, and dismissed her
from her mind for the time being at least, Queenie went back
to the remaining package in the box— ,the one tied with a blue
ribbon, and labelled * Margaret's letters.'

' Mother's,' she said, softly, with a quick, gasping breath ;
' and now I shall know something of her at least ; ' and she
kissed tenderly the time-worn envelope which held her moth-
er's letters.

There were not many of them, and they had been written at
long intervals, and only in answer to the husband's, it would
seem, for she complained in one that he waited so long before
replying to her. Queenie felt no compunctions in reading these ;
they were something which belonged to her, and she went
through them rapidly, with burning cheeks, and eyes so full of
tears at times that she could scarcely see the delicate hand-
writing, so different from that other, the blue-black-haired
Tina's, as she mentally designated her. And as Queenie read,
there came over her a feeling of resentment and anger toward
the dead father, who, she felt sure, had often grieved and ne-
glected the young wife, who, though she made no complaint,
wrote so sadly and dejectedly, and begged him to come home,
and not stay so long in those far-off lands, with people whom
Margaret evidently did not like.

* Dear Frederick,' she wrote from Eome, * please come to me ;
I am no lonely without you, and the days are so long, with only
Christine for company, for I seldom go out except to drive on
the Pincian or Campagna, and so see scarcely any one. Chris-
tine is a great comfort to me, and anticipates my wishes almost
before I know that I have them myself. She is as faithful and
tender as if she were my mother, instead of maid, and if I
I should die you must always be kind to her for what she has
been to me. But oh, I do so long for you, and I think I could
I

134

QUE EN IE UETHERTON,

make you very happy. You used to love me, Frederick, when
we were boy and girl, in dear old Merrivale. How often I
dream of home and the shadowy wooda by the pond where we
used to walk together, and the moonlight sails on the river
when we rowed in among the white lilies, and you said I was
lovelier and sweeter than they. You loved me then ; do you
love me now as well % I have sometimes feared you did not ;
feared something had come between us which was weaning you
from me. Don't let it, Frederick, put it away from you, what-
ever it may be, and let me be your Queen, your Daisy, your
Margery again ; for I do love you, my husband, more than you
can guess, and I want your love now when I am so sick, and
tired, and lonely. Christine is waiting to post this for me, and
so I must close with a kiss right there where I make the star
(*). Put your lips there, Frederick, where mine have been
and then we shall have kissed each other. Truly, lovingly,
and longingly, your tired, sick Margery.'

• Margery, Margery ? That was her pet name, the name I
like the best in all the world, because of my Margery,' Queenie
cried, as her tears fell fast upon the letter which seemed to her
like a voice from the dead. *Poor mother, you were not so very
happy, were you ? Why did you die \ If I only had you now,
how I would love and pet you,' she said, as she passionately
kissed the place her mother's lips had touched, and her father's
too, she hoped, for how could he resist that touching appeal.
He must have loved the writer of that letter, and yet—and yet
— there was a cloud — a something between the husband and
wife which cast its shadow over their child and made her weep
bitterly as she wondered what the something was which had
crept in between her father and his tired, sick Margery. * Was
it the blue-black-haired Tina,' she said, as she clenched her fists
together, and then beat the air with them, as she would have
beaten the blue-black-haired Tina had she been there with her.
* Poor mother,' she said again, ' so tired and sick, with no one
to care for her but Christine, who was so good to her. I know
now why father settled that money on her ; it was because she
was BO kind and faithful to mother, who knows now, perhaps,
that father did love her more than she thought ; for he did
I am sure he did ; and he loved me, too, and I believed him so
noble and true. Oh, father, father, forgive me, but I have lost

OLD LETTERS,

135

yet
and
wreep
had
Was
fists
lave
her.
one
now
she

so
lost

something. I cannot put it in words — but — but — I don't know
what I mean/ and stooping over the package which held her
mother's letters, Reinette cried out loud, with a bitter sense of
something lost from her father's memory which had been very
sweet to her. *■ Oh, how much has happened since I came to
America, and how long it seems, and how oM 1 feel, and there
is no one to tell it to — no one to talk with about it.'

Just then there was a second knock at the door, and Pierre
announced Mr. Beresford waiting in the library. He was a
prompt business man, and had come for the papers, Reinette
knew, and bathing her flushed cheeks, and crumpling her wavy
hair more than it was already crumpled, she went down to meet
him, , taking the papera with her, and trying to seem natural
and gay, as if no tress of blue-black hair had been burned in
her room, no letters from Tina were hidden away in her closet,
and no sting, when she thought of her father, was hurting her
cruelly.

Queenie was a perfect little actress, and her face was bright
with Similes as she entered the room and greeted Mr. Beresford,
who, being a close observer, saw something had been agitating
her, and guessed that it was the examining of her father's
papers, which naturally would bring back her sorrow so freshly.
There was a groat pity in his heart for this lonely girl, and his
manner was very sympathetic and gentle as he took the box
from her and said :

' I am afraid this has been too much for you, going over them
so soon.'

Instantly the great tears gathered in her heavy eyelashes,
but did not fall, and only made her all the sweeter and pret-
tier, as she sat down beside him and said :

* I must read some of them over for you, for I don't believe
you understand. French very well, do you ? '

* Not at all — not at all,' he replied, glad to be thought ignor-
ant of «ven the monosyllable oui if by this means he could sit
close to her and watch her dimpled hands sorting out the
papers, and hear her silvery, bird-like voice, with its soft accent,
translating what was written in them into English.

Especid pains did she take to make him understand about
the money paid Christine Bodine, and why it was paid.

' She was so kind to mother, who requested him to care for

136

QUEEN IE HETHERTON,

her. I've been reading all about it in mother's letters to him,'
she said, without lifting her eyes to his face, for in spite of her-
self and her avowed confidence in her father's honour, there
was in her heart a feeling of degradation when she remembered
Tina, as if the shame, if shame there was, was in some way
attaching to her and robbing her of some of her self-respect.

But Mr. Beresford had no suspicion of Tina, or anything
else, and only thought how lovely she was, and what a remark-
able talent for understanding business she developed, as they
went over the papers together and formed a pretty fair esti-
mate of the value of the Uetherton estate.

* Why there is over half a million, if all this is good,' she said,
looking up at him with pleased surprise. * And I am so glad,
for I like a great deal of money. I have always had it, and
should not know what to do without it. I wan't a great deal
for myself, and more for other people. I am going to give
grandma some, because — well,' and Queenie hesitated a little,
' because I was mean to her at the station when she claimed
me ; and I'm going to give some to Aunt Lydia, so she can
afford to sell out her business, which is so obnoxious to Anna,
and if that girl down at the Vineyard proves to be my Margery,
I shall give her money to buy Aunt Lydia out, and then I shall
have her all to myself, and you'll be falling in love with her —
remember that ! You'll be in love with Margery La Rue the
second time you see her ! '

* Margery La Rue ! Who is she ? ' Mr. Beresford asked ; and
then came out the story of Margery, mixed with so extrava-
gant praises of the young lady that Mr. Beresford began to feel
an interest in her, although the idea of falling in love with her
was simply preposterous.

Splendid as he was, and sensible, too, he had a good deal of
foolish pride, and would have scouted the thought of a dress-
maker ever becoming Mrs. Arthur Beresford. That lady was
to be more like this little dark-eyed fairy beside him, who chat-
tered on, telling him what she meant to do with her half-mil-
lion, which it seemed was literally burning her fingers. She
would give some to everybody who was poor and needed it, some
to all the missionaries and churches, and even some to him, if
he was ever straitened and needed it

[

OLD LETTERS.

187

[

Mr. Beresford smiled, and thanked her, and said he would
remember her offer ; and then she added :

* ril give some to Phil. noWy if he wants it, to carry on his
business. Does it take much money, Mr. Beresford 1 What is
his business — his profession V I don't think I know.'

' I don't think he has any,' Mr. Beresford replied : and Rei-
nette exclaimed :

' No business ! no profession 1 That's smart 1 Every young
man oueht to do something, father used to say. Pray what
does PhU. do ] How does he pass his time 1'

* By making himself generally useful and agreeable,' Mr.
Beresford said, and in his voice there was a tinge of irony,
which Queenie detected at once, and instantly flamed up in de-
fence of her cousin.

* Of course he makes himself useful and agreeable — more
agreeable than any person I ever saw. I've only known him a
day or ^wo, and yet I like him better than any body in the
world, except Margery.'

* Phil, ought to feel complimented with your opinion, which,
I assure you, is well merited, Mr. Beresford said, while a
horrid feeling of jealousy took possession of him.

Why would girls always prefer an indolent, easy-going, good-
for-nothing chap like Phil. Rossiter, to an active, energetic,
thoroughgoing man, like himself ? Not that he had heretofore
been troubled by what the girls preferred, for he cared nothing
for them in the abstract ; but this restless, sparkling French
girl was different, and he felt every nerve ih his body thrill
with a strange feeling of ecstacy when at parting she laid her
soft, warm hand on his, and looking up at him with her bright,
earnest eyes, said to him :

* Now you will write at once to Messrs. Polignac, and inquire
about Christine ; and I shall write, too ; for I must find her
and bring her to live with me. Grandma says I ought to
have somebody — some middle-aged, respectable woman, as a
kind of guardian — but, ugh I I hate guardians ! '

' Oh, I hope not ! ' Mr. Beresford said, laughingly, managing
to retain the hand laid in his so naturally. ' In one sense I am
your guardian, and I hope you don't hate me.'

* Certainly not,' Reinette said. * I think you are very nica
You are father's friend, and he said I must like you, and tell

138

QVEENIE HETHERTOir,

you everything, and I do like you ever so much, though not
the way I do Phil.* I like him because he's so good and funny,
and my cousin, and — well, because he is Phil.'

' Happy Phil. ! ' Mr. Beresford said, * I wish I was good and
funny, and your cousin ! ' and giving a little squeeze to the
hand he could have crushed, it was so small and soft, he bade
her good afternoon and rode away.

' I hope he is not falling in love with me, for that would be
v!readful. Falling in love means marrying, and I wouldn't
marry him any sooner than I would Pbil. He is too old, and
dignified, and poky,' Reinette thought, as she watched him
going down the hill, while he was mentally registering a vow
to enter the lists and compete with the young man who was
so much liked because he was Phil,

CHAPTER XIX.

THE LITTLE LADY OF HETHERTON.

ITHIN a week after Phil.'s departure the whole town
was full of her, and rumour said she was running
a wild career, with no one to advise or check her ex-
cept Mr. Beresfofd, who seemed as crazy as herself. Every-
body thought her wonderfully bright and fresh, and pretty, but
her ways astonished the sober people of Merrivale, who, never-
theless, were greatly interested and amused with watching her
as she developed phase after phase of her variable nature —
visiting Mr. Boresford at his office two or three times a day, os-
tensibly to translate foreign letters and papers for him, but
really, it was said by the gossips, to see the man him:!Alf : gal-
loping off miles and miles into the country on her spirited horse,
with the little old Frenchman in attendance ; worrying Mrs.
Jerr}' by having chocolate in her room in the morning, break-
fasting at twelve, dining at six, with as much ceremony as if a
dozen were seated at the table instead of one, lone girl, who
sometimes never touched the dishes prepared with so much

THE LITTLE LADY OF HETHERTOK

139

rer-
ler

los-

)Ut

ml-
[se,
[rs.
tk-
Ifa
Iho
Ich

care— dining, too, in all sorts of places as the fancy took her ;
on the north piazza, on the south piazza, and even in the sum-
mer-house ; giving her money away by the hundreds to the
Fergusons, and by the tens and fives, and ones to anybo<iy who
asked for it ; sinking a little fortune on the grounds at Hether-
ton Place, which she wat> entirely metamorphosing, with fifteen
or twenty men at work there all the time, while she superin-
tended them, and gave them lemonade or root-beer two or three
times a day, and once had treated them to ice-cream, as an in-
centive to swifter labour.

Such was the state of affairs when Phil., improving the very
first opportunity for leave of absence, came back to Merrivale.
It was 10 a. m. when he reached the station, and half-past ten
to a minute when he found himself at Hetherton Place, his
hand locked in that of Queenie, who, in her big garden hat,
with trowel and pruning-knife, led him over the grounds, where
the fifteen men were at work, pointing out her improvements,
and asking what he thought of them. And Phil., who had pro-
mised his mother to check his cousin if he found her going on
recklessly, as they had heard from Anna, proved a very flunKey,
and instead of checking her, entered heart and soul into her
plans, and even made suggestions as to how they could be im-
proved. So useful, in fact, did he make himself, and so much
skill and taste did he display, that Queenie forgot entirely to
chide him for his lack of a profession. Indeed, she was rather
gladt han otherwise that he had no profession, as it left him
free to be with her all the time, and to become at last the super-
intendent of the whole, with this difference, however, that wldle
he directed the men, Queenie directed him, and made him her
very slave.

Queenie never shrank from anything, but plunged her white,
fair hands into the dirt up to her wrists, while Phil, took off
his coat and worked patiently at her side, transplanting a rose-
buch or geranium to one place in the morning, and in the even-
ing moving it to another, if so the fancy took his mistress. She
could not always tell where she wanted a thing until she stu-
died the effect of a certain position, and then, if she did not lik^
it, if it did not harmonize with the picture she was forming, it
must be moved, she said. And so the moving and changing
went on, and people marvelled to see how rapidly what had at

140

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

first seemed chaos and confusion began to assume proportions
until the grounds bade fair to become more beautiful and artis-

' tic than any place which had ever been seen in the county.
What had been done before Queenie's arrival was for the most
part unchanged, but the remainder of the grounds were entirely
overturned. The plateau and summer-house, on which Queenie
had set her lieart, were made, and the terraces and the new
walks, and the pasture land, west of the house, was robbed of
its greensward for turf to cover the terraces and plateau, which
were watered twice each day until the well and cisterns gave
out, and then the heavens, as if in sympathy with the work,
poured out plentiful showers, and so, notwithstanding that it
was summer, the turf, and the shrubs, and the vines, and
flowers were kept green and fresh, and scarcely stopped their
growing. Everything went on beautifully, Queenie said, as she
issued her orders, and, busy as a bee, worked from morning till
night, with Phil, always in attendance, while even Mr, Beres-
ford at last caught the fever, and went himself into the business
of planting and transplanting, and working in the dirt. The
Hetherton gardeners the people called the tw,o young men, Phil,
being the head and Mr. Beresford the sub; but little did they
care for the merry-making, "so long as that little, bright, spark-
ling girl worked with them in the dirt, and then at night re-

' warded them with a bouquet, which she fastened to their button-
holes, standing up on tip-toe to do it, and looking up to them
with eyes which nearly drove them crazy.

Nor was Hetherton Place the only spot where Queenie was
busy. A few days after Phil, went to the sea-shore there had
come to her a letter from Margery, who wrote :

* My Darling Qcteexie, — You do not know how surprised and
delighted I was to hear that you were in America, or how sorry I
was to hear of your loss. You must be so lonely and sad, alone in
a strange country. What is Merrivale like ? and do you think it
would be a good place for me l Is it not funny that I had thought
to come there, and have actually written to a Mrs. Ferguson, who
turns out to be your aunt. But she asks me more for her business
than I feel able to pay, and so the plan has been abandoned for the
present. But I mm^ see you, and, remembering all your kindness
in the years past, you will not think me intrusive when I tell you
that before the summer is gone I am coming to Merrivale^ just to

THE LITTLE LADY OF HETHEETON.

141

look into your dear eyes again and see if you are changed. I like
your aunt and cousins so much ; they are genuine ladies^ and I am
glad they belong to you.'

The first thing Queenie did after reading this letter was to
mount her horse and gallop in hot haste to the village, where
she astonished Mrs. Lydia Ferguson by offering her more for
her business than she had demanded of Miss La Rue.

* It is my Margery — my friend, and I am going to have her
here, if I tnrn my house into a dressmaker's shop,' she said, and
she talked so fast and gesticulated so rapidly that Mrs. Lydia
grew quite bewildered, but managed to comprehend that a price
was offered her which it woulS be well for her to accept, as it
might never be offered her again.

Anna, too, was all eagerness to * get out of the vile thing and
be somebody,' as she expressed it, and so the bargain was cloged,
and Mrs. Lydia was to retire at once into the privacy and respec-
tability of private life ; the obnoxious sign was to be taken from
the front window, and Miss Anna was to be merely the daugh-
ter of a grocer, which she considered quite an ascent in the so-
cial scale. Mrs. Lydia did not wish to sell her house, nor
Queenie to buy it, for though it was rather modern in style and
well enough looking, there was nothing about it to indicate
either taste or culture in its in. lates. The grass was coarse and
full of weeds, the yard was small and void of shade, except for
the elm tree which grew outside the gate, and there were
scarcely any flowers to be seen, except a clump of poppies and
some four-o'clocks, which flourished in spite of neglect. Mrs.
Lydia was too busy to bother with flowers or yards, her hus-
band had no taste for it, and Anna was too much afraid of soil-
ing her hands.

* Needle pricks were bad enough, and she was not going to
blacken and roughen her hands with dirt,' she said, and so the
yard was utterly neglected, and, as Queenie thought, had in it
no poetry, no sentiment — nothing like Margery, who was better
suited to a charming little cottage on Maple Avenue, which she
heard was for sale, and whose owner she swooped down upon
like a little hurricane, asking what his terms were, and if he
would vacate at once.

* You see I want to get him out immediately, for I mean to

142

QUE EN IE BETHERTON,

make it just like a palace for Margery,' she said to her f^rand-
mother, who tried to restrain the reckless girl, telling tier she
was going on at a ruinous rate, and that of herself she could
not transact business until she was of age.

* But Mr. fieresford can transact it for me, and I shall be of
age in the spring, and I shall have it,' she said ; and she took
Mr. Beresford by storm, and compelled him to make an ar-
rangement whereby the cottage and her aunt's business came
into her possession.

Then she wrote to her friend :

* You Dear Old Darlino Margery:— I do know just how sur-
prised and glad you were to hear that I was in America, for wasn't
1 just as glad to know that my cousins' Margery was mine — my old
precious, whom I love best of anybody in the world, now papa is
dead. It is just like a story, isn't it — our being together in Amer-
ica ? And, Margie, my grandmother is not that English duchess I
used to talk so much about, but a real live Yankee woman, of the
very YankeeiM kind, red, and fat and good, and calls me Rennet, and
wears purple gloves— or she did till I coaxed her into some black
ones, which she thinks are not very dressy. And you will like her
ever so much, and you are coming to Merrivale to live at once, now,
right away. So pack up your things as soon as you read this. I
have bought that business for you of Mrs. Ferguson, who is my
aunt, or rather the wife of my mother's brother ; and she has a
daughter Anna, who is my cousin, and very stunning and swell.
That last is slang, which I have learned in America of Phil., who
is another cousin, and a Ferguson, too ; or rather his mother was,
which is the same thing. There are a great many Fergusons, you
.see ; but then there are Fergusons, and Fergusons. But you will
learn all this when you come. I have a pretty little cottage en-
gaged, with a bit of fresh greensward in front, and the loveliest old-
fashioned garden at the side, with June pinks, and roses, and tiger-
lilies, and a nice bed of jan^i/. I like tansy, don't you ? There was
a patch of it at dear old Chateau des Fleurs. Then, there are two
front rooms for the work, and a sitting and dining-room back, with
the kitchen, and three chambers communicating with each other.
One of these I shall fit up with blue for you ; it will just suit your
lovely complexion and eyes ; the other is scarlet, for your mother,
who is dark : and the third — well, that is to be mine when 1 stay
with you at nights, as I intend doing often. But I can't have the
same colour as your mother, so 1 shall take pink, which will make
me look just like a — nigger. That's another word I caught from
Phil. I wish he wonld come back. Tell him so, please.

THE LITTLE LADY OF HETHEHTON.

143

* And now Margery won't you come as soon as you can ? And
don't go to acting silly about my getting the cottage and business
for you. It is only a littlf bit of payment for the big sum I owe
you for that sacrifice you were ready to make for me. How well I
remember that day, and how plainly I can see you now, as you went
up to the master, with your face as white as paper, and your eyes so
pitiful and appealing as they looked at me, and yet so full of love.
And I, the coward, shut my eyes, and clenched my fists, and said
to myself just as fast as I could, '* Nasty beast ! nasty beast ! " till
the first blow fell, which hurt me more than it did you, for it cut
right into my conscience, and there has been a little smart there
ever since, while your dear hand is just as white and fair as if that
vile old man's ferrule had never reddened and woundet^ it. Splendid
old Margery ! I want to hug you this minute !

* And now— oh, Margie, don't think I have forgotten papa, be-
cause I have not said more of him ; for I haven't, and there is u
thought of him and a little moan in my heart for him all the time.
No matter what I'm doing, or how gay I seem, I never forget that
he is dead, and that there is nobody to love me now but you, who
seem so near to me, because yon knew of the old life at home now
gone forever. Answer at once, and say when I may expect you.'

To this letter Margery replied within a few days, thanking
Queenie for her generous interest , but saying she could not
accept so much from her ; she should come to Merrivale with
her mother as soon as they could arrange matters where they
were, but she should insist upon paying rent for the cottage,
and also upon paying for the business.

* I can do that in a short time,' she wrote, * if I have work,
and I shall be happier to be independent even of you, my dar-
ling. Besides, I do not think the Rossiters and Fergusons
would like you to do so much for a stranger. 1 am nothing to
them, you know, except their dressmaker *

* I think her a very sensible girl. I could not respect her,
if she were willing to receive so much from you,' Mr. Beresford
said, when Queenie read him Margeny's letter ; whereupon
Queenie flew into a passion, and said he did not understand —
did not appreciate the nature of the friendship between herself
and Margery ; adding that she should never tell Margery how
much she paid her Aunt Lydia, and that she would never take
any rent — never ! and she should furnish the house herself.

And she did, and, with Phil, to help her after he came, she

144

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

accomplished more at the cottage and at Hetherton Place than
ten ordinary women could have accomplished in the same length
of time. Every day she managed to spend two or three hours
at the cottage, which, with plenty of money and perfect taste,
was soon transformed into a little gem of a house. It is true
there was nothing expensive in it in the way of furniture, ex-
cept the upright Steinv/ay, which Queenie insisted upon ; but
everything was so well chosen and so artistically arranged, that
the whole effect was like a lovely picture, and the villagers went
to see it, and commented upon it, and wondered what this
Margery could be that Miss Hetherton was doing so much for
her.

* She is only a dressmaker, after all,' Miss Anna said, with a
toss of her golden head, as she sat in what had been her mo-
ther's work-room entertaining a visitor and discussing the ex-
pected Margery.

Anna had lost no time in removing the sign from the window,
and had even carried out her threat of splitting and burning it
up, thinking thus to wipe out a past which she foolishly thought
had been a disgrace, because of her mother's honest labour.
The work-room, too, had been dismantled of everything per-
taining to the obnoxious dressmaking, and Mrs. Lydia, de-
prived of her occupation, found the time hanging heavily upon
her hands, for she had no taste for housekeeping, and could not
at once interest herself in it. Besides, she missed the excite-
ment of the people coming in and going out, and missed the
gossip they brought, and almost every hour of her life repented
that to gratify her daughter she had been persuaded to give up
her business and set up for a lady.

Anna, on the contrary, enjoyed it immensely, and held her
head a good deal higher, and frizzed her hair more than ever,
and wore her best dresses every day, and spoke slightingly of
Margery La Rue as only a dressmaker, and told half a dozen of
the neighbours, confidentially, that she thought her cousin
Keinette, fast and queer, though she supposed it was the French
of her, to go on as she did with Phil, and Mr. Beresford, both
of whom were making fools of themselves. For her part she
could see nothing attractive in her whatever, except that she
was bright and witty, and small, and tall men, as a rule, liked
little women. To Queenie herself, however, she was sweetness,

ARRIVALS IN MERRIVALE.

145

itself, and as the latter never heard of her ill-natured remarks,
there was a show of friendship between the two girls, and Anna
was frequently at Hetherton Place, where the envy of her na-
ture ^und ample food to feed upon, as she contrasted Rein-
ette's surroundings with her own.

'Oh, if I were only rich, how I would pay people oflf,' she
thought, and then she redoubled her attentions to Mr. Beres-
ford, who, though he had never been within her reach, drifted
further and further away as he became more and more inter-
ested in the little lady of Hetherton.

CHAPTER XX.

ARRIVALS IN MERRIVALE.

'OR three or four years Merrivale had boasted of a weekly
paper, and in the column of * Peinsonals,' the citizens
read one Thursday morning that the Rossiters were
coming home on Friday, and that Mrs. and Miss La Rue, the
French ladies who were to succeed Mrs. Ferguson in her busi-
ness, were also expected on that day. Everybody was glad the
Rossiters were coming, for Merrivale was always gayer and
brighter when they were home, as they were hospitable people
and entertained a great deal of company. Usually they brought
guests with them, but this time nobody was coming Phil said,
except a cousin of his father's — an old bachelor, who rejoiced
in the high-sounding name of Lord Seymour Rossiter, though
to do him justice he usually signed himpslf Major L. S. Rossiter,
as he had once been in the army. He was very rich, Phil, said,
and rather good-looking, and he laughingly bade Queenie be
prepared to surrender at once to his charms. But Queenie
cared little for Lord Rossiter, or any other lord just then. All
her thoughts and interests were centred in the one fact that
Margery was coming, and she spent the whole of Friday morn-
ing at the cottage seeing that everything was in readiness, and
literally filling it with flowers from her garden and greenhouse.

146

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

' I wish her to have a good first impression/ she said to Phil.,
who was with her as she inspected the rooms for the last time
before going home to the early dinner she had ordered that
day, so as to be at the station in time.

The train was due at six o'clock, and a few minutes before
the hour, the Rossiter carriage with Phil, in it, and the Hether-
ton carriage with Eeiuette in it, drew up side by side at the
rear of the depot.

Eeinette was full of excitement and expectation, and made a
most lovely picture in her black dress of p* — 3 soft, gauzy ma-
terial, with knots of double-faced scarlet and cream ribbons
twisted in with the bows and loops of satin — a scarlet tip on
htr black hat, and a mass of white illusion wound round it and
fastened beneath her chin with a cluster of beautiful pansies.

PhiL thought her p>^>rfectly charming as she walked restlessly
up and down the platform waiting for the-first sound which
should h?rald the approaching train. It came at last — a low
whistle in the distance, growing gradually louder and shriller
until the train shot under the bridge, and the great engine
puffed an,i groaned a moment before the station and then went
on its way, leaving two distinct groups of people to be stared
at by the lookers-on. One, the Rossiters and a middle-aged,
bandboxy-looking man, dressed in the extreme of fashion, with
eye-glasses on his nose and a little slender cane in his hand,
which he twisted nervously, while, with the other members of
his party, he looked curiously at the second group further down
the platform — the three French ladies, who spoke their native
tongue so volubly, and were so demonstrative and expressive
in their gestures and tones. Mrs. Lp, Rue was in black, with
a strange expression on her face aud in her glittering eyes a&
she watched the two young girls.

The iiioraont Margery alighted, Beinotte had precipitated
herself into her arms, exclaiming :

'You dear old precious Margie! you have come at last/
while kiss after kiss was showered upon the fair-faced girl,
whose golden hair gleamed brightly in the sunlight, and whose
blue eyas were full of tears as she returned the greeting.

Suddenly remembering Mrs. La Rue, Queenie turned toward
her, and. offering her iiauJ, very cordially, utterly ignored the
fact tha^ she had ever seen her before by saying :

':■ %•

ARRIVALS IN MERRIFALE.

147

rd
he

* I think you are Mrs. La Rue, and I am happy to meet you,
because you bring me Margie.'

* Tljanks. You are very kind,' Mrs. La Rue replied, with a
tone which a stranger might have thought cold and constrained
but for the face which had something eager and almost hungry
in its expression, as the great black eyes were riveted upon
Queen ie, whose hand the woman held in a tight close clasp,
until it was wrenched away, as the girl turned next to the Ros-
siters.

' Wait, Margie, ' she said, in passing. ' Our carriage is
here and I am going to take you to your new home.'

Then hurrying on, she came up to her aunt, and cousins,
and the major, who had been watching her curiousL ^ and men-
tally commenting upon her.

' Quite too much sentiment and gush for me. I like more
manner ; more dignity,* he thought, whilo Mrs. Rossiter saw
only her sister's child, and Ethel and Grace felt a little disap-
pointed with regard to the beauty, of which they had heard so
much.

But when she came toward them, her head erect, her cheek
flushed, and eyes shining like diamonds, and seeming almost to
speak as they danced, and laughed, and sparkled, they changed
the'j* minds, and when the great tears came with a rush as she
threw herself into Mrs. Rossiter's arms, exclaiming, * Oh,
auntie, I am going to love you so much, and you must love me
with all my faults, for I've neither father nor mother, now,' they
espoused her cause at once, and never for a moment wavered
in their allegiance to her. Giving each of them a hand, and
kissing them warmly, she said laughingly :

* You are all alike, aren't you 1 tall and fair, and blue-eyed
— so different from me, who am nothing but a little black
midget.'

' That's the Ferguson of us,* Phil, said, with a meaning
smile, which brought a flash to his sisters' cheeks, and made
Queenie laugh, as she retorted :

* I wish I were a Ferguson then, if that would make me
white.'

* A deuced pretty girl, after all,' the major thought, as she
beamed on him her brightest smile when Phil, introduced her,
and the:i the parties separated, and returning to Margery,

118

QUEENIE HETEERTON,

Queenie led her in triumph to the carriage, while Mrs. La Rue
followed after them.

* Do you remember the first time you ever rode with me ? '
she said to Margery, as the carriage went slowly up the long
hill which led from the station to the town.

* I surely can never forget it, for all the happiness I have
ever known dates frcm that ride/ Margery said, and Eeinette
continued :

' How little we thought then that we should one day meet
in America, and that I should be as glad to see you as if you
were my sister ; ' and she reached forward and gave Margery's
hand a loving squeeze, by way of emphasis.

Mrs. La Kue's black gauze vail was drawn closely over her
face, but both ^Irls caught a sound like a suppressed sigh, and
turning to her, Margery said :

' I believe mother is homesick, and pining for France ; she
seems so low spirited.'

'Oh, I hope not. America is a great deal better than

France, and Merrivale best of all/ Queenie said, glancing at

~ Mrs. La Rue, and noting for the first time how pale and tired

she looked, noticing, too, that she was all in black, though not

exactly in mourning.

* She has lost some friend perhaps,' she thought, and then
chaf^ed on with Margery, unmindful of the woman who leaned
wearily back among the soft cushions of the luxurious carriage
— Frederick Hetherton's carriage, in which she was riding with
his daughter and hers.

Of what was shj thinking 1 — the tired, sad woman, as the
carriage wound up the hill, across the common, past the church
where Margaret Ferguson used to say her prayers, and past
the yellowish-brown hoc^se which Queenie pointed out as her
Aunt Lydia's, and where, o:\ the door-step, arrayed in blue and
white muslin, with a knot o'l black lace at her throat, Anna sat
fanning herself, rejoicing thiit she was now a grocer's daughter.
It would be hard to fathom her thoughts, which were straying
far back over the broad, d.uxk gulf which lay between the pres-
ent and the days of her girlhood. And yet nothing escaped her,
from Anna Ferguson oo. the doorstep to the handsome house
at the knoll> which Queenie said was her Aunt Rossiter's house ;
but when at labu the cottage was reached, and she alighted from

AMtVALS IN MEMIVALE.

149

the carriage, she was so weak and faint that Margery led her
into the house, and even Queenie was alarmed at the deathlike
pallor of her face, and stood by her while Margery hunted
through her bags for some restorative.

* You are very tired, aren't you 1 ' Queenie said, kindly, to
her, at the same time laying her hand gently upon her head,
for her bonnet had been removed.

At the touch of those cool, slender fingers and the sound of
the pitying voice, Mrs. La Rue gave way entirely, and grasping
both Queenie's hands covered them with te^s and kisses ;
then, slipping from her chair and kneeling before the astonished
girl, she grasped her dress, and said :

* Forgive me, Queenie, and let me call you once by that pet
name ; let me kneel before you, and — and thank you for all
you have done for us — for Margery and me. Qod bless you,
Queenie ! God bless you !'

* Mother, mother, pray get up ; you frighten Miss Hether-
ton ! ' Margery said, coming quickly forward, and guessing,
from the expression of Queenie's face, that so much demon-
stration was distasteful to her. ' You are tired and nervous ;
let me take you up stairs,' she continued, as she led the unresist-
ing wosi^n to her room, where she made her lie down upon the
couch, and then went back to Queenie, who was standing in the
door-way and beating her little foot impatiently as she thought.

* I wonder what makes that woman act so 1 The first time
I ever saw her she stared at me as if she would eat me up ;
and just now there was positively something frightful in her
eyes as they looked up at mo ; and she on her knees before me,
too, as if she could not ihank me standing, as Margery does.
They are so unlike ; and much as I love the daughter, I cannot
love th« mother.'

Just here Margery appeared and apologizing for her mother,
who, she said, was wholly overcome with all Queenie's kind-
ness to them.

* Yes, I know. I do it for you,' Queenie said, a little petu-
lantly, for she did not care at all if Margery knew of her aver-
sion to her mother.

It was time now for her to go if she would see her cousins,
and promising Margery to look in upon her in the morning and
bring her a piie of dresses which needed repairing, she entered

160

QtlEENlE HETHEHTOI^.

her carriage, and w&^ driven to the Knoll, where the family
were just sitting down to supper.

Taking a seat with them, Queenie talked, and laughed, and
sparkled, and shone, until the room seemed full of her, and
the bewildered major could have sworn there were twenty
pairs of eyes flashing upon him instead of one, while Ethel and
Grace held their breath and watched her as the expression of
her bright face changed with every new gesture of her hands
and the turn of her head.

' She is so bright and beautiful, so different from anything
we ever saw,' they thought, while Mrs. Rossiter, though no less
fascinated than her daughters, was conscious of a feeling of dis-
appointment because she could discover no resemblance to her
sister and her sister's child. She was unmistakably a Hether-
ton, though with another — a foreign — look in her dark face
and wonderful eyes which puzzled Mrs. Rossiter as she sat
watching her with constantly increasing interest, and listening
to her gay badinage with Phil, and the major, the latter of
whom seemed half afraid of her, and was evidently ill at ease
when her eyes alighted upon him.

Supper being over, Reinette arose to go, saying to her aunt
and cousins :

< I shall expect you to dine with me to-morrow at six o'clock.
It is to be a family party, but Major Rossiter is included in the
invitation. I am going now to ask grandma and Aunt Lydia.
Will you go with me, Phil. 1 *

They found Grandma Ferguson weeding her flower borders
in front of her house, with her cap and collar off, and her spot-
ted calico dress open at the throat.

' It waB too hot to be harnessed up with fixin's,' she said,
and when Reinette, who did not like the looks of her neck,
suggested that a collar or ruffle did not greatly add to one's
discomfort in, warm weather and gave a finish to one's dress,
she, replied: 'Law, child, it don't matter an atom what I
wear. Everybody knows Peggy Ferguson.' Reinette gave a
little deprecating shrug, and then delivered her invitation,
which was^accepted at once, grandma saying, ' she should come
early s(/ as to have a good visit before dinner, though she pre-
sumed Mary and the girls wouldn't be there till the last

mimt,

ARRIVALS IN MERRIVALE.

151

rders
spot-

said,
leck,

ress,

a I

Ive a

pion,
lome
]pre-

iiast

Reinette gave another expressive shrug, and declining her
grandmother's offer of ' spoons or any kind of garden sass she
might want for dinner/ drove next to her Aunt Lydia's, where
she found that lady seated in the parlour with a tired look on
her face as if doing nothine did not agree with her. She'd
' enough sight rather work her fingers off and know she was
earnin' money than to be sittin' round like this/ she said a
docen times to Anna, who enjoyed the sitting round, and
whom Reinette found drumming the old worn-out piano
which, having been second-hand when it was bought, was
something dreadful to hear.

' Oh, Phil, yoh here 1 ' she said, turning on the music stool.
' I was going by and by to see the girls. I hope they are well.
Who was the dandyish-looking old man with them, sitting up
as straight as a ramrod, with eye-glasses on his nose 1 Have
they picked up a beau somewhere % '

Phil, explained that the dandyish-looking old man was his
father's cousin, Major Lord Seymour Rossiter, from New York,
where he had for twenty years occupied the same rooms at the
same hotel.

' Oh, yes, I've heard of him : rich as a Jew, and an old
bach.' Anna said. ' Yes, I'll come to dinner. Queenly and
mother too, I suppose, but I've no idea you'll ge>^ fj^ther there
— he doesn't like visiting much.'

In her heart Reinette cared but little whether her uncle
came or not. His presence would add nothing to her dinner ;
but something in Anna's manner awoke within her a spirit of
opposition, and sent her to the grocery where her Uncle Tom
sold codfish and molasses, and eggs, and where she found him
in his shirt-sleeves, seated upon a barrel outside the door,
smoking a tobacco pipe. He did not get up, nor stop his
smoking, except as he was obliged to take his pipe from his
mouth while he talked to Reinette, who gave him the invita-
tion, and urged his acceptance as warmly as if the success of
her dinner depended upon it.

' He was much obliged to her,' he said, * but he didn't think
it likely he should go. He wasn't used to the quality, and
hadn't eaten a meal of victuals outside his own house in years,
except at Thanksgivin' time, when he had to go to hi«
mother's/

152

QUEENIE HETHERTOK,

* And that's just the reason you'll come to-morrow,' Queenie
said, coaxingly. < It is my first family party, and you will not
be so uncivil as to refuse. I shall expect you without fail,'
and with a smile and a flash of her eyes, which stirred even
staid Tom Ferguson a little, Eeinette drew away, saying to
Phil., who was going to ride home with her and then walk
back to the Knoll : * I hope he wiU come, for I could see-that
Anna did not wish him to. Such airs as she has taken on sinte
she split up that sign and quit the business, as she terms it !
t)oes she suppose it is what one does which makes a lady %
Oh, PhiL, why is there such a difference between people of the
same blood 1 There's your mother, as cultivated and refined
as if she had been born a princess, and there's Anna, and
grandma, and Uncle Tom Is it American democracy 1 If
80, I'm afraid I don't like it ;' and, leaning back in the car-
riage, Eeinette looked very sober, while Phil, said, good-
humouredly :

• * In rebellion against the Fergusons again, I see. It will
never do to go against your family ; blood is blood, and there's
no getting rid of it, or of t^.'

* I have no wish to be rid of you, but I may as well confess
it, I do wish mother had been somebody besides a Ferguson,'
Keinette replied ; then added laughingly : ' Don't think me a
monster — I can't help the feeling; it was born in me, and
father fostered it ; but I am trying to overcome it, you see,
for haven't I invited them all to dinner ? You must come early,
Phil. — very early, so as to help me through.'

PhiL promised, and as they had reached Hetherton Place by
this time, and it was beginning to grow dark, he bade her
good-night, and walked Rapidly back to the Knoll.

/■

THE DINNER.

153

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DINNER.

I RUE to her promise, Reinette drove round to see Margery'
the next morning, and carried a pile of dresses which
scarcely needed a stitch, but which she insisted should
be changed, as she knew Margery needed work. She found
her friend well and delighted with the cottage, which suited
her in every particular. Mrs. La Rue, too, was very calm and
quiet, and only spoke to Reinette when spoken to, until the
latter, in speaking of Hetherton Place and how lonely she was
there at times, especially in the evening, when Phil, was not
with her, said :

* I am going to hunt up my old nurse, who was with mother
when she died. She is alive, I am sure, and somewhere in
England or France. I shall have her come tc live with me.'

Mrs. La Rue was standing with her back to Reinette, picking
the dead leaves from a pot of carnations, but she turned suddenly,
and facing the girl, said quickly :

^ Better leave the nurse where she is ; you will be happier
without her.'

* I don't know why you should say that,' Reinette retorted,
in a tone which showed her irritation that Mrs. La Rue should
presume to dictate ; * you certainly can know nothing of Chris-
tine Bodine.'

* Of course not. But I know that old nurses do not often add
to the happiness of young ladies like you, so leave her alone ;
do not try to find her,' Mrs. La Rue replied, and there was a
ring in her voice like a note of fear which Reinette would have
detected had she been at all suspicious.

But she was only resentful and answered, proudly, * I shall
certainly find her if I can ; ' then, with a few directions to Mar-*
gery with regard to the dresses, she drovo away to order some
necessary articles for her dinner, which she meant to make a
success, if Bubstantials and delicacies, and silver and cut glass,

154

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

and flowers and the finest of linen could make it so. As the
new summer house on the plateau was not yet completed, the
table was laid on the broad piazza overlookin£ the river and
town beyond, and everything was in readiness by the time
Grandma Ferguson arrived, for, true to her promise, she came
early, and in her sprigged muslin and lavender ribbons, was fan-
ning herself in the large rocking-chair just as the clock was
striking four. She had tried, she said, to bring Lydda Ann and
Annie with her, but Annie had got some highfaluiin' notions
about not goin' till the last minit ; said it wasn't etiquette, and
80 she presumed she wouldn't come till the last gun was fired,
but if she's Reinette she wouldn't wait for her.

Miss Anna was really putting on a great many airs and talk-
ing etiquette to her mother and grandmother until both were
nearly crazy. She had been to the Knoll that morning to call
upon her cousins, both of whom were struck with the accession
of dignity and stiffness in her manner, but never dreamed that
the splitting up of the sign had anything to do with it ; they
attributed it rather to the new and pretty muslin the young
lady wore and the presence of Major Rossiter, who was pre-
sented to her, and who, with a freak of fancy most unaccount-
able, surrendered to her at once. The major was fifty, and
bald and gray, and near-sighted and peculiar, and though he
admired pretty women, he had never been known to pay one
more attention than was required of him as a gentleman. He
had thought his cousins, Ethel and Grace, very attractive and
lady-like and sweet, while Reinette had taken his breath away
with her flash and sparkle, but neither of the three had ever
moved him as he was moved by Anna's stately manner when
she gave him the tip of her fingers and bowed so ceremoniously
to him. The major liked a woman to be quiet and dignified,
and Anna's stifl'ness suited him, and he walked home with her
and sat for half an hour in the parlour and talked with her of
p]urope, which she hoped one day to see, and sympathized with
her when she deplored most eloquently the fate which tied her
down to H little country place like Merrivale, when she was by
nature fitted to enjoy so much. But poverty was a hard mas-
ter and ruled its subjects with an iron rod, she 9aid, and there
were tears in the blue eyes which looked up at the major, who
felt a great pity for and interest in this girl so gifted, so digni*

THE DINNER.

156

fied, and so pretty, for he thought her all these, and said to her
at parting that he hoped to see her later in the day at Hether-
ton Place, where he was going with the Rossiters.

After the major left her Anna sat down to think, and the
result of the thinking was that though Major Rossi ter was old,
and tireson^e, and fidgety, and not at all like Mr. Beresford or
Phil., he was rich and evidently pleased with her, and she re-
solved that nothing should be lacking on her part to increase
his interest in her, and make him believe that whatever her
surroundings were she was superior to them and worthy to
stand on the high places of the land. She was ashamed of her
father and mother, especially the former, and when at noon he
asked what time the dinner was to come off, she felt a fear lest
he might be intending to go as he was. Reinette's eyes and
manner when she gave the invitation had done their work with
him.

* I really b'lieve the girl wants me to come, odd and home-
spun as I am,' he thought, and he made up his mind to do so,
and Anna felt a cold sweat oozing out from her finger tips as
she wondered what Major Lord Rossiter would think of him.

* Are you sure you will enjoy it ? ' she said. * You know
how long it is since you have been anywhere, «nd Reinette is
very particular how her guests comport themselves — foolishly
so, perhaps. You cannot eat in your shirt sleeves there, no
matter how warm you may be.'

' Who in thunder said I wanted to eat in my shirt sleeves,'
Mr. FergUfcion said, doggedly, feeling intuitively that his daugh-
ter did not wish him to go, and feeling also determined that
he would.

And so it happened that simultaneously with the major, in
his elegant dinner costume, with his white neck-tie and button-
hole bouquet, came honest Tom Ferguson, in the suit he had
worn to church for at least six years or more, and which was
anything but stylish and fashionable. But Tom was not a fash-
ionable man, and made no pretence of being other than he was,
but he did not eat in his shirt sleeves or commit any marked
blunders at the dinner table, where six or seven courses were
served, with Pierre as chief waiter and engineer. Reinette was
an admirable hostess, and so managed to make her incongruous
guests feel at home, that the dinner was a great success, and

156

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

the fastidious major, who was seated far away from both
grandma and Tom, did not think the less of Anna because of
any short comings in her father or mother, though he knew
they were not like the people of his world. But the Kossiters
were, and they were Anna's relations, and she was refined and
cultivated, if her parents were not, he thought, for the glamour
of love at first sight was over and around him, and Anna was
very pretty in her white muslin dress, and very quiet and lady-
like, he thought, and when after the dinner was over, he walked
with her upon one of the finished terraces and saw how well
she carried herself and how small and delicately shaped were
her hands and feet — for he was one to notice all these things
— he began vaguely to wonder how old she was and what his
bachelor friends at the club would say if he should present her
to them as his wife. The major was unquestionably attacked
with a disease, the slightest symptoms of which he had never
before had in his life, and when at last it was time for the
guests to leave, and the Hetherton carriage came round to take
Grandma Ferguson and Mrs. Lydia and Anna home, he sug-
gested to the latter that she walk with him, as there was a
moon and the night was fine.

If there wa« anything Anna detested it was walking over a
dusty dirty road in slippers, and she wore that day a dainty
pair with heels so high that her ankles were in danger of turn-
ing over with every step. But slippers and dusty highways
weighed as nothing against a walk with J^Iajor Rossiter down
the winding hill, between the hedges of sweet briar and alder
and across the long causeway, where the beeches and maples
nearly met overhead, and the river wound like a silver thread
through the green meadows to the westward. Such a walk
would be very romantic, and Anna meant to take it if she
spoiled a dozen pairs of slippers. So she acceded to the
major's proposition, and the two started together for home,
while Phil, looked curiously after them and said in an aside to
Queenie, * The old chap is hard hit, and if I'm not mistaken,
Anna will be my Lady Rossiter, and then won't we second-
class mortals catch it.'

MARGERY AND THE PEOPLE.

167

CHAPTER XXII.

en,

MARGERY AND THE PEOPLE.

EARGERY was a success in Merrivale as a dressmaker,
at least. Mrs. Lydia had done very well, it is true.
Her work was always neatly finished and her prices
satisfactory, but she never went farther from home than Spring-
field or Worcester, and copied mostly from Butterick and
Ehric, so that there was a sameness and stiffness in her styles
wholly unlike the beautiful garments which came from Mar-
gery's skilful hands, not two of which were alike, and each one
of which seemed prettier and newer than its predecessor, ro
that in less than two weeks her rooms were full of work, a^ad
her three girls busy from morning till night, and she had even
proposed to Miss Anna to help her a few hours each day during
the busy season. But Anna spurned the proposition with con-
tempt, saying she thanked goodness her day of working for
people, and being snubbed by them on account of it was over.
When Reinette heard of this she laughed merrily, and went
herself into Margery's workshop and trimmed Hattie Granger's
wedding-dress with her own hands, and promised to make
every stich of Anna's should she succeed in capturing the
major, as she seemed likely to do ; but Anna answered saucily
that her wedding-dress, if she ever had one, would not be made
in the country, and so that point was settled.

From the first Margery's great beauty attracted unusual at-
tention and comment, but upon no one did it produce so great
an effect as upon Grandma Ferguson, who first saw the girl the
Sunday after her arrival in Merrivale. Reinette had told the
sexton to give Miss and Mrs. La Rue a seat with her in the
Hetherton pew, describing the two ladies to him so there could
be no mistaking them. But Margery came alone, and whether
it was that the old sexton's mind was intent upon a short,
elderly woman in black, or whether something about Margery
herself carried him back to the Sundays of long ago, when a

158

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

girlish figure, as graceful almost as Margery's used to glide up
the aisle to the door of John Ferguson's pew, he made a mis-
take, and Grandma Ferguson had just settled herself on her soft
cushion and adjusted her wide skirts about her, when a rustling
sound caught her ear, and turning her head she saw a face
which made her start suddenly with a great throb of something
like fear as a tall young girl, simply but elegantly attired in
black silk and white chip bonnet, with a wreath of lilacs around
it, and a scarf of soft illusion lace knotted under her chin, took
a seat beside her. Reinette had said to Phil, and An., iboth that
Margery was like them, while Mrs. Rossfter had seen some-
thing in the French girl's face which pu'^zled and bewildered
her. And grandma saw it too, and defined it at once, and
drew a long, gasping breath as she gazed at the face so like the
face of her Margaret dead over the sef^. The same delicately
chiselled features, the same heavy eyebrows and long curling
lashes, and more than all the same liquid eyes of blue, as clear
and bright as are the eyes of children which have seen but a
few summers. Who was she, this stranger with Margaret's
face and Margaret's turn of the head, grandma asked herself,
and forgot to say her prayers or listen to the sermon as she
wondered and watched. Others had seen only a likeness ; but
the mother who could never forget saw more than that ; she
saw her dead child repeated in this beautiful young girl, who
grew restless and nervous under the scrutiny of the eyes she
knew were fastened so constantly upon her, ;nd was glad when
the sermon was over and she could thus escape them.

Reinette, who occupied the Hetherton pew, had turned once,
and seeing where Margery was, had flashed a look of recogni-
tion upon her, and the moment church was over she came down
the aisle, tossing her head airily and with the strange witchery
and magnetism of her smile and wonderful eyes, throwing into
the shade the fair blonde whose beauty had been noted and
commented upon by the people as something remarkable. And
how unlike they were to each other, golden-haired, blue-eyed,
rose-tinted Margery, so tall, and quiet, and self-possessed, and
dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-faced Reinette, petite and playful,
and restless as a bird, with a flash in her brilliant eyes, before
which even Margery's charms were for the time forgotten.

* Who is she, Rennet ? ' grandma whispered, catching her

MARGERY AND THE PEOPLE,

159

il,
re

grand-daughter's arm as she came near and pointing toward
Margery. ' Who is she, with a face so like your mother's that
for a minute I thought it was my Margaret come back again 1 '

* Like my mother 1 Oh, I am so glad ; for now I shall love
her more than ever/ B«inette replied : then, touching Margery,
she presented her to her grandmother, saying as she did so :
' She thinks you look like my mother, and perhaps you do, for
I am sure you are more like a Ferguson than I am.'

The next day grandma went to the cottage, ostensibly to
make some iuquiries with regard to a dress, but really to see
again the girl who was so like her daughter, and who was very
kind and gentle with her, and said to her so sweetly :

' I am glad if I am like Mrs. Hetherton, for she was Eei-
nette's mother, and I am sure you will like me for it. I want
people to like me.'

And in this wish Margery was gratified, for from the first,
she became very popular and took her place among the l)est
young ladies in town. For this she was in part indebted to
Beinetto, who insisted that she should be noticed, and who, if
she saw any signs of rebellion or indifference on the part of
the people, opened her batteries upon the delinquents and
brought them to terms at once.

When the grounds were completed at Hetherton Place she
gave a garden party, to which all the desirable people in Merri-
vale were bidden. It was in honour of Margery, she said, and
she treated the young girl as a subject would treat a queen, and
made so much of her and talked of her so much that Mr.
Beresford said to her at once as they were standing a little
apart from the others, and she was asking if he ever saw any
one as beautiful as Margery :

* Yes, Queenie, she is very pretty and graceful and all that
but she cannot have had the training which you did. Her
early associates must have been very different from yours, and I
am somewhat surprised at your violent fancy for her.'

Then Reinette turaed upon him hotly, and he never forgot
the look of scorn in her blazing eyes, as she said :

* I know perfectly well what you mean, Mr. Beresford, and I
despise you for it. Because Margery works — earns her own
living — is a dressmaker — you, and people like you look down
upon her from your lofty platform of position and social stand-

160

QUE EN IE EETHERTON.

ing, and I hate you for it ; yes, I do, for how are you bottc :'
than she, I'd like to know. Aren't you just as anxious for
case to work up as she is for a dress to make, and what's th-
difference, except that you are a man and she a woman, aua so
the more to be commended, because she is willing to take ca; •
of herself instead of folding her hands in idleness. I tell y a
Mr. Beresford, you've got to do better, or I'll r. .c spoak to
you p ain. ' 'he e's Margery row over there by the summer-
he us^ Jk. .; V iiti Major Kossiter, and looking awfully bored.
Go an<i »?|itf. l. *o her, and get her away, and dance with her.
See, thej ife j'^'! forming a quadrille there in the summer-
house : ' and sht p* inted to a large, fanciful structure on the
plateau, which, with its many coloured lights, was much like
the gay restaurants on the Champs Elysees in Paris. Indeed
the whole affair bore a strong resemblance to the out-door
ffetes in France, and the grounds seemed like fairy-land, with
the flowers, and flags, and arches, and coloured lights, and
gayly-drec:.<5d people wandering up and down the broad wf'ks
and on the grassy terraces, or dancing in the summer-house,
near which the band was stationed.

Mr. Beresford neve* danced ; he was too dignified for that,
but he carried Margery away from the major, and walked with
her through the grounds, and wondered at her refinement and
lady-like manners, which sat so naturally upon her. Mr.
Beresford was an aristocrat of the deepest dye, and believed
implicitly in family and blood, and as Margery had neither, he
was puzzled, and bewildered, and greatly interested in her,
and thought hers the most beautiful face he had ever seen ex-
cept Keinette's, which stood out distinct among all the faces in
the world.

Reinette was at her best that night, and li''"* some bright
bird flittered here and there among her guests, saying the right
word to the right person, and doing the right thing in the
right place, and so managing, that when at a late hour the
festivity was at an end, and her guests came to say good-bye,
it was no idle fiction or fashionable lie. but the truth they spoke
when they assured her that the evening had been the most en-
joyable of their lives, and one never to bo forgotten.

PHRPECTtNG THEMSELVES IN PREN^B. l6l

CHAPTER XXIII.

hb
ht

'e.

PERFECTING THEMSELVES IN FRENCH.

'HAT was what Mr. Beresford and Phil, were said to be
doing during the weeks when they went every day to
Hetherton place. Phil., who had nothing to do, riding
over early every morning, and T . '' resford, who had a great
deal to do, going in tlie evenH(>y ( is early in the afternoon
as he could get away from his ..'^i;o, U was not unusual for
the two to meet on the cause ^\ Phil, coming from and Mr.
Beresford going to the little lad} who bewitched and intoxi-
cated them both, though in ve»'v different way. With Phil,
her cousin, she laughed, and ^ -ayed, and flirted, and quarrelled
— hot, bitter quarrels sometimes — in which she always had the
better of Phil., inasmuch as her command of language was
greater, and her rapid gestures added point to her sarcasm.
But if her anger was the hottest and fiercest, she was always
the first to make overtures for a reconciliation ; the first to con-
fess herself in error, and she did it so prettily and sweetly, and
purred around Phil so like a loving kitten, that he thought the
making up worth all the quarrelling, and rather provoked the
latter than tried to avoid it.

Sometimes, when she was more than usually unreasonable
and aggravating, Phil, would absent himself from Hetherton
Place for two or three days, knowing well that, in the end,
Pierre would come to him with a note from Queenie begging
him to return, and chiding him for Lis foolishness in laying to
heart anything she said.

* You know I don't mean a word of ;t, and it's just my awful
temper which gets the mastery, and 1 think you hateful to
bother me by staying away, when you ?cnow how poky it is
here without you,' she would write, and within an hour Phil,
would be at her side again, basking in the sunlight of her
charms, and growing every day more and more infatuated with
the girl, whose eyes were just as bright, and whose smile was

16^

QVEMtE UEfBERfOh,

just as sweet and alluring, when, later on, Mr. Beresford came,
more in love, if possible, than Phil, but with a different way of
showing it.

Queenie was morally certain that he W£is either in love with
her or would be soon ; and she was always a little shy of him;
and never allowed the conversation to approach anything like
love-making ; and if he praised a particular dress and said it
was becoming, as he sometimes did, she never wore it again for
him, but, when she knew he was coming, donned some old-
fashioned gown in which she fancied herself hideous.

* If Mr. Beresford would be foolish', it should not be from
any fault of hers,' she thought, never dreaming that if she ar-
rayed herself in a bag he would still have thought her charm*
ing, provided her eyes and mouth were visible.

Ostensibly Mr. Beresford's relations with her were of purely
business nature ; for in managing so large an estate there was
much to be talked about, and Queenie would know everything,
especially with regard to foreign matters.

There were many letters from France, and, these she read to
Mr. Beresford, who, with Phil's help, might have made them
out ; but he brought them religiously to Queenie, who had in-
sisted upon it with a persistence which surprised him, and in-
sisted, too, upon receiving them from him with the seals unbro-
ken and reading them first herself. She had not forgotten her
father's injunction ; ' If letters come to me from France, burn
them unread.'

Ko letters had come to him from any source, proving that he
had no friends who cared to know of his welfare , but with a
woman's subtile intuition, heightened by actual knowledge,
Queenie knew there was something somewhere which she was
to ward off if possible, and, as it might come in some business
letter, she made it a condition that all documents should be
brought her first. As yet, however, everything had been open
and clear, and Queenie was beginning to think her fears ground-
less, when Mr. Beresford brought her one day a letter from
Messrs. Polignac & Co., who, among other things wrote that
the money invested with them for the benefit of a certain Chris-
tine Bodine had been paid by them to her agent, who had been
empowered by her to receive the same. The name of the agent

PERFECTING THEMSELVES IN ERENCH. 163

was given and his receipt inclosed, and then M. Polignac
wrote :

* I would not advise the young lady to continue her search
or enquiries for this woman Bodine, for though we know
nothing definite, we suspect much with regard to the nature of
her relations with the late Mr. Hetherton. Such things are
very common in France, but shocking to most Americans, and
a knowledge of them would hurt the daughter cruelly. So we
shall make no effort to find the woman, nor shall we answer
Miss Hetherton's letter with regard to her, unless greatly
pressed to do so.'

Reinette was white to her lips as she read this, with Mn
Beresford sitting by and watching her, but she uttered no sound.
She merely took a pencil from the table and on a slip of paper
wrote the name and address of Christine's agent, which she put
in her pocket ; then, still keeping the letter from Mr. Beres-
ford, she scratched out every word concerning Christine so
effectually that it would be impossible for any one to decipher
it, much less Mr. Beresford, whose knowledge of the language
was so imperfect.

* Queenie, Reinette, Miss Hetherton ! what are you doing 1
what are you doing ? You may be erasing something very
important for me to know. Stop, instantly ! You have no
business thus to mutilate a letter which does not belong to
you,' he cried, growing more and mure in earnest, and even
irritable, as she paid no heed to him, but wejat coolly on with
her erasures.

* It is my business,' she answered, at last, and her voice was
low and strange. ' It is my business, and no one's else. The
wretches have dared to hint at something which might make
you think badly of papa, and I will not have you see it. It
has nothing to do with the business, so far as you are concern-
ed. It had to do with me, his daughter, and I will not have
his memory dishonoured by so nuich as a hint of anything
wrong. You can have your letter now ; they have paid my
nurse's agent and sent you his receipt.'

She handed him the letter, which, as it was written in an
unif&ually hurried manner, he could not read, and so she read
it to him, unconsciously laying a good deal of stress u^on the

164

QUEENIE HETBERTON,

fact that Christine had been paid, and that there was an end
of that

* Ton see they do not tell you where she is/ she said, trying
to speak naturally, though there was a kind of defiant tone in
her voice. ' And you need not make any further inquiries. I
might not like her, and if I brought her here I should feel
obliged to keep her/

She looked straight at Mr. Beresford, who nodded assent to
what she said, but was not wholly deceived. That the era-
sure had something to do with Christine he was certain, and,
with his curiosity aroused by Reinette's excited manner, he
resolved to ascertain for himself who and what the woman was.
He, too, had the address of her authorized agent, and the
mail for New York which left Merrivale next day carried two
letters, one in English and one in French, directed to M. Jean
Albrech, Mentone, France, and in the one written in French
was a note for Christine Bodiue, in whom Reinette had im*
plicit faith as a true, good woman, notwithstanding what the
Messrs. Polignac had insinuated against her. They were vile,
suspicious people Reinette told herself, who, because her father
paid money to a poor woman, thought she must be bad. They
did not know, as she did, how kind and faithful Christine had
been to her mother, who asked that she should be rewarded
and cared for, and this was the way her father had done it.
Thus Queenie reasoned and tried to reassure herself, but for
days there was a shadow in her bright face and a dull pain in
her heart as she wondered what the mystery could be concern-
ing the woman Bodine.

But Queenie could not be unhappy long, and on visiting
Margery, as she did every day, and calling upon her cousins
at the Knoll, and watching what had become a decided flirta-
tion or rather genuine love affair between Major Rossiter and
Anna, she recovered her spirits, and resuming her old, fascin-
ating manner with Mr. Beresford and Phil., drove them both
to the point of seeking to know their fate, whether for good
or evil.

/ LOFn YOU, queenie:

165

CHAPTER XXIV.

' I LOVE YOU QUEENIE.

R. BERESFORD was the first to say it. As he did not of-
ten see Phil, and his cousin together, except in company
with Grace and Ethel, or Anna, he had no reason to
know how much they were to each other, or he might not have
been as confident of success as he was when at last he made up
his mind to speak and know the worst or best there was to
know. It had been his boast that no woman living could affect
his happiness one way or the other. As a general thing he did
not believe in them ; that is, he did not believe them real, or
worth the love so many strong, sensible men wasted upon them.

But the little, bright-eyed French girl had torn down all his
fortifications, and he did believe in her and wanted her for his
own, as he had never wanted anything before in his life. She
was 80 fresh, so original, so piquant, so different from any one
he had ever seen. Ethel and Grace Rossiter were fine, and sweet,
and lady-like, but they never affected him, while Margery La
Rue was, he acknowledged, the most beautiful girl he had ever
seen. Everybody conceded that, and Mr. Beresford was not an
•xception to the rule.

Since the night when Reinette berated him so soundly for
what she thought his lack of appreciation for Miss La Rue he
had called upon her a few times, and felt a growing interest in
her, as he saw how pure and sweet she was, with an inborn de-
licacy and refinement of manner seldom found in persons of
her class, for she never tried to hide the fact that her mother
was a hair-dresser in Paris, and her father a nothing.

This, of itself, would have been a terrible obstacle in Mr.
Beresford's way had he been greatly iiritercbted in Margery.
Her family was against her, but it wsiS not so with Queenie's.
She was to the Manor born, on her f ilher's side at. wast, and
the Fergusons weighed as nothing m he scalea ag^iinst her.
She was Reinette, his little Queen, and he loved her as men of

166

QUEENiE HETHERTOH.

his mature age usually love when the grand passion seizes
them for the first time, and he told her so one night when they
sat together upon the ledge of rocks which overlooked the
town and the river wandering through it.

Beinette had quarrelled with Phil, that day — hotly and
fiercely quarrelled, and told him to go away and never come
near her again, for she did not like him, and thought big
cousins bores any way. And Phil, had answered her back, and
said he was quite ready to go, and glad to be rid of such a ter-
magant, and that she need not expect him to put himself in the
way of her temper again, even though she wrote him a hun-
dred notes of apology.

Then Phil, went away and slammed the door after him, and
was soon riding rapidly down the hill, while Queenie from her
window watched him, wondering if she had offended him past
all reconciliation, and what her life would be without patient,
good-for-nothing Phil, to como and go at her nod.

And then she wondered if it was true, as ho had said that
she was vixenish and catty (these were the terms he had used),
and if others thought so too — Mr. Beresford, for instance, who
was so different from Phil., and of whom she was a little afraid.
She had never treated him with such bursts of temper as she
had Phil, but she had been hot and imperious in her manner
toward him when he did not release her, and with Phil's words,
* You are a vixen and -j, termagant, ' ringing in her ears, she de-
termined to be very gracious to Mr. Beresford when he came
that evening, as he was sure to do. Every claw should be
sheathed, and if she were a cat she would be a very gentle,

{>urring one, and she wore the dress she knew Mr. Beresford
iked, and put knots of scarlet ribbon here and there, and was
altogether lovely when he came, earlier than usual, and this
time without any papers or foreign letters for her to read.
There was nothing to do but talk, and Queenie was very soft
and gentle, and acquiesced readily to his proposition that they
walk out to the ledge of rocks, which was her favourite seat.

The ea"ly October night was warm and still, and the young
moon hanging in the western sky giving a pale, silvery light
to everything and falling upon the dark hair, and bright, glow-
ing face of the young girl who was full of life and animation,
rnd talked and laughed, and coquetted with her companion un-

■ji^yiiriiwiifertiniitHJ^^^

*/ LOFE YOU, QUEENIE.l

167

100,

un-

til he could restrain himself no longer, and catching her sud-
denly in his arms, said to her :

* Queenie, I love you, and want you for my wife. I have
loved you, I believe, since the first moment I sa^ you at the
station, and you clung to me as your father's friend, whom you
were to trust with everything. So. ti-ust yourself to me ; let
roe have a right to call you mine. I have lived many years
with no thought or care for womankind, and such men love all
the more when at last their heart is touched. Surely, surely,
Queenie, you will not tell me no. '

This last was said in a tone which had in it something of
fear, for Queenie had wrenched herself from him, and standing
a little apart was looking fixedly at him with wide-open won-
dering eyes, as if asking what he meant.

* Say, Queenie, ' he continued, * you will let me love you.
You will be my wife. '

* No, never, never ! Always your friend, but never your
wife,' she said, and her voice rang out clear and full a9 if
the answer were decisive. * I am sorry, ' she began, very
gently and pityingly, as she saw how he staggered back as
if smitten with a sudden blow. ' Im sorry that you care for
jae this way ; sorry if I have encouraged you. I thought you
knew me better than that. I have laughed and tamed and
flirted with you just as I have with Phil, but with no inten-
tion to make you love me. Forgive me, Mr. Beresford, if I
have misled you. I cannot be your wife. I have no love for
you. '

He knew she was in earnest, quite as much by the ezpres-
ysion of her face as by her words, and for a moment he felt be-
wildered and stunned with his sense of loss and pain, which
was all the greater becs.use he expected a different answer
from her. Not expected her to say yes at once, for that was
not her nature. She would tease him, and maybe laugh at
bim, and call him old, as she had sometimes do^a, when he
was conscious of trying to act young. She would assume
all these coquettish manners which he thought so charm-
ing, and then in the end she would lay her little hands' in his,
and answer in her saucy way :

* You can have me if you really want me, but you will get
a bad bargain.' «» .

168'

QUEENIE EETHERTON.

This, or something like it, was what he had fondly imag-
ined, and alas, the result was so different. The little hands he
had expected to be laid in his were locked firmly together, and
the girl stood up erect and dignified before him, with no co-
quetry in her manner, or even shyness, as she gave him her
answer which hurt him so.cruelly. He was not one to beg and
plead as a younger, more impetuous man might have done, and
so the blow hurt him worse and made him shiver with a cold,
faint feeling, as he looked earnestly at her for a moment, while
she looked back as curiously at him, seeing something in his
face which awoke within her a feeling of great pity for him.

* Oh, Mr. Beresford,' she said, coming a little nearer to him.
* Don't look at me like that. Don't care for me so much — I
am not worth it. I should not make you happy, I am so high-
tempered, and passionate, and bad, and say things you never
wcftud forget. Nobody could forget them but Phil., and he
has sworn never to do it again. Only to-day he called me a
vixen and termagant, and left me in hot anger, and if I can
make him feel like that, what could I not do to you, who are
so diflferent — so much more matter-of-fact. '

The mention of x^hil. was unfortunate, and awoke in Mr.
Beresford a feeling of bitter jealousy which made him say
things he would have given worlds to unsay when it was too
late to do so.

* Phil ! ' he repeated, sneeringly. * Yes, I see ; I under-
stand ; Phil, is my rival, and I might have known it. Women
always prefer idlers like him, who have — ' he stopped sud-
denly, checked by the expression of the black eyes confronting
him so steadily, and growing so fierce and bright as the girl
said :

* Well, go on. You did not finish. You said, " idlers like
him, who have — " Have what % I insist upon knowing what
you mean. What is it Phil, has which you have not % '

Her tone and manner made him angry, and he answered her
at last :

' He has plenty of time at his disposal to make love to you ;
he has nothing else to do, and women like men with no aim,
no object in life ; nothing to do but play the Sardanapalus. '

' Mr. Beresford, ' and Reinette's eyes blazed with scorn. * I
did not dream you were so mean — so dastardly. Idler as you

I LOVE YOU, queenie:

169

say he is, Phil. Kossiter would cut his tongue out sooner than
it should say a word against you, his friend, were you a thou-
sand times his rival ; and you, in your foolish jealousy, accuse
him of wearing women's dresses, and spinning, and—*

* Queenie, I did nothing of the sort, ' Mr. Beresford said,
interrupting her, and she continued :

* Yes, you did. You likened him to Sardanapalus, which is
the same thing, and I hatb you for it ! '

' Not more than I hate myself. * Mr. Beresford said, for he
was beginning to bo very much ashamed of the weakness which
prompted him to speak against Phil. Rossiter, whom he liked
3o much. * Forgive me, Queenie ; it was unmanly — cowardly
in me to attack my rival, and nothing but cruel disappoint-
ment and bitter pain could have induced me to do it. Phil, is
my friend, and the most unselfish, kind-hearted fellow in the
whole world. Can you forgive me for saying aught against
himr

Queenie knew he was in earnest, and, as ready to forgive as
to take offence, she answered at once :

* Yes, I know you did not mean it ; you could not. Phil,
may be an idler, I rather think he is ; but he is so noble,
so good, so unselfish, and bears with me as no one else ever
could. But, Mr. Beresford, you are mistaken. Phil, is not
your rival, and it was no thought of him which led me to re-
fuse you. He is my cousin, and if I loved him ever so much,
I could no more marry him than I could my brother, if I had
one. I am enough of a Roman Catholic to think such a mar-
riage unnatural and wicked. I could not do it, and I have no
desire to — no love for him that way. Why, I would sooner
marry you than Phil. ; upon my word, 1 would. *

She bad forgiven him, and he knew it, and hope rose sud-
denly within him, and taking her hands in his, and holding
them tightly there, he began again :

' Oh, Queenie, you give me new life, new hope, for if Phil,
is not my rival, you may come in time to think of me, not now,
not for a year, perhaps, or more, but some time, when you have
learned how much I love you. Promise me that you will try.
Put me on trial for a year, during which time T will not bother
you with love-making. I will be your staid old guardian,
nothing more, Will you — will you think of it a year T

170

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

' Of what use would that be, ' she said, * when at the end of
the year I should think just the same 1 '

' But you might not, ' he replied. • At least give me that
chance ; give me one ray of sunlight, for without it the world
would be very dreary. I shall put myself on probation whether
you will or not.'

She did not answer him, but stood looking off across the
moonlit meadows with a troubled look in her dark eyes which
he could not fathom. At last releasing her hands from his, she
said, with a little shiver :

< It is growing cold. I must go in now, and you must go
home, and never speak to me again as you have to-night. '

* Not until a year, and then if no other love has come be-
tween us, I shall tell you again that I love you, ' he said, and
she replied :

'A year is a long time, and so much may happen to us
both. '

It did seem long to her, but to him, who was so much older,
it seemed as nothing, if at the end he could hope to win the
girl who walked so silently by his side until the house was
reached, where he said good-night to her and then rode bacl?
to town, feeling, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, that
there was a grain of hope for him, if he would bide his time
patiently, and feeling too a great remorse and hatred for him-
self for what he had said of Phil.

CHAPTER XXV.

I \

piiit/s wooing.

HEN Phil, left Reinetteso suddenly he was full of re-
sentment, for she had been unusually unreasonable and
exasperating, and he meant what he said when he told
h«r he woulc^ not come to her aj^ain if she wrote him a hundred

Victims o* fijxriogy. She had called him a Jo?y^, and 2i spooney,
hnCi a Mh^ Nancy, and he didn't know what else ; and his anger

PHILS WOOING.

171

continued all through the day and night when he lay awake
thinking of her, and how she looked with the great tears stand-
ing in her flashing eyes as she bade him leave her and never
come again.

* And I won't, by Jove ! * he said, as hi? was dressing himself
in the morning ; but when breakfast was over, and he had sat
for an hour or more with his mother and sisters, he began to
feel terribly ennuied and to wonder why Grace and Etliel would
be so dull and tame, and take so much interest in their wors-
teds, as if their lives depended upon having the right shades
of wool in their roses.

They were nice girls, of course, he thought, > it quite com-
monplace and old-maidish, and he was puzzled to know how
he should dispose of his time, now that he could not go to
Reinette. It had been his custom to ride over to Hetherton
Place quite early in the day, and stay till late in the afternoon,
but that was over now ; he was never going there again, and
life had rather a dreary lookout for Phil, when he at last left
the house and sauntered slowly towards Mr. Beresford's office.

The lawyer was busy, as usual, but he greeted Phil even
more cordially than usual, for there was in Mr. Berfsford's
heart a feeling of keen regret for having allowed himself to say
aught against the young man whom he really liked so ir.. ich,and
who, it seemed to him, looked rather sober and abstract rd, as ho
seated himself near the window and be^an idly to tarn the
leaves of a, law book. The mail was just in, atid imong Mr.
Beresford's letters was one fro
wrote asking if his nephew i
ning young man who would 1

lis uncle, in New York, who
w of any honest, i u^ty, win-
to go out to India tor a year
rm. Tact and patience, and
scntial qualifications, he wrote,
hese, the firm would pay a lib-
ts he preferred a man from the
country, and so had written to his nephew first

Mr. Beresford read the letter carefully, then glanced at Phil,
and asked himself whether i were not a desire to remove? a
possible rival from his way which prompted him to think him
just the man for the place, Phil, 'vas trusty and winning,
with any amount of tact an' perscvarancc if once roused to
action. The post would suit him exactly ; and deciding at

or more on business for th*
suavity of manner were the
and to a person possessed
eral salary. On many ac(

172

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

last that he was not wholly selfish in the matter, Mr. Beresford
handed him the letter, saying :

* Here is something which may interest you, and possibly
you may like the situation. '

Phil, read the letter through, and his first impulse was that
he would go. He should enjoy the voyage immensely, for he
liked the sea, and he should enjoy the new life too, only — and
Phil, gave a little gasping breath as he thought of going away
where he could not even see Keinette. Of course she would
never be to him what she had been, but it would be some
pleasure to see her come in and go out of his father's house,
and to watch her in the street, and hear occasionally the sound
of her voice, and all this would be impossible in India. And
still the chance to do something, which he had so longed for at
times, was too good to be lightly thrown away, and he said to
Mr. Beresford :

' I am half inclined to go ; at all events, I will see what
father says, and let you know to-night.'

• Bon jour y Monsieur Eossiter,' fell suddenly on Phil.'s ear, and
turning, he saw Pierre, who handed him a dainty note, and
waited while he read it.

J t was da^ed at ' Hetherton Place, 9 o'clock, A.M.,* and read
as follows ;

* Dear Phil. :

' WLut a simpleton you must be to think I was in earnest when
I told you to go ard never come back again. I know I tried you
awfully, and so you did me, and you called me such dreadful names
— a. vixen, w virago, a cat, and a termagant, and the dear knows what,
and I called you a bore and a spooney, and said I bated you, but
Phil., I don't, and I am just as lonesome without you as I can be,
and last night, after I went to my room, I cried real hard, and said
to myself, * 1 am sorry, Phil.,' and I am, and want you to forgive
me, and come right over here with Pierre, and stay to lunch. 1
have ordered broiled chicken, with pop-overs and maple sirup. You
know you can eat a dozen. 1 shall be out on the rocks, and see
you when you come down the hill, and I'll tie my pocket-handker-
chief to my parasol and wave it for a signal. And now you will
come, won't you, and we will make it up, and never, never fight
again ]

* Your repentant
. * QuaENiE,'

PHIL'S WOOING.

173

Phil. Rossiter was not the man to withstand an appeal like
this, and, as he read it, India, and everything else, was forgot-
ten in his intense desire to fly to the girl waiting for him.

Mr. Beresford saw Pierre hand him the note, knew it was
from Reinette, and watched him as he read it, while his
colour came and went like that of some young school-girl, and
he was not greatly surprised when Phil, said to him as he arose
to leave the ofiice :

' By the way, I've been thinking it over, and I don't believe
I care to go to India ; it is too far away. There's Will. Gran-
ger — ^just the fellow they want, and he needs money badly ;*
offer it to him. '

Phil, was in the street by this time, and ten minutes later
was galloping toward Hetherton Place, and the girl whose sig-
nal he saw as she waved it aloft to let him know she was there.
And Phil, rode hard and fast until he was at her side, sitting
just where Mr. Beresford had stood the night before and asked
her to be his wife.

How sweet and lovely he was, with that air of shyness and
penitence ! for she was very sorry for what had passed, and
very glad to have Phil, back; and she gave him both her
hands, and offered no resistance when he kissed them more than
once, and then held them fast while he talked to her, and asked
if she did not think him weak and silly to come the minute she
sent for him.

* No, I don't,' she said : ' I knew you would come back, just
as I knew I should send for you. It is useless for us *;cv try to
live apart, for what would the world be to either of us without
the other ? '

'Nothing, Queenie, nothing.' Phil, said, eagerly, as he dre^v
her down beside him and passed his arm around her waist,
while the light of a new hope and joy shone all over his face.

Phil, had long ago told himself that he loved Queenie with
more than a cousin's love, and had only been deterred from
telling her so by her fitful moods, sometimes all sunshine, some-
times all storm. But now he surely might speak with the full
assurance of a favourable answer, for what but this could her
manner mean, and her assertion that they could not live apart.
She loved him, he was certain ; and with his arm around her,
holding her fast, he began rapidly and impetuously to tell her

174

QUEENIE HETUERTON.

how inexpressibly dear she was to him, and to speak of the
future when she would be his wife, as if everything were under-
stood and settled between them.

* We'll never quarrel then, will we, darling,* he said. * I should
not like to see a frown on my wife's face, and know it was
meant for me, and I would be so good and loving that you'll
not wish to call me a bore, and send me away from you. And
we will be married at once. You need a husband to care for
you, and there is no reason why we should wait a day. I'll tell
mother to-night, and she will be so glad, and so will Ethel and

'Grace, for they all love you dearly. Why don't you speak
to me, Queenie ? ' he said, as she did not answer him, but sat
like one dead to all sense of speech or hearing. * Why, Queenie,
what is the matter 1 How white you are,' he continued, as he
stooped at last to look into her face, which was pale as ashes,
with an expression of pain, and even horror, upon it, which he
could not understand.

* Oh, Phil, you have killed me,' Queenie said, at last, as she
released herself from him and moved to another rock, where she
sat down and looked at him with eyes from which the hot tears
were falling like rain.

* Killed you, Queenie ! * Phil, cried. * How could I kill you
by telling you that I loved you, when you must have known it
already. Surely, surely, you have not been deceiving me all this
time — not been leading me on to believe you loved me, just as
I love you, only to mock me at the last 1 That would be cruel,
indeed.'

And this he said because of something in her face and eyes
which filled him with dread and fear.

' Oh, Phil.' Queenie replied, beating the air with her hands,
as she always did when excited, * if my conscience reproved me
one whit, and said I had purposely misled you for my own
amusement, I would drown myself in Lake Petit, but I have
not, I certainly have not. I thought '

' You thought,' Phil, interrupted her, as she hesitated a mo-
ment — * thought what % That I was a stock — a atone, to be un-
moved by your beauty and sweetness, and — I will say it — your
wiles and wii ;heries, which, if they meant nothing, were dan.
nable, to say t]ie least, and prove you to be the most heartless
coquette that rvcr breathed. Girls do not usually write notes to

J .^

phil:s wooing.

175

♦,

men such as you have written me, begging them to come back,
and then, when they go, receive them as you have received me,
without meaning something, and if you do not mean marriage,
may I ask what you do mean ?' ^

He spoke bitterly, but not at all as he had ever spoken to her
before when his temper and hers were at their height. It was
the outraged, insulted man, not the passionate boy speaking to
her now, and Queenie recognised the difference and shivered
from head to foot, as she crouched down on her knees beside
him and sobbed :

' Listen to me, Phil, before you judge so harshly, and bolieve
me, as I hope for heaven, I never tried to make you love me
this way. You are my cousin — my blood relation : our mothers
were sisters, and I have been taught that such unions were
wicked, unnatural, such as God disapproves and curses.'

' You are not a Eoman Catholic \ ' Phil, said, quickly, and
she replied :

' No, but I had much of their teaching in my childhood, at
home in France, and this is one of the things which took deep
root in my mind. I had a governess who married her own
cousin in spite of everything, and two of her children were
idiots, while the third was deaf and dumb, and when the poor
mother knew that, she drowned herself in the Seine. Phil. I
>(rould no sooner marry my cousin than I would my brother, if
I had one, and I looked upon you as a brother, and loved you
as such, and thought you understood. Surely, you cannot think
me so brazen-faced and bold as to treat you as I have, with a
view to making you want me for your wife. I am sorry, Phil,
so sorry, and I wish 1 had never crossed the sea, for I can never
be your wife — never ! My whole nature revolts against that,
the same as if you were my brother, and I know that all is over
between us — that we can never be to each other again what we
have been in the past. You will come here no more as you have
come, and the days will be so long without you, Phil, and,
worse than all, you will perhaps think always that I meant to
deceive you ; but I didn't. Oh, I didn't, and you must believe
it, and forgive me ! Will you ? '

She was still kneelinp; before him, her white face upturned to
his, and every muscle quivering with anguish, as she thus im-
portuned him. He could not resist her, and stooping down he

176

QUEENIE HETRERTON.

■ I

kissed the quivering lips, but did not say he forgave her ; he
asked, instead :

* If I were not your cousin, could you marry me ? '

* I don't know, Phil. You see, I never thought about you in
that way. I might, perhaps, in time, but I could not now, for
you are like a brother, and I must go back to the beginning and
build up a new kind of love for you ; and then, Phil. I should
wish you to be a little different from what you are now. Girls
do not generally marry men who have '

Here Queenie stopped suddenly, appalled at her own teme-
rity, but Phil, bade her go on in a tone she must obey, and she
went on and said :

* Who have nothing to do but amuse themselves and others.
It is all very nice in cousins and brothers to know how to run
our sewing-machines, and how our dresses should be trimmed
and ought to hang, but we wish our husbands, to be different
from that : wish them to have some aim in life — some occupa-
pation, and you have none. You havj never don« anything to-
wards earning your own living. Your father is rich, it is true,
and able to support you, but it is more manly to support one's
self — don't you think so ? *

She spoke very gently, but every word was a sting, and hurt
Phil, if possible, more than her rejection of him had done.

' Yes, I see,' he answered bitterly. * You think me a lazy dog,
whom people generally despise, and so I am, but it is very hard
to hear it from you. Queenie ; hard ^o know that I have nei-
ther your love nor your respect, when, fool that I was, I believed
I had both.'

* And so you have, Phil. : so you have.' Reinette said, eagerly,
touching by the grieved, hopeless expre&uon of his face, which
was not at all like Phil's, face, usually svi bright and happy.
* You have both my love and respect — love as a sister — for nei-
ther Ethel nor Grace can \o\d you better than I do, in a certain
way, and I respect and este^rn you as the kindest, and best,
and most unselfish Phil, in all the world. Don't Phil, oh, don't
cry ! ' she continued, in a tone of agoinzed eitreaty, as the
great tears, which he could not restrain, roDed down his white
face, which was convulsed with pain. ' If you cry like that I
shall wish I were dead, and I most wish so now,' she added,

PHIL'S fFOOLVG.

177

frightened by the storm of sobs and tears to which he at last
gave vent.

She was still kneeling by him, and she crept down closer to
him, and took his hands from his face, where he had put them,
and wiped his tears away, while her own fell fast as she tried
to comfort him and could not, for in only one way could she do
that, and, with her view of the matter, that was impossible. On
that point, she was as firm and conscientious as the most rigid
Koman Catholic. To marry her cousin would be wicked, and
BO there was no hope for him in that way ; but maybe she could
comfort him in another, and she said, at last :

< Phil. I can never marry you ; that is just as impossible as
for your sister to do it, but I can promise never to marry any
one else. That would not be hard, for I do not believe I shall
ever see any one for whom I care as I do for you ; and, if you
wish it, I'll swear to remain single for your sake forever.
Shallir

' No, Queenie ; no. I am not as selfish as that,' he said. ' You
ought to marry ; you need a husband here at Hetherton Place
— somebody with energy and will, and not an efleminate idler
like me.'

He was still smarting from the hurt of the last objection to
him, and he went on :

* Whether you marry or not cannot affect me, for I am going
away — going to do something and be a man, whom you will
never taunt again with his laziness and sloth.'

* Oh, Phil, you misunderstand me ! I didn't taunt you. I only
told you that girls would rather their lovers had some occupa-
tion. It wasn't a taunt at all. Forgive me, Phil. I am so sorry
— oh, so sorry for this morning's work, when I meant to be so
happy ! '

Phil, had risen to his feet, and she had risen, too, and stood
looking up at him, with an expression which, if it was not born
of lo\e, was near of kin to it, and nearly maddened Phil.

* Queenie,' he began, laying his hands upon her shoulders
and looking fixedly int-^ her eyes, * do you mean to send me
away with no word of hope ?— mean that you cannot be my
wife?'

* Yes, Phil. : I mean it. I can never be your wife, because I

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178

QVEENIE BETUERTON,

f ;

am your oousin, and because I do not love you in that way/
she said.

And Phil, knew she meant it, and was conscious of a death-
like sickness stealing over and mastering him, and making him
sit down again upon the rock, while everything grew dark
around him, and Qaeenie's voice seemed a long way off, as
she spoke to him in affrightened tones, and asked if he were
fainting.

He did not faint, though it was some minutes before he was
himself again, and rose to say good-by. There was no question
of lunch, no thought of broiled chicken and pop-overs, for both
were past caring for such things now, and only remembered that, f^
in some sense, this good-by was forever.

Shi thought he would, of course, come to Hetherton Place
again — ^to-morrow, perhaps — but not as he had come here-
tofore ; not as in the old happy days ; not as the Phil, with
whom she could play and coquette, but more as a straneer ;
more like Mr. Beresford before he troubled her with his tale of
love.

Bt knew he should not come again to-morrow, nor for many
to-morrows — never, perhaps ; for there was danger in that
faiH>ff eastern land to which he now meant to go. Possibly his
grave was there waiting for him, or he might tarry years and
years, until the bright, beautiful girl standing before him had
grown old and gray with the cares of life. And so, to him, it
was good-by forever ; but he would not tell her 30. He would
wait and write his farewell. But he must kiss her once, for the
sake of all she had been to him, and that he had hoped she would
be. He was a tall, six-foot young man, and she a wee little
sirl, whom he could take in his arms as he would a child ; and
he took her in his arms, and kissed her forehead and lips, and
said to her : ^ ^

* Bemember, Queenie, whatever comes, my love for you will
remain unchanged ; for it was not the love of a day or a year,
but love till death, and after, too, if such a thing can be. Good-
by! Fm going now.'

And he went swiftly from her, while she watched him with a
throbbing heart; and neither of them guessed just where or how
they would meet again.

PHtL, GOES AJTAY.

179

CHAPTER XXVI.

PHIL. GOES AWAY.

R. BERESFORD was alone in his office when Phil,
came in after his return from Hetherton Place, and
asked abruptly 1

* Have you seen w ill. Granger about going to India ? '
'Not yet; no; I thought I would wait till to-night/ Mr.

Beresford replied, and Phil continued :

' Don't see him, then ; I will take the place. Write so to
your uncle at once, or perhaps I'd better write myself.'

Something in the tone of his voice made Mr. Beresford turn
quickly and look at him.

* Why, Phil.,' he said, ' what ails you ? What has happened
to make you look so white and strange f '

' Nothing,' Phil, answered — * that is, nothing of any conse-
quence to any one but myself.' Then, moved by a sudden im-
pulse to tell somebody, Riil. burst out : ' Beresford, I can trust
you, I know, for you have always been my friend.'

* Yes,' faltered Mr. Beresford, thinking remorsefully of what
he said to Reinette, and wondering if Phil, would think that
friendly if he knew.

' I must tell somebody — talk to somebody, or go crazy,' PhiL
continued. ' The fact is, I have made a fool of myself and been
rejected, as I deserved.'

' You rejected I By whom 1 ' Mr. Beresford asked, although
he felt that he knew perfectly well what the answer would be.

* By Reinette, of course. What other woman is there on
the face of the earth whose no is worth caring for ? I asked
her to be my wife, and she refused, and made me know she
meant it ; and now I am going to India, for I cannot stay
here.'

' What reason did she give for her refusal 1 ' Mr. Beresford
asked, feeling like a guilty hypocrite, and Phil, replied :

* She had three reasons, each of them good and sufficient in

180

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

her own mind. First, she did not love me that way, as she ex-
pressed it ; second, I am her cousin, and, with her Roman
Catholic notions, it is an unpardonable sin to marry one's
cousin ; and third, she could not marry a man with no aim, no
occupation, no business, except to loop up dresses and run a
sewing-machine. That's what she said, or something like it,
and that hurt me worst of all, for it made me feel so small, so
contemptible ; and, after she said it, I knew how impossible it
was for her even to respect such a dawdling, effeminate Sardan-
apalos as I must appear to her.'

At the mention of Sardanapalus *Mr. Beresford started
violently, for that was the name he ha^ used when speaking of
Phil, to Reinette. Had she told him % It was not likely, else
he had never come there with his confidence, which seemed so
like a stab to the conscience-stricken man, who at last could
bear it no longer, and as Phil, went on with his story, showing
in all he said how implicitly he trusted him, he burst out :

' Stop, Phil, stop a minute, while I make a confession to you,
and then you may not think me so much your friend, though
Heaven knows I am, and that there is no man living I like as
well But, Phil., I went back on you once, and in a moment
of weakness said things for which I blush. I, too, have offered
myself to Reinette Hetherton.'

' You 1 When ? ' Phil, exclaimed, and Mr. Beresford re-
plied :

* Only last night, and when she refused me, and said she did
not love me, I accused you of being my rival, and in my mad
jealousy said things of you which only a coward could have
said of his friend. I sneered at your idle, aimless life, and said
that women generally preferred a Sardanapalus to energetic,
strong men, or something like that.'

' You said this of me to Reinette, and I thought you my
friend ! I would never have served you so,' Phil, said, and in
his eyes there was an expression which hurt Mr. Beresford
cruelly, and made him think of the wounded Ceesar when he cried
out, * Et tv BrtU€ t '

* Yes, I said it, Phil, but I took it all back, and made what
amends I could. Queenie will tell you so, if you ask her. She
flew in my face like a yellow jacket, and defended you bravely.
Forgive me, Phil. ; I am greatly ashamed of myself.'

PHIL, GOES AWAY.

181

He offered his hand to the young man, in whose eyes the
tears were shining, but who did not refuse to take it, though he
was still smarting under his new pain.

' I can forgive you/ he said, with a faint smile, * because
Queenie defended me, but it's very hard to bear. You say she
refused you and gave you no hope ) '

Mr. Beresford thought of the year's probation he had insisted
upon, and spoke of it to Phil., but added :

* She told me, however, that it was useless, for at the end of
the time her answer would be the same, so you see there is no
hope for me either :' and thi3 he said because he saw how
utterly crushed and heart-broken Phil, was, and he would not
add to his pain by confessing that away down in his heart there
was a shadowy hope that Q;:ccnie might change her mind
especially with Phil, away, for he was going. He had made up
his mind to that, and before returning home he wrote himself
to the firm in New York, accepting the situation, and saying
he would be in the city the next evening, as he wished for a
few days before sailing in which to post himself with reference
to the business.

' But why go to morrow ) There is no such haste necessary/
Mr. Beresford said, when he heard the contents of the letter.
PhiL replied :

* I must go before I see her again ; the sight of her might un-
man me and make me give it up.'

So the letter was sent, and when PhiL went home to dinner
at night he startled his family by telling them that he was go-
ing to India for a year, and possibly longer.

' To India ! ' both mother and sisters exclaimed, and then
Phil, explained it to them.

The former opposed the plan with all her strength, for life
without Phil, would be nothing to the mother who loved him so
much. Mr. Kossiter, on the contrary, approved it. It was no
way for a young man to hang on to his mother's apron strings all
his days ; he said Phil, ought to do something for himself.
This was only a repetition of the old story of idleness and ease,
and confirmed PhiL in his purpose. He would make something
of himself — would show that he was capable of higher occupa-
tion than devising trimming for dresses and running a sewing-
machine. He was very sore on the subjeqt of the sewing

182

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

machine, and very reticent all through the dinner, and when
it was over excused himself to his sisters, saying he had let-
ters to write and some few matters which must be attended
to. It was very sudden to them all — his going away — but, as
he said^ he was his own master and must act for himself, and
when his mother tried to persuade him to give up going, he
answered :

' No, I have staid with you too long. You are the best and
dearest mother in all the world, but you have done wrong not
to send me away before this and make me stay away, too. I
see it now, and must take the first chance offered me. A year
is not very long, and i shall write to you every week.*

So Mrs. Rossiter gave it up and busied herself with various
preparations for his comfort, and said she should go to New
York to see him off, and tried to seem cheerful and happy, and
tried with his sisters to fathom the cloud which overshadowed
his face, and made him so unlike himself What had happened
to him, and was Keinette in any way connected with it % They
thought so, and when in the morning he said he was going to
bid his grandmother and Anna good-by, and they asked if he
were not going to see Reiuette, too, he answered :

*■ I saw her yesterday, but give her this letter when I am
gone.'

They were sure of it ; and, for the first time since they had
known her, they felt a little vexed with the girl who even then
was watching from her window for the rider coming over the
river, across the cause- way and up the long hill as he would not
come again, for when later in the day the express train for New
York stopped at West Merrivale, it carried him along toward
the new life which was to have an aim and occupation.

HOW QUEENIE BORE THE NEWS.

183

CHAPTER XXVII.

Plow QUEENIE BORE THE NEWS.

HE saw the long train as it came across the plains from East
Merrivale — saw it shoot under the bridge, past the stap
tion, and glide swiftly on by the riverside until it was lost
to view in the deep cut by the old gold mine, and she remembered
afterwards that she heard the whistle as the train stopped at West
Merrivale a few minutes and then went speeding on to the West.
But she never dreamed it carried with it a young man whose
face was pale as ashes as he sat with folded arms, and hat nulled
over his eyes, seeing nothing of what was passing around him,
and thin^ng only of her, listening even then for the s(»und of
his horse's feet coming up the hill. For Queenie felt iiure he
would come back to her, and that in some way the^ would
make it up, and assume their old delightful relations with each
other. And she watched for him all day long, and was begin-
ning to get restless and impatient, when, about sunset, the
Rossiter carriage came slowly up the hill and into the yard.

In a trice Queenie was at the door, feeliog certain that the
recreant Phil, had driven over with his sisteirs, as he sometimes
did. But only Ethel and Grace were there, and it struck
Queenie that there was something a little strange in their man-
ner, while Grace had evidently been crying.

' I am so glad you have come ! ' she said, as she led the way
into the house. ' I have been so lonely to-day with not a per-
son to see me except the major and Anna, who were here a few
moments this morning, and who were so absorbed in each other
as to be of no account to any one else. I do believe he is in
earnest, and means to marry her ; and then won't we have to
bow to my lady Rossiter ! Where's Phil, and why hasn't he
been here to-day % '

* Phil, has gone ; you surely knew that, or, at least, that he
was going ; he was [here yesterday,' Ethel said ; and in her

184

QUEENIE HETHEliTON.

voice there was a hardness, as if her cousin were trifling with
her thus to ask for her brother.

But she knew better when sho saw how white Queenie grew,
as she repeated after her :

* Gone I and I knew of hia going ! You are mistaken ; I
know nothing. Where has he gone 1 '

* To India ! ' Ethel said.

And then Reinette grasped the chair near which she was
standing with both hands, and leaning heavily upon it, asked,
in a half whisper, for something was choking her so that she
could not speak aloud :

' To Indui ! For what 1 And how long will he be gone 1 '

As rapidly as possible Ethel told all she knew of a matter
which had taken them so by surprise, and which had so affected
her mother that she was sick in bed.

For a moment Queenie did not speak, but stood staring at
Ethel, who, sure that she was in fault, went pitilessly on :

' We thought you had something to do with it ; that you
sent him away, for it was after he came from here yesterday
that be decided to go ; he had given it up before.'

* I sent him away ! — sent him to India to die, as he will !
No, no ; I did not do that,' Queenie cried, piteously. * I said
I could not marry him, and he my cousin ; and 1 could not,
any more than you could marry him, he being your brother.
But I did not think he'd go away. Oh ! what shall w^) do with-
out PhU.'

Reinette was sobbing passionately, and Ethel and Grace
were crying with her, for rhil. had made the happiness of their
lives, and without him they were very desolate.

' Did he speak of me f ' Queenie asked, at last. ' Did he
leave no word 1 no message 1 no good-by *) '

'He left this for you,' Ethel said, passing the letter to
Queenie, who clutched it eagerly, but would not read it there
with the sisters looking on. That they blamed her, and held
her responsible for PhiL's India trip, she was certain, and she was
glad when they at last said good-night, and left her to herself
and her letter — Phil's letter — which she read in the privacy
of her own room, and which nearly broke her heart

* Dear Queenie,' ho began, * I am going away — for a year,
certainly, and perhaps, forever, for men of my habits, who have

HOIF QUEENIE BORE THE NEWS.

185

never been accustomed to hardships of any kind, die easily in
that hot climate.'

'Oh-h ' and Reinette groaned bitterly^ as she thought, * Why
did Phil, say what will make me feel like his murderer, if he
should die out there.'

Then she read on :

' I am going to India on business for a firm in New York, of
which Mr. Beresford's uncle is the head. The -Balary is good
and the duties such as I can perform, and so I am going. Mr.
Beresford made me the oifer this morning, and with my usual
indolence I declined it, but I did not then know your opinion
of me ; did not know how you despised me for my effeminacy
and laziness. Queenie, I do believe that hurt me more than
your refusal of me. I might live without your love, perhaps,
but net without your respect, and so I am going to begin life
anew, with some aim, some occupation, and you shall never
taunt me again with my idleness. But oh, Queenie, how I love
ou, and how I long to hold you in my arms as my own dar-
ing. It is a strange power which you have over us men — a
power to hold us at your will by one glance of your eyes, or
toss of your head. Other faces may be more beautiful than
yours ; some would say that Margery La Rue's was one of them,
but there is something about you more attractive than mere
regularity of feature or purity of complexion, and men go
down before it as I have done, body and soul, with no hope or
wish for anything else, if you must be deni^ me. May you
never know how my heart is aching as I write this, my fare-
well, to you, and yet to have known and loved you is the dear-
est thing in life, and the memory of you will help to make me
a man. I know you will be sorry when I am gone, and miss
me everywhere, but you will get accustomed to it in time.
Some one else will take ray place ; and, just here, although I
do not pretend to be so good or unselfish that it does not cost
me a pang to do it, I would say a word for Mr. Beresford. He
knows why I go <!iway, for I told him, and like the splendid fel-
low he is, he confessed what he said of me to you, and asked
my pardon for it, and I forgave him, and you must do so, too,
and not be hot, and rash, and bitter against him, as something
tells me you may be, when you know I am gone, and that pos-
sibly Mr. Beresford suggested to you the words which made

186

QUEENIE IIETHERTON,

me go. He told me of your refusal of himself, which he will
not take as a refusal yet, hoping time may change you ; and if
it does — oh, my darling, how can I say it, loving you as I do 1
— if it does, don't worry and tease him, but deal with- him
honestly and openly, as a true woman should deal with a true,
honest man. And now, good-by, and if it is forever — if I
never come back again — remember that I love you always,
always ! and I shall carry your image with me wherever I go,
and so, in fancy, I put my arms around you and hold you for a
moment as my own and kiss your dear face, feeling sure that
if it were really so, that I was saying good-by to you forever
and you knew it, you would kiss me back once at least, in token
of all we have been to each other.'

' Oh, Phil., Phil., yes, a thousand times would I kiss you, if
you were back again ! and I am so sorry for the nasty words I
said about your idleness,' Reinette cried, as, with Phil's, letter
clutched tightly in her hand, she lay upon her face sobbing bit-
terly, and wondering what life was worth to her now, that
Pbil. was gone.

' I couldn't marry him, I coudn't, for he's my cousin 1 ' she
said ; ' and I do not love him that way, but he was so much to
me, how can I live without him '{ '

And then there began to creep into her heart hot, resentful
feelings toward Mr. Bcresford, who had put it into her mind to
taunt Phil, with his idleness.

' 1 hate him — I hate him ! ' she said, stamping her little feet
by the way of emphasis, but when she remembered that Pbil.
had forgiven him, and still held him as his friend, and wished
her to do so, she grew more calm and less resentful toward him,
but declined to see him when, next morning, he rode over to
Hetherton Place and asked for her.

' Tell him I am sick,' she said to Pierre, ' and can see no one,
unless it is Margery. Ask him, please, to call at her door, and
tell her to come to me, for I am in great trouble.'

With a suspicion as to the nature of Queenie's trouble, Mr.
Beresford rode back to town and delivered the message to Mar-
gery, who went at once to her friend and tried to comfort her.
But Queenie refused to be comforted. Phil, has gone, and what
was there now for her ?

* You can bring him back. The ship does not sail for some

■r

nOfV QUEENIE ROUE THE NEWS,

187

days, you say, and a word from you will change his mind/ Mar-
gery said, caressing the bowed head resting on her lap.

* Do you think — do you believe he would come back if I were
to write and beg him ? ' Queenie asked, quickly, lifting up her
tear-stained face.

' I've no doubt of it,' Margery said : * but, darling, if you do
that he will have a right to expect you to marry him. Sending
for him to come back could mean nothing else, nor would any-
thing else satisfy him.'

' Then he must go,' Queenie answered, with a rain of tears.
* I cannot marry my cousin ; that is a part of my religion. It
would be hideous to do it. Phil, must go ; but my whole life
goes with him. Oh, Phil I am nothing, nothing without you.
Why were you so silly as to fall in love and spoil everything 1 '

That night as Margery sat with her ipother over their tea ,
talking of Queenie, Mrs. La Rue said to her :

' If Mr. Rossiter were not her cousin, do you think she would
marry him ) '

* I have no doubt of it.' Margery replied. ' She fancies she
does not love him in that way, as she expressed it, but if ' !'e ob-
stacle of cousinship were removed, I believe she would feel
differently. Poor little girl, she is so cast down and wretched,
thinking she has driven him away to die as she declares he will.'

Mrs. La Rue had listened intently to all Margery told her of
Reinette's distress, and there were tears in her eyes as she
cleared away the tea things, and busied herself with her house-
hold cares.

' Poor little girl,' she whispered to herself. * Would her love
for him outweigh everything — everything, I wonder ? Is it
mightier than her pride ? '

188

QUEEN IE MET HE ETON.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. LA rue's resolution.

'HERE 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
Heatherton 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
thore-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 uf 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 aris-
tocracy 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 chateaux 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 re-

MnS. LA JRUFS RESOLUTION.

189

fascs, I shall take it as a sign that I must for evermore keep
silent.'

Thus deciding, she walked swiftly 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 immovable distance he felt there
was between his mistress and the woman who, he knew, was
bom in the same rank of life as himself.

* Tell her Margery's mother is here, and very anxious to see
her,' Mra La Rue said ; and with a bow, Pierre departed, leav-
ing her alone in the hall.

He had not a"ked her to sit down, but she felt too faint fnd
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 ie inevit-
able. 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 on 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
she did say ? Will she see.me 1 '

'She bade me tell you she could not see y(K . b<*t 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 1 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 Piertp li oked wonderingly
after her, saying to himself: * I believe the i"^ >man'is crazy.'

And in good truth insanity would best describe Mrs. La
Rue's condition of mind as she sped down the windin/v 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

190

QUEENtE HETHERTON.

most grateful to her. Suicide was something of which Mrs.
La Rue had thought of 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 ; death is only a dreamless
sleep. Better die than live to ruin that young life, and know
yourself loathed and despised hy the creature you love best.
Sometimes in your fit 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 9 * and leaned still farther over the parapet be-
neath which the waters of the Chicopee were flowing so slug-
gishly.

' 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, fee if there be a hereafter, as she believes, we should
never meet aga n. Her destiny would bo Heaven, and mine,
blackness and darkness of despair, where the worm dieth not,
and the fire is not qeunched ! 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 &t times, until I am tempted to speak out
the dreadful thing. And yet, at first, the sin seemed so easy
and 80 trivial, and was what is so common over there in France,
where everything is so different, and I was so young and igno-
rant, and did not think how great a wrong 1 was doins. God,
if there is a God, forgive me, and help ml to hold my tonguei
and keep the love of Margery.'

She had drawn back from the railing by this time, and, ga-
thering her shawl around her, she started for home, where she
found M-argery 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.

•

. .%^-

MRS. LA RUE'S RESOLUTION.

191

' The match does not oome off till 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 an-
swered 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. Mark-
ham's work to do it, because she knew Mrs. Markham was a
Jady, 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 fin-
ished till to-morrow.'

' Nor was it,' Margaret answered, ' but Miss Ferguson has
been here and insists upon having it at twelve, and she was so
overbearir> J, 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 1 '

' 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,

■f-

'v^:'^A,

192

QUEEN IE UETEERTON,

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 stTrangely 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
80 different from me that sometimes when I think how refined
and lady-like you are, and then remember what I am — an un-
educated 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 Uetherton — but you don't Mar-
gery, 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 won-
dered what had happened tQ excite her so. Such moods, or
states of mind in her mother were not unusual, and since com-
ing to Merrivale they had been more frequent than ever, so
Margery was accustomed to them, and ascribed them to a na-
turally morbid temperament, combined with a low, nervous
state of health.

' I wonder why she fisks me so often if I love her, an'l 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, prepar-
ing the cup of nice hot tea and slice of cream toast which at

ich
an

MRS. LA RUES RESOLUTION,

193

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 till 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 firrt 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 m«
and see if it hangs right ) '

' Yes, I'll bring it,' Margery said, and in 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 face 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 be interested in him, and 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 bbcoming,
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, Za 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
s|K>Ue4 her with so much atteution, and she pnly (^ dreeijim^er t '

194

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER XXIX.

LETTERS FROM MENTONE.

HETHER we are sorry or glad, time never stops for us,
but the days and nights go on and on, until at last we
wonder that so long a period has elapsed since the joy
or sorrow came which marked a never-to-be-forgotten point in
our lives.

And so it was with Queenie. She could not be as wretched
and disconsolate always as she was during the first days of
Phil.'8 absence. She was of too light and buoyant a tempera-
ment for that, and after a little she woke to the fact that life
had otill much happiness in store for her, even tbough Phil,
could not share it with her. She had received a few words
from him written just before the steamer sailed — words which
made her cry as if her heart would break, but which were very
precious to her because of their assurance that whatever might
befall the writer she would always be his queen, his love, whose
image was engraven on his heart forever.

And Queenie had answered the note, for it was nothing more,
and filled four sheets with her passionate longings and heart
wishes for the nai^ghty boy^ who was not satisfied to be her
cousin, and her shadow, but must needs seek to be her lover,
and so spoil everything, and make her life miserable. Then
she filled another sheet with the doings of the Major and Anna,
which she said were too sickening for anything, and the talk of
the whole town.

' I don't think your father and mother altogether approve
the match,' she wrote, ' although they never say anything, but
the major has left the Knoll and gone to the hotel, where he
has a suite of rooms, and where, it is said, Anna visits him
when he is not calling upon her. You ought to see the airs
and graces she has put on with her great expectations. They
have a hired girl, Cynthia, by name, whom Anna calls her maid,
and who is taught to call Anna, Miss Ferguson, which, of course,

LETTERS FROM MENTONE.

195

is riffht, only one likes to see things harmonize, while the maid
and Miss Ferguson do not For instance, Anna wishes to have
the dinner-table cleared properly, as it is done at the Knoll,
where the servants are trained to do it, and Uncle Tom rebels
against it, and says he cannot wait for sach fddle-faddleay and
orders on his pie, almost before Anna ha/: finished her soup,
and he will have a knife to eat it with, and cool his tea
in his saucer, and then Cynthia sometimes proves refrac-
tory and will not come when the bell rings, and Aunt Lydia
has to get up and go to the kitchen herself, and says she'd ra-
ther do it and all the work, too, than be bothered with a girl.
And grandma has interfered, and saya, " there is no sense in
Lyddy Ann's keepiu' help with Anny lazin' round ; it don't
make her an atom more a lady than she was when she made
dresses and washed the dishes, too ; " and I am inclined to think
she is right. It is not what one does, but what they are them-
selves which gives them real worth. It is not in Anna to be
a lady, and she never can be, even when she is Mrs. Major
Lord Seymour Rossiter, as I suppose she will be some time
during the winter, for they are engaged, and she wears a dia-
mond ring — a splendid one, too, which she says cost five hun-
dred dollars. How does slie know that, I wonder 1 and she
means to go to Florida on her bridal trip, and flaunt her splen-
dour at the St. James. When the wedding comes off I'll tell
you all about it, and so adieu.

* For ever and ever your cousin,

*QUEENIE.'

This letter was sent to Rome, for Phil, was to take the over]
land route to India, and visit the Imperial City on his way.
He had promised to write from every point where he stopped,
and so he did not seem so very far away, and Queenie grew
brighter and gayer and consented to see Mr. Beresford, whom
she had persistently ignored, and after rating him soundly for
the part he had had in sending Phil, away, she became very
gracious to him, for Phil, had forgiven him, and she must do so,
too, and she rode with him one day after his fast horse, and
was so bright and coquettish, and bewitching, that Mr. Beres-
ford forgot himself, and in lifting her from the carriage held

196

QUEEN IE HEIUERTON.

her hand tighter in his than was at all necessary. Bat Qaeenie
wrenched it away, and with her usual frankness, said :

* You are not to squeeze my hand that way, Mr. Beresford-
or think because I rode with you that you are on prdbaAiont as
you call it, for you are not. I am not trying to reconsider, and
never shall.'

This state of things was not very hopeful for Mr. Beresford,
who, nevertheless, drove away more in love than ever with the
little lady of Hetherton, who, after he was gone, went to her
room, where she found on her dressing-table a letter which
Pierre had brought from the office during her absence. It was
a foreign letter, post-marked at Mentone, France. Reinette's
first exclamation was :

' From the agent. Now I shall hear from Christine.''

This was the thing of all others which she had greatly de-
sired, but now that it seemed to be within her grasp she waited
and loitered a little, and took off her hat, and shawl, and gloves,
and laid them carefully away, and picked a few dead leaves
from a pot of geraniums in the window, before breaking the
seal. And even then she hesitated with a strangely nervous
feeling, as if from fear that the letter might contain something
she would be happier not to know — something her father would
have withheld from her had he been there with her.

< But no,' she said at last, ' how foolish I am. Christine was
faithful to my mother, and father pensioned her for it, as he
ought to do, and those vile, evil-minded Polignacs thought there
was harm in it. They did not know my father, or what stuff
the Hethertons are made of ; ' so saying, she opened the letter
and read :

* Mentone, France, Oct. 18th, 18 — .

* To Miss Hethertortf of Merrivale, Worcester Co., Mcus., U. 8. A.

* My employer, M. Albrech, is gone away for a few days, and told
me to open his letters, and, if necessary, aaawer them for him. So
when yours and monsieur's came, I opened and read ; that is, read
yours, but monsieur's was in English, and it took me a long time to
make out that it meant the same as yours, and asked information
of one Christine Bodine, pensioner of M. Hetherton, deceased.'

' That was Mr. Beresford who sent him an English letter.
What business bad he to pry into jny affairs ? ' Reinette e^-

LETTERS FROM MENTONE.

197

claimed, under her breath, and her cheeks were scarlet, and her
breath came hurriedly, and then seemed to cease altogether, as
she read on :

' I could not remember any one by that name, but there was a
certain Madame Henri La JRtte, to whom, by reference to M. Al-
brech's books, I find that moneys were paid regularly by Messrs.
Polignac & Co., Paris, for a M. Hetherton, until last summer,
when the entire principal was sent to Madame La Kue, at'' Oak
Bluffs, Martha's Vineyard, Mass., U. S. A.," where it seems she is
living, though whether she is the person you are wishing to find, I
do not know. Your billet to Christine Bodine I will keep until M.
Albrech returns, !&nd if he knows the woman he will forward it.
' Hoping my letter is satisfactoiy, I am,

* Your obedient servant,

* Louis Arnaud.'

Rtold
So
read
Qe to
tion

'Madame Henri La Kue, Oak Bluffs, Martha's Vineyard,
Mass., U. S. A.,' Reiuette kept repeating to herself, while a
feeling of terror took possession of her, and made her for &
moment powerless to move or reason clearly. ' Who is this
Madame La Rue, and where have I seen her 1 ' she asked her-
self in a bewildered kind of way, and then at last it came to
her who Mrs. La Rue was, and wherd she had seen her.

'Margery's mother! Christine Bodine! impossible!' she
cried, reading Louis Arnaud'F letter t\gain and again, while her
thoughts went backward, and with lightning rapidity gathered
up every incident connected with Mrs. La Rue which had seemed
strange to her, and made her dislike the woman for her un-
warrantable familiarity.

As distinctly as if it were but yesterday she recalled their
first meeting in Paris in Margery's receiving-room, when Mrs.
La Rue had stared at her so, and touched her hands and dress,
and seemed so strange and queer ; and since then she had so
often offended with what appeared like over-gratitude for kind-
ness shown to Margery.

' And all the time when I was talking of my nurse and my
desire to find her, she knew she was Christine, and made no
sign,' she said : ' and once she bade me stop searching for her,
as finding her might bring more pain than pleasure. What
does she mean, and why does she not wish me to know her i

198

QUEENIE BETUERTON,

Was there anything wrong between No, no, no ! ' and

Beinette almost shrieked as she said the emphatic ' no's/ ' Mo-
ther trusted her ; mother loved her. I have it in her own
words written to papa. " Christine is faithful and tender as if
she were my mother, instead of my maid j and if I should die,
you must always be kind to her for what she has done to me,"
she wrote, and that's why he sent her the money. There was
nothing wrong on father's side ; but she — why has she never
told me ? What has she done % What is she 1 Yes, she was
right. It is more pain than pleasure to find her ; but if ''\e
had only told me who she was, it would have been such joy to
know she was Margery's mother — my Margery still, thank God,
for she has had no part in this concealment She has no sus-
picion that Christine Bodine and her mother are one and the
same. Mrs. La Rue must have been married soon after mother
died, for Margery and I are ne'irly the same age.'

This mention of Margery helped JR«inette, and the pain in her
heart was not quite so heavy, or her resentment toward Mrs.
La Rue so great. She was Margery's mother, and, whatever
happened Reinette would stand by the girl whom she loved so
much.

* Please mademoiselle have you heard the bell ; it has rung
three times, and dinner is growing cold,' Pierre said, putting
his head in at the door ; and then Reinette roused herself to
find that it was getting dark, for the November twilight was
fast creeping into the room.

* Yes, Pierre, I know ; I am not coming — I'm not hungry.
Tell them to clear the table,' she said, abstractedly ; and then,
as Pierre looked inquiringly at her, she continued : ' Stay, Pierre,
come here, and shut the door, and come close to me, so no one
can hear. Pierre, I've found Christine Bodine ! '

* Yes 1 You have found her 1 Where ? ' Pierre said, look-
ing wonderingly at his young mistress, whose white face and
excited manner puzzled and alarmed him.

* Here, Pierre, in Merrivale. While I was searching for her
across the water she was here, not a mile away, and never told
me. Pierre, Mrs. La Rue is or was Christine Bodine ! '

' Mon Dieu I ' Pierre ejaculated, with a significant shrug of
ids shoulders, and a rapid movement of his hands, ' Ma£ime

LETTERS FROM MENTONE.

199

ingiy.

then,

*ieiTe,

ko one

k hep
told

of
ime

La Kue, Christioe Bodine ; I am very much ; yes, I suppose I
am very much astonished ! '

But he was not. He had never shared Reinette's implicit
faith in Christine, whom he believed his master had cursed in
Liverpool, after receiving her letter, and he put things together
rapidly, and to himself he thought :

* Yes, Madame is Christine. I am not surprised ; ' hut to
Reinette he said : * Who told you 1 How do you know it 1
There must be some mistake, madame surely would not have
kept silent so long.'

' There is no mistake. I can trust you, Pierre ; and I begin
to feel sia if you were the only one I have to trust in. Every-
thing and everybody is slipping away from me. This is the
letter from the agent in Mentone, who paid her the money for
Messrs. Polignac, in Paris. You know you were in their office
once with father and saw him give his cheque for twelve hun-
dred and fifty francs to be sent to her. Read the letter, Pierre,
and you will know all I do.'

She handed it to him, and striking a light he read it through,
while Reinette watched him narrowly to see what effect it had
upon him. But aside from frequent ejaculations of surprise,
he made no coinment, and just then the dinner-bell rang again,
this time long and loud, as if the ringer were growing im-
patient.

'Oh, that dreadful bell,' Reinette exclaimed, putting her
hands to her ears to shut out the sound. ' Will they never
stop ringing it, or understand that I am not coming. Go,
Pierre, and tell them to clear the table away ; tell them I'm
not hungry ; tell them I'm sick and tired, and wish to be let
alone ; tell them anything to keep them away from ma No
one must con.3 to-night, but you. Go quick, before they ring
again, or Mrs. Jerry comes herself. She mufit not know what
we do.'

Thus entreated, Pierre departed with the message to Mrs.
Jerry, who had become somewhat accustomed to the vagaries
of her young mistress. This was not the first time her dinner
had been untouched when Reinette was in one of her moods,
and so she only lamented that the fish and sauce Lyonaise,
which she had prepared with so much care would be wasted in
the kitchen, but inquired anxiously what ailed the young lady
and asked if she should not go up herself and see. _

200

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

* No, no ; she only wants quiet, that is all ; by and by she
may have some coffee, when I tell you,' Pierre said, and then
he went back to Reinette, who sat with her hands clasped
tightly together, and a look on her white face which puzzled
him, for he did not know that she was bravely lighting down a
suspicion to harbour which would be to dishonour her father
in his grave.

* Pierre,' she said, lifting her dry, heavy eyes appealingly to
him, and speaking like a sick, weary child which wants to be
petted ; ' Pierre, I am strangely shaken by this news, because
I do not understand why Christine should wish to hide her iden-
tity from me, when she knows how I wanted to find her. It looks
as if there was spmething which she wished to keep from me
— something wrong in her life after she left us — father and me
— and was married to this M. La Rue. I had wished so much
to find her, and had so much faith iH and love for her, and
now — oh, Pierre, it makes me cold, and sick, and faint. Foi*^
get, can't you, that I am a woman, almost twenty-one ; try and
fancy me a little girl again, as I was when you first came to
Chateau des Fleurs, and take me up and carry me to the couch.
I could not walk there to save my life, for the strength has all
gone from my body.*

Pierre had carried her in his arms many a time in the years
gone by, and now he took her gently up, and, laying her upon
the couch, brought a pillow for her, and fixed it under her head,
and covered her with her shawl, and put fresh coal on the grate,
for the November night was cold and chill, and outside the
first snow of the season was beginning to fall.

* Now sit down by me, Pierre,' she continued, * and rub my
hands, they are so numb and lifeless, and let me talk to you of
the olden time, when we lived in the country and were so very
happy.'

' Yes, mademoiselle.' Pierre said, sitting down beside her and
rubbing and chafing the limp white fingers which seemed to
have no vitality in them.

'Pierre,* she began. ' we were so happy when papa was
alive : he was so good. He was always kind to you, was he
notr

* Yes, always.'

' And he was good to everybody, Pierre ? '

* Yes, everybody.'

LETTERS FROM MENTONE.

201

very

and
to

was
he

* And — and You were with him in places where he would

be under less restraint than when with me, and you think he
had as few faults as most men, I am sure ? '

' He had not a single fault,' Pierre said, emphatically, lying
easily and unhesitatingly, thinking the end justified the means.

He knew now that Reinette was wishing to be reassured of
her father's truth, and purity, and honour, and thqugh he had
but little faith that his late master had possessed either of those
virtues to an overwhelming degree, he could not say so to the
daughter ; he would sooner tell her a hundred lies, and take his
chance of being forgiven by and by.

' Thank you, Pierre,' she said. * You make me so happy. I
like to think of father as a good, true, honest man ; and yet you
told me once that you heai'd him awecvr in London over a letter
he received. He cursed Christine ; that must have been Mrs.
La Kue. Perhaps he did not like her. Did you ever hear him
speak of her at any other time 1 '

*No, never.'

' And did the servants at Chateau des Fleurs ever mention
her as other than a nice woman ? '

* They never mentioned her at all. I never heard her name
except from you and monsieur, and from him only twice — once
in the ofiSce of Messrs. Polignac, and once in Liverpool, when
he certainly did curse her.'

* Yes, Pierre,' Keinette said, with a quick, gasping breath.
* Perhaps he did ; papa was the best man in the world — the
very best — but all best men will sometimes take unfounded
dislikes, and he was not an exception. Possibly Christine had
offended him, and he was not one to forget easily. At all events
I am sure Christine is a good woman. My mother trusted her,
and bade father be kind to her always. I have it in a letter
written before she died, and when Christine was with her. Mrs.
La Rue is a good woman.'

She kept asserting this as if she feared Pierre might doubt
the fact ; but if he did, he gave no sign, and merely replied :

* She must be good to be the mother of Miss Margery.'

* Yes, Pierre, yes,' and Reinette roused herself up, and push-
ing her heavy hair back from her face, said joyfully : ' I see it
now ; I understand why she has not told me. She did not want

202

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

Margery to know that she once served in the capacity of nurse,
lest she should feel humiliated ; that is it, I am sure.'

' Unquestionably/ Pierre said, ready to assent to any thing
his young mistress might suggest, no matter how absurd.

* And, Pierre,' she continued : ' I shall of course tell Mrs. La
Hue that I know who she is, but it is not necessary that all the
world should know. We need tell no one else.'

' No, mademoiselle ; but what of Monsieur Beresford 1 He
wrote to M. Albrech, too ; he will get an answer ; he will
know.'

*0f course,' Queenie said impatiently. *Why couldn't he
mind his own business ? But I can trust him. I shall tell him, I
know, that ho is to keep silent ; and now, leave me, and don't
let Mrs. Jerry, or any one, come near me. I am tired and shall
soon retire.'

So Pierre left her alone with her thoughts, which kept her
awake the most of tho night, and the next morning found her
suffering with one of her headaches, and unable to leave her
bed. It was a stormy November day, and the wind blew in
gusts over the hill, and drove before it clouds of snow, which
was drifting down from the gray sky in great white feathery
masses, but bad as was the day, it did not prevent Mr. Beres-
ford from riding over to Hetherton Place, where he was met by
Pierre with the message that Miss Hetherton had the headache,
and could not see him. Mr. Beresford seemed disappointed, and
was about turning away from the door when he said, as if it had
just occurred to him :

* By the way, do you know if Miss Hetherton received any
letters from France yesterday ? '

* She did receive one,' Pierre said, looking straight at the
lawyer, and feeling sure that he, too, had heard from Mentone,
and knew the secret of Christine Bodine.

And he was right, for the same mail which brought the letter
to Eeinette, had also in it one for Mr. Beresford, from the agent's
clerk in Mentone. It was a curious compound of English and
French, which took Mr. Beresford nearly two hours to decipher.
But he managed it at last, with the help of grammar and dicti-
onary, and «had a tolerably accurate knowledge of its contents,
which surprised and confounded him almost as much asQueenie'a
letter had confounded her. But in his letter were a few words,

TRYim TO READ THE PAGE,

203

He
will

or rather insinuations, which were omitted in Queenie's, and
which affected him more than all the rest, and threw a flood of
lisht upon Mrs. La Rue's reason for keeping her identity with
Cnristme Bodine a secret from Reinette. Did Queenie know
what he knew or suspected, Mr. Beresford wondered. Had
the agent written to her what he had to Mr. ^Jeresford, and if
soj how did she take it ? What would she do I A burning,
intense desire seized the usually calm, sober lawyer to have these
questions answered. He must see Reinette and judge from her
face how much, if anything, she knew, and so he went to
Hetherton Plac& But Queenie would not see him. She was
sick, and she had received a letter from Franca So much he
learned, and he rode back to his office, where, for the remainder
of the day, he seemed in a most abstracted frame of mind, pay-
ing but little attention to his clients, who had never seen him so
absent-minded and grave before, and wondered much what ailed
him, and of what he was thinking. Not of them and their
business surely, but of Reinette, and the change her coming to
Merrivale had made in his hitherto quiet life. How she had
turned everything upside down. It was like a romance whose
pages he was reading, and now a fresh leaf had been turned
which he wished to decipher, and since he could not see Rei-
nette, he must seek help in another quarter, and he, who had
always been noted for minding his own business better than
any man in Merrivale, waited impatiently for evening, when he
meant to begin the new chapter.

any

CHAPTER XXX.

TRYING TO READ THE PAGE.

I HE night set in dark and stormy even for November, and
the wind howled dismally through the tall elms which
grew upon the. common, while both sleet and rain were
falling pitilessly, when Mr. Beresford at last left his office,
equipped for an evening caU. It was very seldom that he thus

^04

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

honoured any one in town, except Keinette and the ladies at the
Knoll, and it was not to see either of these that he was going ; it
was rather to the cottage to call on Margery La Rue, whom, for-
tunately, he found alone, as her mother had retired to her room
with a toothache &nd swollen face. Margery let him in herself,
and looked fully the surprise she felt when she saw who her
visitor was. It was not so much that he should come that night,
as that he should come at all which astonished the young girl,
who, with a woman's intuition, had read the proud man pretty
accurately, and guessed that persons like her, whose bread was
earned by their own hands, had not much attraction for him.
And she was right ; but it was his education, his early training
which was at fault, nnd not the real heart of the man himself.
His mother, who was a proud Bostonian, had seldom done so
much for herself as to arrange her own hair, and when her im-
mense fortune slipped away from her, and left her comparatively
poor, and compelled her sous, two as noble boys as ever called
a woman a mother, to choose professions and care for them-
selves, she could not bear the change, and with a feeling that
she would rather die than live and work, she died, and very few
mourned for her. With such a mother, and a long line of ances-
try on her side as proud and exclusive as herself, it is not
strange that Mr. Beresford should have imbibed some notions,
not altogether consistent with democratic institutions. He was
proud, and thought a great deal of family and blood, and
though he knew that Margery La Rue was lady-like and refined,
and though he was always polite and courteous to her when
they met, he had unconsciously made her feel the gulf between
them, and she had good cause to gaze on him wonderingly as
she opened the door, and held it open a moment, as if expect-
ing him to give her some message from Queenie, as he had done
when Phil, went away, and then depart But he had come pur-
posely to see her, and laughing good-humouredly as he stepped
past her into the hall, and brushing the rain-drops from his
hair, he said :

' I'm coming in, you see, though I do not wonder that a call
on such a wild night as this surprises you. But it is just the
weather which brings me here. I believe I've had the blues or
something to-day, and need to talk to some one, and as Phil, is

TRYING TO READ THE PAGE.

205

for-

or
is

gone — how I do miss him — and Reiuette is sick, I have come
to call on you. I hope I am not unwelcome.'

He was talking rather queerly, and not at all in a strain
complimentary to Margery, who, nevertheless, passed it off
pleasantly, and said, with her pretty accent, which struck Mr.
Beresford with a degree of newness, and as something very
pretty :

*■ Thank you, Mr. Beresford : I surely ought to feel honoured
to be No. 3. Let me see : you said that as Mr. Rossiter was
gone, and Reinette sick, you were reduced to the alternative of
coming here to be rid of the blues. Is that it 1 or have my
French ears misinterpreted your English meaning ? '

* That is the way it sounded, I'll admit,' Mr. Beresford said,
* but I'm a bungler anyway, so please consider that I have made
you number one, for really I have been intending to call for
some time.'

He took the seat she offered him — a low rocker such as men
usually like — and moved it a little more in front of her, where
he could look directly at her and study her fv^atures closely as
she bent over her work, which, with his permission, she had
resumed, and which, as it was a sacque for Miss Anna, must
be finished as soon as possible.

How graceful every motion was, and how well her dress of
black cashmere, with soft lace ruffles at her throat and sleeves,
became her, and how very beautiful she was both in face and
form, with her golden hair rippling all over her finely shaped
head, her dazzling, wax-like complexion reminding one of rose-
leaves and cream, her perfectly regular features, and, more than
all, her large, clear, sunny blue eyes, vailed by long fringed
lashes, and shaded by eyebrows so heavy and black that they
seemed almost out of place with that hair of golden hue. But
they gave her a novel and distingui look, and added to her
beauty, which, now that he was studying her, struck Mr. Be-
resford as something remarkable, and made his eyes linger on
the fair face with more admiration even than curiosity. But
the likeness he sought for was not there, unless it were in the
occasional toss of the head on one side — the significant shrug
of the shoulders, or gestures of the hands — and sometimes in
the tone of the voice when it grew very earnest as she talked
to him of Reinette, always of Reinette, who was not like her in

206

QUEEN IE HETEERTON,

the least. In features and complexion, Margery was the hand-
somer of the two. Mr. Beresford confessed that with a kind of
jealous pang, as if in some way a wrong were done the dark-
faced, dark-eyed Queenie, who put side by side with Margery
La Bue, would nevertheless, win every time, and make people
see only herself, with her wonderful sparkle, and flash, and
brightness, which threw everything else into the shade. Queenie
was the diamond and Margery the pearl, and they were not at
all alike, and Mr. Beresford felt puzzled and inclined to believe
that insinuation of the agent a lie, especially after he had talked
with Margery awhile of her friend.

*■ You have known Reinette a long time ? ' he said, and she
replied :

* Yes, a long time — ever since we were little girls — though
it seems but yesterday, since she climbed those narrow winding
stairs, up to that low, dark room, where I staid all day long
with no company but the cat, and nothing besides my play-
things to amuse me, except to look down into the narrow street
below, the Rue St. Honors, and watch the carts and carriages,
and people as they passed, and wonder when mother would come
home, and if she would bring me, as she sometimes did, a bon-
bon, or a white tender croissant from the baker's, which I liked
so much better for my supper than our dark sour bread.'

* Yes,' Mr. Beresford said, leaning forward and listening
eagerly to what Margery was telling him of her early life in the
attics of Paris, and wondering a little that she would be so com-
municative.

' Most girls would try to conceal the fact that they had once
known such poverty,' he thought, but he did not know Margery
La Rue, or guess that it was in part her pride which made her
talk as she was talking.

She was naturally reserved aud reticent with regard to her-
self, but to him, whose value of birth, and blood, and family
connections she rightly guessed, she would speak openly, and
show him that it was something more than a mere dressmaker
— a sewing-woman — whom he was honouring with his society,
and in whom he was interested in spite of himself. She divined
that, readily, by the kindling of his eyes when they met hers
as she talked, and by some of those many subtle influences by
which a woman knows that the man she is talking with ia

TRYING TO READ THE PAGE.

207

entertained and pleased with herself as well as with what she
is saying.

So, when he said to her, with a kind of pity in his tone, * And
you were so desolate as that when Reinette found you ? ' she
answered :

* Yes, more desolate than you can guess — ^you who have never
known what poverty means in a large city like Paris. But 1
was not unhappy, either,' she added, quickly. 'I had too much
love and petting from my mother for that. I was only lonely
in her absence, for she worked at a hair- dresser's and was gone
all day, and I kept the house and got the meals for father till
he died.'

* Your father — yes,' Mr. Beresford repeated. * What was he,
what did he do, and when did he die ? '

He seemed very eager in his questionings, and, mistaking his
meaning altogether, Margery's cheeks flushed, but her voice
was steady and clear as she replied :

* I do not know that he did anything. I think it is a fashion
in France more than here for the women to work and the men
to take their ease. At all events, father had no regular occupa-
tion, that I know of Sometimes he acted as guide to strangers,
for he could speak a little English, and sometimes he was em-
ployed for a few days as waiter at some of the Duval restaur-
ants, and once he took mother and me there to dine. That is
the white day of my life, as connected with him. He died
when I was a little girl, about eight years old. That was before
Reinette found me and changed everything. She heard of me
from old Lisette, the laundress, who lived on the floor below,
and she came up to our humble room in her scarlet cloak and
hood, trimmed with ermine, and filled it with glory at once.
You know what a halo of brightness seems to encircle her and
affect everything around her ? And how she did sparkle and
glow, and light up the whole room, as she sat there in that hard
wooden chair, and talked to me as if I were her equal. I stand-
ing, awkwardly by, in my coarse, high-necked working apron,
with broom in hand, and gazing at her as if she had been a
being from another sphere.

How rapidly and excitedly she talked, gesticulating with her
hands, which were as small and white as those of any lady, and
how large and bright her blue eyes grew, while on her cheeks

208

QUEENIE BETHERTOir.

there was more rose than cream as she described that first
interview with Reinette so vividly, that Mr. Beresford, who
had somewhat of an artist's imagination, could see the low room,
far up the winding stairs, the humble furniture, the bare floor,
the mouldering fire on the hearth, the brush and broom on the
floor, the wooden chair, the dark-eyed little girl in scarlet and
ermine, who sat there with the captured cat in her lap, talking
to another child quite as beautiful as herself, though of another
type of beauty, and clad in the coarse garments of the poor.
He could see it all so plain, and forgetting for a time why ho
was there, he listened still more intently, while Margery went
on to tell him of the ride on the Champs Elysees, where she
wore the scarlet cloak and played, she was Mr. Hetherton's
little girl, while Queenie sat demurely at her side, clad in
homely garments, and making believe that she was Margery La
Rue, whose home was up the winding stairs in the Rue St.
Honors.

* I think that one act bound me to her forever,' Margery
said, ' though it was the beginning of many make-believes and
many deeds of kindness, for through Queenie's influence her
father paid my expenses in part at the English school which
she attended, and where 1 learned to speak your language and
all I know besides, and after that she stood my fast friend in
everything, and treated me more like a sister than an inferior,
as I am, by birth and social position. I was sometimes at her
lovely country home. Chateau des Fleurs, and there we often
played, that I was the daughter of the house and she the invited
guest. I think her love has never failed me since the day she
first came to me and brought the glorious sunlight with her.
So, do you wonder that I love her ? I would ij.y down my life
for her, if need be — would sacrifice everything for her, and I
sometimes wish that I might have the chance to show how much
I love her, and would endure for her sake.'

Margery paused here, and with clasped hands, and eyes which
had in them a rapt, far-away look, seemed almost to see loom-
ing on the horizon not far in the distance the something for
which she longed, and which, when it came^ would test her as
few women have ever been tested in their love for another.

It was not impossible that the dark shadow touched her now,
although it was so near, and yet she shivered a little and drew

TRYING TO READ THE PAGE,

209

a long breath as she at last came back to the present and turned
her eyes upon Mr. Beresford, who had been regarding her curi-
ously, and seeing in this expression of her face a resemblance
to something which he could not define or place. He only knew
it was not the Hetherton look he saw in her, and if not, then
was that insinuation of Albert Bertrand's without foundation ?
He hoped so, but he said to her presently :

* Did you ever see Queenie's father I—did you know him, I
mean — you or your mother ?'

' No, neither of us.' Margery answered, promptly. * I saw
him once when Queenie and I were riding in the Bois, and she
made him come and speak to me, but I did not like him much.
He impressed me as one very proud and haughty, who only
endured me for Queenie's sake. He was fine-looking, though,
and his manners were \ ■ j elegant. Did you know him, Mr.
Beresford 1 '

* Scarcely at all, as I was a mere boy when he went away, but
I have heard much of him from the villagers ; he was not very
popular, I imagine,* Mr. Beresford replied ; and then they
spoke of the Fergusons so unlike the Hethertons and Rossi-
ters, although connected with them, and Margery said, laugh-
ingly :

* The daughters of the Fergusons seem to have a habit of
making grand marriages ; first, Mrs. Kossiter, then Mrs. He-
therton, and lastly, to all human appearance, Anna, who will
unquestionably soon become Mrs. Major Rossiter. I do not like
Anna Ferguson, and she can never be a lady, though she marry
the Duke of Argyle.'

This was a great deal for Margery to say, but Anna had tried
her sorely, and she was smarting from a fresh indignity heaped
upon her that very day when the young lady had come to give
some orders about the sacque, on which she worked while she
talked of Queenie Hetherton, so different in every respect,
though she was to the purple born and had a right, as Margery
thought, to look down upon such as she.

Mr. Beresford had not succeeded in reading the page just as
he had expected to read it, and was a good deal puzzled and
perplexed when, at rather a late hour for hira, he said good-
night to Margery, and went back to his rooms at the hotel, with
his mind full of what she had told him of her life, as connected

210

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

with Reinette Hetherton. It was very real to him — the past
intercourse of these two girls, and especially that scene in the
attic when they first met face to face.

He could not get that scene out of his mind. It would make
such a telling picture, he thought, as he sat alone in his room,
listening to the sound of the rain, and thinking of the two little
girls in No. 40 of the tenement-house on the Rue St Honord.
Mr. Beresford's mother had affected to be something of an artist
and dabbled in water colours, and had had a fanciful studio in
her house, and the son had inherited something of her genius,
though he seldom had time to indulge his taste. But there was
an easel in one corner of his room, and several half-finished
paintings were lying here and there, while on the wall was a
finished sketch of a bit of New England landscape which did no
mean credit to the artist.

He, however, had never tried his skill at interior scenes, but
Margery's word-painting was so distinct in his mind, that he
brought out his crayons and paper, and began to sketch the
outlines of the picture, growing more and more absorbed as he
progressed, and at last forgetting himself so utterly in his work
that the town clock struck three before he abandoned it for bed.
He knew he should succeed, and he fancied to himself Queenie's
delight and surprise when he presented her with the picture,
and asked if she recognised it

Maybe, and his heart gave a great thump. Maybe, if the
probation ended favourably, and she could be won, he would
give it to her on her wedding-day. ' Our wedding-day,' he said to
himself, and then — he could not tell how or why — but as a feel-
ing of drowsiness began to steal over him, there came another
face than Queenie's, a fairer face, with golden hair and eyes of
blue, which were strangely mixed with Queenie's darker orbs,
and in his trouble dreams the face hid Queenie's from him, and
a voice with more of foreign accent than Queenie's was sounding
in his ears, just as Margery's had sounded when she talked to
him the night before.

It was very late when he awoke with a confused vision of
black eyes and blue eyes dancing before him, and pictures which
were to make him famous as an artist. Hastily dressing him-
self, and swallowing his breakfast, he started for his office,
where, to his surprise, he found Reinette Hetherton waiting for

THE INTERVIEW.

211

him, an unusual brightness in her eyes, and an increased colour
on her cheeks, as she walked restlessly across the floor.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE INTERVIEW.

EINETTE thought, and thought, and thought, till her
head seemed bursting with the effort to solve the mys-
tery of her nurse's silence. Had she done anything
that she was ashamed to speak or let her identity be known,
and if so what was it, and did it concern any one but herself %

' No, I will not believe it,' she said more than once, with a
striking out of the hand as if thrusting something aside. ' I
will not believe it. There is some good reason for her conduct
which she can give me, and I am going to her to know the
truth, bat the world will not be as charitable as I, and will say
bad things of her, no doubt. So to the world she must re-
mam Mrs. La Rue, and nobody will ever know that she is
Christine, except Mr. Beresford, who, of course, knows it now,
for that Louis Arnaud has written to him, no doubt Why
couldn't he mind his own business, I wonder 1 But I can
trust him, and I shall go to him and tell him he knows, and
ask him to keep the knowledge to himself.'

Reinette reached this decision at the very time when Mar-
gery was talking of her to Mr. Beresford, and telling of the
scarlet cloak, and the ride on the Champ Elysees. After
this decision Reinette grew calmer ; the violent throbbing in
her temples ceased, and she slept comparatively well that night.
But though the morning found her stronger and better,
she felt nervous and unstrung, and shrunk with a great
dread from confronting Mrs. La Rue, and wringing her secret
from her, if secret there were to wring.

' I am so hurt and disappointed,' she thought, as she dressed
herself for her calls. < I had loved Christine so much, and had
such pleasant fancies of her, and wanted so to find her, and iiow

212

QUEENIE HETHERTOlf.

she is this woman whom I never liked, and from whom I shrank
the first time I saw her, and she tried to be so familiar with
me, just as she has done so often since. I understand that
now. She has some affection for me; but why this silence on
her part — this advising me not to try to find my nurse ? There
surely is something wrong, and I am going to find it out.'

The waiting for Mr. Beresford seemed a long time to the ex-
cited girl, though in reality it was not more than ten minutes
from the time she entered the office before she was closeted with
the lawyer in his private room, where he received his clients
who came to him on special business. And Reinette's was very
special, or at least very private, and when the door was closed
she plunged into it at once, by saying :

* Mr. Beresford, you have written to Monsieur Albrech, in
Men tone, and asked about Christine Bodine.'

She did not put it interrogatively, but as an assertion, and
blushing guiltily, the lawyer replied :

* Yes, 1 did write to him, asking information of the woman's
whereabouts. You were so anxious to find her, you know.*

' Hush ! ' Queenie said, pouring the full scorn of her blazing
eyes upon him. * Don't try to excuse yourself in that way. It
was curiosity rather than a desire to serve me which prompted
you to write, and you have had your reward. Louis Arnaud,
Monsieur Albrech's clerk, has answered your letter.'

* Yes, he has/ Mr. Beresford replied, and Reinette con-
tinued :

* I know it. I have one from him, two. Here it is, and I
will read it to you.'

She drew the letter from her pocket, and read it through in
a clear, steady voice, as if its contents were just what she ex«
pected.

* You are not surprised, of course,' she said, when she had
finished. ' He told you that Christine was Mrs. La Rue, but
did he tell you anything more than he did me ? Where is the
letter, and will you show it to me ? and how did you make it
outr

* It was written partly in English and partly in French, so I
did pretty well,' Mr. Beresford replied ; and she continued :

' Did he write you nothing more than he did me ? I have a
right to know if there is anything wrong about Christine — any

THE INTERFIEFT.

213

and I

reason why she should have kept herself from rue in this unao-
countable manner. Show me the letter, Mr. Beresford.'

She was confronting him steadily with her great black eyes,
and he knew she would persist in her demand until something
was done to quiet her.

So he arose at last, and going into an adjoining room, where
a fire was burning in the grate, took Louis Arnaud's letter
from his pocket and threw it into the fire ; then making a
feint of hunting through pigeon-holes and on the table where
piles of paper lay, he asked his clerk so loud that Reinette
could distinctly hear him, if he had seen a certain letter which
he described. The clerk had not, but was finally driven to ad-
mitting that he might have torn it up that morning with other
letters of no importance. He was reprimanded for his care-
lessness, and then Mr. Beresford returned to Reinette, feeling
like a hypocrite, but thinking the end justified the means, for Mr.
Hetherton's daugher must never know the insinuation that that
letter contained. But Queenie was not deceived, and with a
meaning smile, which had much bitterness in it, she said to him
before he could speak :

* Don't trouble yourself with more deception. Your clerk
never destroyed that letter, for you are not the man to leave it
lying round. It is safe somewhere, as you know, and you do
not wish to show it to me. There was something in it which
you will not tell me. But no matter ; I shall get it from
Christine. I am going next to her, and she cannot keep from
me why she has made no sign that she was my old nurse when
she knew how much I wished to find her.'

' Possibly she feared you might not think as much of Margery
if you knew she was your nurse's daughter. She must see how
proud you are,' Mr. Beresford said, and Reinette replied :

* I have thought of that, but she should have known me betr
ter than to thinK anything could change my love for Margery.
No, there is some other reason. She might have done some*
thing after mother died, and when she was taking care of me
in Paris and the Chateau des Fleurs, and papa dismissed her
for it, but paid her money all the same, because mother wished
it. Yes, I am sure that is it, and that explains why father
never was willing to talk to me about her, and always said he
did not know where she was.

214

QUESNIE HETHERTON.

\
t ■

* You used to question him of her, then ) ' Mr. Beresford E.sad,
eagerly, and lieinette answered :

' Yes ; and he would tell me nothing. Evidently he did not
like her, hut I know how strong his prejudices were if once he
took A dislike to one, and so I attached no importance to them.
She must have displeased him in some way 1 '

* How long did she live with you as your nurse after your
mother's death ? ' Mr. Beresford asked, with an object in view,
which, however, was unsuspected by Keinette, who replied :

* I do not know ; a year or so, I think, though all my know-
ledge of that part of my life seems to be a blank ; and where
was Margery then ) She is not much younger than I am.'

She put this question more to herself than to Mr. Beresford,
who, nevertheless, replied :

' Perhaps Christine was married unknown to your father,
who, when he found out, was angry, as it took a valuable nurse
from his child.'

' Yes, yes, thank you,' Keinette said eagerly. ' It was some-
thing of that nature, no doubt, and you lawyers are shrewd
enough to see it, while I might have groped in the dark forever.
Yes, thank you ; 1 am glad you thought of that, but I shall
make her tell me all the same, and, Mr. Beresford, what I wish
of you is that you will tell no one what you have heard from
Louis Arnaud. It is sufficient for me to know that she is
Christine, and others need not know it There are many sus-
picious people in the world who would say hard things of
Christine, and — possibly— connect the trouble in some way
with — with — father — and I won't have it. Maybe he quar-
relled with her, and maybe he didn't. At all events I will
not have his name coupled with hers in any way. My father
was a gentleman and a Hetherton.'

She said this as if more to reassure herself than to impress
Mr. Beresford, who bowed an acquiescence to the fact that her
father was a gentleman and a Hetherton. If there was any
merit ia being the latter, she certainly was a very fair repre-
sentative of it as she stood up so proud and calm, and uttered
her protest against her father's name being mixed with that of
Christine Bodine.

* I am going there now,' she said, adjusting her shawl and

CHBISTINE.

215

drawing on her gloves, ' and when I see you again I shall
know everything there is to know of Christine Bodine.'

Mr. Beresford felt a little doubtful on that subject, but said
nothing, and going with her to her carriage helped her in, and
then in a very thoughtful mood returned to his office, wonder*
ing what would be the result of that call on Christine Bodine.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHRISTINE.

EU3 any
repre-
ttered
hat of

rl and

,T was more than headache and swollen face which ailed
Mrs. La Rue, and sent her to her room on that night
when Mr. Beresford called upon Margery. The headache
was there, it is true, and something of a faceache, too, for the
woman was suffering from the effects of a severe cold, under
cover of which she hid the terrible pain which was lacerating
her heart and making her sick with nervous apprehension lest,
at last, she was to be found out and confronted by the girl
whom she feared and shrank from more than from all the world
beside, unless it was Margery, her dearly loved, beautiful child,
who had brought her the letter which affected her so strangely.
It had been forwarded from Oak Bluffs, and post-marked orig-
inally at Mentone, and it read as follows : —

'Madame La Rub. — Inclosed find a note from Miss Hether-
ion, who has written asking your whereabouts and that this might
be forwarded to you. In my absence for a few days, my clerk,
Louis Amaud, took charge of my business letters, an«l it seems,
answered the young lady, telling her your address. Had I been
home this would not have occurred, but it cannot now be helped'
Hoping no great harm will come of it, I am

* Your ob't servant,

* M. Albrech. *

This letter Margery had taken from the office, and wondered
in a vague kind of way what it contained, and why M. Al»

316

QUEENIE HETHERTO^.

1 i

t r

J i

! I

S i

I i

brech had written to her mother again when she had supposed
her budiness relations with him finished. Since the time when
Margery first learned to write, it had been a distinctly under-
stood thing that both she and her mother were to respect each
other's correspondence, and Margery would as soon have bro*
ken the seal of a letter directed to a stranger as to her mother,
consequently she had never known just what was in the letters
which had passed between Mrs. La Rue and M. Albrech, of
Mentone. She had always known since her father's death that
her mother had at stated times received a certain amount of
money from some source unknown to her j and she knew, too,
that latterly the annuity had ceased, because, as her mother
said, the person who paid it was dead. That the sum was very
, small she had been made to believe, and her mother had told
her once, when she asked what became of it, thaii it was safely
invested in stocks and bonds in Paris, and was to be kept for
her as a dowry when she was married, or to be used before if
absolutely necessary.

* But where does it come from ? Who gives it to you 1 *
Margery had once inquired, and her motiier had replied :

* A gentleman in Paris, whose wife was very fond of me. I
was her maid first, and after she died took care of her child. *

And Margery, wholly unsuspicious, accepted this explana-
tion as all there was to tell, and received the impression some-
how that the gentleman's name was Polignac, and never
dreamed of what lay behind, of the guilt and sin, and terri-
ble remorse which haunted her mother so continually, and had
made her grow old so fast. Margery could remember her when
she was bright and pretty, with a sparkle in her dark eyes and
a bloom upon her cheeks which now were sunken and pale,
while her long, black, abundant hair was streaked with gray,
and within the last few months had been rapidly growing white.
She had brought the Mentone letter, and given it to her mothBr
with the simple remark : * It was forwarded from Oak Bluffs. '
Then she went to her work without so much as looking at her
mother, who felt a kind of nervous fear taking possession of
her as if in that foreign letter there was danger lurking for her.
She was always expecting danger now, and her face was very
white as she took the letter from Margery and went up to her
room to read it alone.

CHRISTINE.

21T

' Probably it has something to do with my money, ' she
thought, seeking to reassure herself as she broke the seal and
opened the envelope from which Queenie's note dropped into
her lap.

Picking it up, she read the address : * Christine Bodine, care of
M. AJbrech,* and recognizing the handwriting, which she had
often seen on notes sent to her daughter by Reinette, she gave
alow gasping cry, while for a moment everything around her
grew black, and she could neither see nor hear for the great
fear overmastering her.

' Tracked at last, ' she whispered, as she tried to read what
M. Albrech had written, and could not for the blur before her
eyes.

For weeks and months Mrs. La Rue's remedy for nervous-
ness had boen morphine, which she took in constantly increas-
ing doses, and she had resort to it now, and, swallowing half a
grain, grew calm at last, and read her agent's letter ; and then,
picking up the pink-tinted, dainty note with Reinette's mono-
gram upon the seal, kissed it passionately, and cried over it as
if it had been some living creature whom she loved speaking to
her instead of a bit of perfumed paper, in which these lines were
written :

* Hetherton Place,
* Merrivale, Worcester Co., Mass., U. S. A.

' My Dear Darling old Christine : — Have you forgotten all
about the little baby you used to bear in your arms yeaia ago, in
Paris, and at Chateau des Fleurs ? Little Queeuie they called me,
though my real name was Reinette^ anH T ^q the daughter of Mrs.
Frederick Hetherton, who died ia Rome twenty-one years a^o, and
to whom you were so kind. I have it in mother's letter, written to
father, in whicli she trills him how good and true you were to her,
and bade him always be kind to you for her sake. And I think he
tried to be, for I have ascertained that he set apart a certain amount
of money for you, which was all very well, though I should have
shown my gratitude in an altogether diflFerent way. I might have
given you money if you needed it, but I should have made you
come home to us, and should have loved and petted you because
you knew my mother, and were so good to her. And that is what
I wish to do now.

* Papa is dead, as you perhaps know. He died on the ship be-
fore we reached New York, and I am living alone at Hetherton
Place, his old home, which is almost as lovely as Chateau des

218

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

h '

I
I

high, and I liked him i^
very, very lonely, and x
in America. I will try .
to bring me nearer t'- n.

Fleurs, wit? a much finer view. Christine, did you know my mo-
ther was ar. America^ ? She was, and her hone was here in Mer-
rivait), wi ere my father found her, and where I have a host of rela-
tives on her side : such a dear, funny old grandmother, who calls
me Bennet, and wears purple gloves, and loves me a great deal
more than I deserve, and an Uncle Tom, who sells molasses and
soda, and a cousin, Anna Ferguson, who is about to make a great
marriage, and an Aunt Mary Bossiter, who is just like some grand
duchess, so refined and dignified, and her daughters, Ethel and
Grace, with faces as pure, and saintly, and sweet as the faces of
some of the Madonnas ;m the galleries of the Louvre, and Phil. —
but I can't tell .you rbi ' im now. He is a young man, six feet

ich, and he has gone to India, and I am
it you to come and live with me here
lake you so happy, and you will seem
v>ther, for you will tell me of her ; what
she did and what she said of me the few days she had me before
she died. I am sure to love you because she did, and in her first
letters to her mother and sister after she reached Paris she spoke
of her good Christine, who was so much to her ; so do come at once,
and make her daughter happy.

* You seo I am writing on the assumption that you have no other
ties. I do not believe you are married, and I always think of you
as my de^.r old nurse, Christine, whom I sometimes fancy I can re-
member. Did you not come to me once in the Bois when another
nurse had charge of me, and hug, and kiss, and cry over me, and
call me your dear child, and give Die a quantity of bon-bons i Some
such scene comes up to me from the misty past, and you had such
bright olack eyes, and so much colour in your cheeks. Was that
you, and why did you not stay with me always ?

' Y/rite immediately and answer all these questions, and tell me
you will come to your loving foster child .

* Rbinette. '

Oh, how the wretched woman writhed as she read this let-
ter, with thuds of pain beating in her heart, and her eyes dim
with burning tears. It was so kind, so affectionate in its tone,
and so familiar too ; so unlike what Reinette's manner toward
her had been, and so unlike what it would be if she knew.

' Queenie, my darling, will you call yourself my foster-child
when you know the truth ] ' she moaned, as she rocked to and
fro in her anguish, while at her work below Margery sat singing
a little song she had learned in tho Tabernacle at Oak Bluffs ,

' There is vest fo'- the weary,
There is rest for you.

CHRISTINE,

219

' Rest for the weary/ Mrs. La Rue repeated, as the clear,
sweet tones floated up to her. * And I am weary, oh ! so weary ;
but there is no rest for me, except in death, which is a long,
dreamless rest, and that I can have so soon, for my friend is al-
ways near me,' and she glanced toward the shelf where stood a
vial of laudanum to which she had resort when morphine did
not avail to quiet her and bring forgetfulness. ' But I must see
Margery once more,' she thought * I must kiss her again, and
hear her call me' mother.'

It was nearly time now for the evening meal, and summon-
ing all her strength and calmness, Mrs. La Rue went down
stairs, and, under cover of the fast-increasing darkness, managed
so well that Margery suspected nothing, and attributed her
mother's pallor and weakness to the neuralgia from which she
was suffering.

^ I am going to bed early to-night,' Mrs. La Rue said, when
supper was over, and the table cleared away. * I am feeling
quite ill.'

Then Margery looked at her closely, and asked if it was any-
thing more than neuralgia which ailed her. Was there bad
news in the letter 1

* No — yes ; but nothing I can now explain,' Mrs. La Rue re-
plied ; then going up to her daughter, she kissed her twice, and
said : * Good-night, my darling. Don't speak to me when you
come to bed ; I may be asleep.'

Margery kissed her back, with no thought of what was in
the mind of the miserable woman as she slowly climbed the
stairs, and going to her room, shut the door, and, taking down
her friend, poured out what was to give her forgetfulness and
rest. Drop by drop the dark liquid fell into the glass until
there was forty drops in all, and she held it to the light, and
looked at it, and smiled as she thought of the morrow, when
she would be deaf to Margery's call, and deaf to Queenie's re-
proaches if she should come, as she might do now at any time.

* But I shall be gone from it forever, and Margery will think
it an overdose taken accidentally to ease the pain. Yes, this is
better than the river ; and yet I am so hot and feverish that
the cold water would be grateful to me, and this is just the
night for such a deed, only Margery would ther know I meant
it, a&d I must not lose her respect. I must carry that with me

K !

220

QUEEN IE HETBERTON.

at least. No, to sleep and never >vake is the best. So, Margery,
darling, and you, too, Queenie, good-by 1 '

She raised the glass to her lips just as the door-bell rang a
loud, clanging peal, which made her start so violently that tne
glass dropped from her tren^bling hand, and the poison was
spilt on the floor. *

It was Mr. Beresford speaking to Margery, and even in her
excitement the half-crazed woman wondered what had brought
him there, and stealing noiselessly into the hall, listened to the
jesting going on below as the lawyer explained why he had
come, and Margery answered him playfully. It was an honour
for him to call upon them, Mrs. La Hue thought, and there
flashed into her mind :

What if he fancied her more than the other one ; the truth,
then, if it comes out, would bring her nearer to him, while if I
die and leave everything to conjecture — if no explanation are
ever made, no excuses given, he would shrink from the child of
a suicide and impostor. I will not die to-night ; that broken
glass was an omen that I need not. I will live for you Margery,
for yow, as I was going to die for you.

The door was shut below by this time. Mr. Beresford was
in the sitting-room with Margery, and only the sound of other
voices reached her as sho stood a moment longer leaning over
the banister. But she could hear the silvery ripple of Margery's
hragh, and Mr. Beresford's deep-toned voice as he replied, and
it seemed to quiet her, and turn her mind away'from the horrid
cor ^.mplation which had been assailing her.

Eeturning to her room, she cleared away all traces of the
broken glass, wiped up the stains of the dark fluid from the car-
pet, and then, undressing herself, went to bed, but not to sleep,
for her thoughts were busy with the past, the years ago when
she was young and innocent, and first entered the service of
Margaret Hetherton. She had seen an advertisement in the
morning paper to the efl'ect that a waiting-maid, who could
speak some English, or at least understand it, was wanted by a
young American lady, who could be seen at the Hotel Meurice
every day for a week between the hours of twelve and two. As
the terms oflered were unusually liberal she resolved to ap-
ply for the situation, trusting to her good nature and readiness
to do anything and everything, to overbalance any lack of polish

CHRISTINE.

221

the
ear-

in her manners, for Christine was lowly bom, and had lived
more in garrets than saloons, but she was honest, and good, and
kind, and these qualities showed themselves upon her face,
which then was bright and pretty, and looked like a face to be
trusted.

And Margaret Hetherton was won by it at once, for Christine
went to her at the appointed hour and found the ante-room
to Madame Hetherton's apartments crowded with appli-
cants waiting for an audience. From these, as they came
one by one from the interview, she gathered some idea of
the lady. She was young, and beautiful, and timid, and more
airaid of monsieur than she was of the maids. But when at
last it was Christine's turn to be admitted, she was not pre-
pared for the wondrously lovely, girlish face which smiled so
sweetly upon her. Attired in a morning wrapper of blue, which
matched her eyes, Margaret reclined upon a white satin couch,
while partly behind her Mr. Hetherton stood with folded arms,
watching the aspirants for office as they presented themselves.

Accustomed as he was to the world, he saw at a glance that
Christine Bodine knew nothing of the customs of the heau
inonde — ^knew nothing of the habits of a fine lady, such as he
meant his wife to be, now that she was removed from the Fer-
gusons, a thought of whom made him shudder. Indeed, Chris-
tine, when questioned for references, and the address of her
last employer, acknowledged freely that she had never served
as maid, except as she was once a nurse in an English family
who took her with them to Rome.

' But I can learn,' she said : * and I will try so hard, and
serve madame so faithfully. I should so like you to try me,'
and she looked imploringly at Margaret, who saw something in
the girl which pleased her.

She was so young, and tidy, and plain in her dress, and
looked so good and trusty that her heart warmed toward her.
References were nothing to her, 'ir grand ladies whom she had
served, and, turning to her husband, she said, in a low tone :

* Oh, Frederick, I like her so much better than the others. I
am sure she will suit. Let us take her.'

But Frederick demurred, urging that she had no style, no ap-
pearance of a maid.

* But she is good, I am sure, and I want her,' the young wife

222

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

pleaded, and Christine was retained, and entered upon her
duties the next day, smartly gotten up in a pretty costume
which Margaret selected for her, entering into all its details
with a great interest, for knowing by this time what dress
could do, she meant to surprise her husband with the meta-
morphose in her maid.

And she did surprise him, though this was perhaps as much
due to Christine herself as to the pretty dress, and muslin
apron, and cap with scarlet ribbons, which the girl wore so
jauntily. Christine had overheard and understood much which
had passed in asides between Mr. and Mrs. Hetherton with
re^rd to herself, and knew that the gentleman did not think
her fine enough or attractive enough to be a waiting maid, and
with her pride aroused, she vowed that he should some day
cha.ige his mind. To this end she bent every energy until her
object was secured, and more than secured, and she began to
tremble for the results. How peaceful and happy and inno-
cent those first few months spent in Mr. Hetherton's service
seemed to Christine now as she looked back upon them, and
how sweet and kind and patient her mistress had always been
with her, treating her more as an equal and a friend than as a
servant, and thereby frequently calling down upon herself sharp
reproofs from her husband, who did not approve of her famili-
al ifcy with a maid. It showed at once a low-born taste, he said,
and he wished his wife to conquer all such feelings, and forget-
ting the past, remember that she was now Mrs. Frederick
Hetherton, of Paris. But Margaret could not forget the past,
or cease to pine for the d;.ar ones at home, the plain, old-fashi-
oned mother, whose ways she knew were home-spun in the ex-
treme, and not at all like the elegant manners of her proud
husband, but who, nevertheless, was her mother, for whom she
cried every day of her life. Laying her head on the lap of her
faithful Christine she would sob out her homesickness, and talk
by the hour of Merrivale and its people, until Christine knew
every rock, and crag, and winding brook in the pleasant New
England town, and knew pretty well what the Fergusons were,
and how they stood in Merrivale. They were of mutual benefit
to each other — this mistress and maid, for while Christine an-
ticipated every wish of Margaret, waiting upon her as if she
had been a duchess, and teaching her the French language as

CHRISTINE.

223

and

well as the German, of which she had some knowledge, Mar-
garet in turn taught her to read from English books, and dur-
ing the many weeks when she was alone and her husband away
with his friends, she gave her lessons in writing and history,
and geography, and arithmetic, so that Christine, who was apt
and bright, became a much better scholar than was common to
persons of her class, and astonished her master with the great
and rapid improvement so perceptible in her. He no longer
thought her i-,'norant or commonplace, or void of attractions,
and when he was at home he invariably found himself lingering
longer in his wife's apartments, when Christine was there, with
her saucy smile, her bright eyes, and her pretty, piquant way of
saying things. She made herself necessary to him, and care-
fully studying his wishes, ministered to him with the alacrity
of a slave, and when he offered her money for extra services
she refused to take it, and said that what she did was done for
love of him and madame.

And so the mischief grew before the very eyes of the unsus-
pecting woman to whom both husband and maid were finally
false, while she trusted both, and clung to the latter with a
love which made the poor woman shiver with remorseful pain,
as she remembered it now, when the sins of the past were over-
whelming her so fearfully. What a dark chasm she bridged
over, not daring even to look at it, lest she should shriek aloud,
and how fast her burning tears fell as she recalled those days
in Kome, when the faithless husband was seeking his own plea-
sure, while the wife, who was so plainly d}lng, grew paler and
thmner each day, and yet strov- so hard to keap up, by talk-
ing of the great happiness in store for her, and surprise for him,
if all went well with her, and she lived through the trial await-
ing her.

' Frederick is so fond of children, and he will be so happy
and surprised when he hears of it. I am glad I did not tell
him,' she said, when at last the waiting and suspense were over,
and a little girl baby was pillowed on her arm.

Christine could see that baby now, and feel the touch of its
soft hands, and see the white worn face upon the pillow, and
the great blue eyes which followed her so wistfully and ques-
tioningly, and at last had in them a look of terror and dread,
as the days went by and no strength came to the feeble limbs,

224

QUEENIE HEIHERTON,

or vitality to the nerves. She was dying, and she knew it at
last, and throwing herself into Christine's arms, she sobbed like
a little child.

' It is hard to die,' she said, * when I am so young, and have
so much to live for, now baby is born. And home is so far
away, and mother to, and Frederick — where is he, Christine %
Where is my husband 1 He ought to be here, and I so sick
and lonely.

Christine knew that very well, and her tears fell like rain
upon the golden head resting upon her bosom, while she tried
to comfort the young mother, who was passing so surely away.

' Monsieur must come soon,' she said ; ' and then madame
will be better, and we shall go back to Chateau des Fleurs and
be so happy there.*

But Margaret knew better. She would nevr go to Chateau
des Fleurs —never see her husband again, and that grieved her
the most, for all his neglect and coldness had not killed her
love, and she longed for him now so much when she lay dying
in Rome, with only her baby and Christine with her — Chris-
tine, whom she blessed for all she had been to her, calling her
the dearest maid a mistress ever had, and talking to her until
the conscience-smitten girl cried out, in an agony of remorse :

* No, no ! — don't, don't ! I am not as good as you think.
You will kill me if you talk to me so ! '

But Margaret only talked on of her love for her, and her
trust and confidence in the girl, who, knowing she was unwor-
thy, stopped her ears at last to shut out the sound of Margaret's
dying voice, which nevertheless, she heard, just as now, years and
years after that voice was hushed in death, she heard it repeat-
ing over and over the words : * God bless you, Christine, and re-
ward you according to your kindness and faithfulness to me !'

Margaret had meant it for a blessing, but it was really a
curse, and it had followed Christine over since, until now, when
her sin was finding her out, and making her writhe with an-
guish and fear.

* And yet I was kind to her,' she whispered ; * and she died
iu ray arms, with her head upon my breast, and she kissed me
twice upon my lips ; one was for me, she said, and one for the
baby when she was old enough to know. Ah, me, those kisses !
how they burn like fire ! and I am burning, too — burning ! Is

CBRtSTlNE.

225

there a hell, I wonder, and is it worse than the torment I am
enduring ? '

Her mind was disordered, and she raved incoherently of
Rome, and Chateau des Fleurs, and Paris and Margaret, and
Reinette until she was utterly exhausted, and growing quiet, at
last fell into a sleep so deep that she did not hear Margery
when she let Mr. Beresford out and came up to her room.

* Poor mother, she is reMing sweetly, and I hope will be
better to-morrow,' Margery said, as she bent over the sleeping
woman, whose face looked so white, and worn, and pinched.

The next morning, however, Mrs. La Rue did not attempt to
get up. She was too weak and sick, she said, and should keep
her bed all day. 'And Margery,' she added, with quivering lip
and a pleading tone, ' don't let any one in here, will you, if
they come asking for me ? Not any one ; promise, Margery.'

* No, mother, no one shall disturb you ; I promise,' Margery
said, soothingly, looking at her mother in some alarm lest her
mind were wandering.

People did not often ask for her mother, who never made a
call, and it was not likely any one would insist upon seeing her
in bed. Why, then, should she seem so anxious about it, and
start at every sound as if expecting some one 1

* Did you take much morphine last night % ' Margery asked,
and Mrs. La Rue replied :

* No, yes. I think I did ; the pain was so bad.'

This would account for her strange demeanour, and with her
fears allayed Margery did what she could to make her comfort-
able. A tempting breakfast was brought up to her, and Mar-
gery washed her face and hands, and smoothed her hair, which
it seemed to her had grown grayer during the night, and tidied
up the room, and then, with a kiss started to leave her.

* Fortunately, I have not much work on hand to-day, and can
stay with you a great deal. I must finish Miss Ferguson's
sacque, and that is all. Now try to sleep again so as to be
brighter. I can't have such a woeful-looking, pale-faced little
mother on my hands. I have to send her off and get another
one.'

She spoke playfully, but every word was a stab to the miser-
ftble woman, who said again :

' Remember, Margery, nobody is ti come up here.'

i! I

226

QUEENIE nETHEttfOE

* No mother, nobody. You are safer than the old bishop in
his castle ou the Rhine, for the rats did reach him there, and
not 80 much as a mouse shall harm you here, so au revoir,* and
with another kiss — the last — the very last she would ever give
as she gave that, she ran down stairs just as a carriage stopped
at the gate and Reinette came rapidly up the walk.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

REINETTE'S interview with MARGERY.

EINETTE did not ring, but entered unannounced, like
one who had but one thought, one purpose, and was
resolved to carry it out with as little ceremony as pos-
sible. It was fortunate for all parties that this was Margery's
dull season, and there were no girls there with prying eyes and
curious ears to listen, for Reinette was greatly excited now that
the moment drew near when she could confront Christine, and
she plunged at once into business by saying to Margery, ' Where
is your mother? I have come to see her.'

* Mother is sick 1 ' Margery replied, * sick in bed with an
attack of neuralgia ; she is very nervous, and cannot see anyone.
I am sorry, but you will have to wait. Maybe I can do as well,'
she continued, looking wonderingly at Queenie, who, utterly
disregarding what she had said, had started for the stairs.

^ No, you will not do as well. I must see her ; it is very
important, and I cannot wait,' Queenie said, still advancing to
wdrds the stairs, while Margery put herself between them and
her friend, whose strange conduct surprised her so much.

* But you cannot see her. I promised none should disturb
her,' she said again, and now she laid her hand on Queenie's
shoulder to detain her, for Queenie's foot was on the first stair
and she looked resolute enough to storm a fortress as she per-
sisted in her determination to go up.

But not less resolute than her own was the face which con-
fronted her as Margery roused up and said in a voice Queenie

MEINETTE'S INTERVIEW WITH MARGERY. 227

had never heard from her before, ' Miss Hetherton ! You as-
tonish me. I tell you mother is sick and cannot be disturbed.
You must not go up.'

* And I tell you I must. I have important news from Men-
tone, news which concerns your mother and me, and I must
see her.'

< News ! What news ? ' Margery asked, thinking suddenly
of the letter her mother had received from Mentone the previous
night, and experiencing a vague feeling of fear and dread of
some impending evil. * What news have you heard which con-
cerns my mother % Tell me,' she repeated, looking steadily at
Keinette, who was regarding her fixedly, with a bright, blood-red
spot on either cheek, and a strange glitter in her black eyes.

Reinette hesitated a moment, kept silent by something in
Margery's face, but when she said for the third time, * Tell me
what news you have received from France,' she replied : "Mar-
gery, it shall never, never make any difference between us, but
your mother is Christine Bodine, my old nurse, whom I have
been trying to find.'

' Christine Bodine ! My mother Christine Bpdine ! Im-
possible ! She was Marie La Mille. Bow did you hear it ] '
Margery gasped, as she clutched Keinette's shoulder with a
grip which was painful.

* I have it from her agent in Mentone, who has received
money for her at different times from Messrs. Polignac in Paris
— money my father deposited with them years ago. Now let
me go ! I mmt see her ! ' Queenie said, darting up the stairs,
no longer restrained by Margery, who had let her pass without
further protest.

Clasping her hand to her head, as if smitten with a blow,
Margery^ staggered back, and leaning against the wall for sup-
port, tried to think what it all meant, while with lightning ra-
pidity iier mind travelled back over the past, gathering up a
thread here and there, until she had no doubt that what
Queenie had told her was true. Her mother was Christine Bo-
dine. But why this concealment 1 What was she hiding %
What had she done 1

Margery's first impulse was to hurry up the stairs to her mo-
ther's room, where there were already the sound ^^ excited
voices, her mother's and Queenie's blended together, as each

228

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

strove to be heard, and once she caught her own name, as if
her mother were calling her to come.

Then she did start, and was half-way up the stairs, when the
door-bell wrung violently — a sharp, imperious ring, which she
recognised as Anna Ferguson's. She was expecting that young
lady, and knowing that however fierce a storm might be blow-
ing, she must keep it from the world, she calmed herself with
a tremendous e£fort, and opening the door to Anna, listened
patiently for several minutes, while the girl examined her
sacque and said it would do very well, only the price was
too high.

' Ma never asked anything like that for a common sacque.'

* Very well. Pay me what you like,' Margery said, anxious
to be rid of her customer, who had asked, in her supercilious
way:

*■ Isn't that Queenie upstairs ) And isn't she talking pretty
loud for a well-bred person?'

*0h, will she never go?' Margery thought, just as the bell
pealed a second time, and Grandma Ferguson came in, bringing
a bundle almost as large as herself, and entering at once into
full details of what she wanted to have made, and how.

' I s'pose Anny is goin' to be married,' she said, looking
hard at her grand-daughter, ' though she hain't noticed me
enough to tell me so right out ; but everybody's talkin' it, and
I thought I might as well have a new silk gown. My moiry
antique is pretty well whipped out, and a nice silk is alius
handy. I got brown — a nice shade, I call it,' and she un-
rolled a silk of excellent quality, but of yellowish brown, which
would be very unbecoming to her.

* Oh, grandma, why didn't you get black instead of that hor-
rid snufi-colour ? ' Anna said, contemptuously, as she glanced
carelessly at the silk, and then went out, leaving the old lady
a good deal crest-fallen, and a little doubtful with regard to the
dress she had lately thought so pretty.

Margery did not tell her it was as nice as black, but she
soothed her as well as she could, aud heard her suggestions, and
took her measure, and showed her some new fashion-plates, and
did it all with her ears turned to her mother's room where the
talk was still going on, now low and earnest and almost pleading,
Itnd again so high and excited, that grandma asked if that wa^

RtllNETTE'S INTERVIEJT WITH MARQERY. 229

'ame, aa if

when the
w^hich she
lat young

be blow-
'self with
I listened
ined her
rice was

sacque.*
anxious
ercilious

% pretty

the bell
ringing
ce into

coking
:ed me
t, and
moiry
alius
le un-
which

it hor-

anced

lady

'0 the

t she

and

,and

3 the

wa4

not Rennet*8 voice and what she was talking so loud for. Then
Margery excused herself for a moment and ran swiftly up stairs
to her mother's room, the door of which was ajar and that ac-
counted for the distinctness with which the sound of voices was
borne to the parlour below.

Mrs. La Rue had risen from her bed and put on a dressing-
gown which Keinette was buttoning for her while she was try-
ing to bind her long, loose hair into a knot behind. Her face
was white as ashes, and in her eyes there was a frightened,
hunted look, as of one pursued to the last extremity. But when
they saw Margery, their expression suddenly changed to one of
fear and dread, and thrusting out both hands, she cried : ' Oh,
Margery, go away ; this is no place for you.*

Advancing into the room and closing the door, Margery said
in a low, firm tone of voice : ' Miss Hetherton, I don't know
what this is all about, but mother is too weak and sick to be
thus excited. Will you leave her until a fitter time ) '

* Don't call me Miss Hetherton, as if you were angry at me/
Reinette replied without looking up from buttoning Mrs. La
Rue's dressing-gown. ' I cannot go now. Your mother knew
my mother and is going to tell me about her. She is Christine
Bodine.'

*Yes, yes, I am Christine. God pity me,' the miserable
woman exclaimed, and over Margery's face there swept a look
of unutterable pain and disappointment.

She had said to herself that this which Reinette had told her
was true ; that her mother was Christine, and still there had
been a faint hope that there might be some mistake ; but there
was none ; her mother had declared it herself, and with a low
cry like a wounded animal she turned away, saying as she did
BO : ' There are people in the parlour, and your voices are some-
times louder than you suppose, and though they cannot under-
stand you they will know you are excited and that there is
trouble of some kind. Speak lower do. If this thing I hear
' be true we surely need not tell it to the world ; we can keep it
to ourselves.'

* Yes, Margery, that is what I mean to do/ Queenie said,
while Mrs. La Rue exclaimed with a ring of joy in her voice
as if some unexpected relief had come to her : ' Yes, yes, we
need not tell ; we will not tell ; we will keep the secret forever,'

230

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

' But you must tell me all you know about my mother.'
Queenie said, while Margery went swiftly down stairs, for the
bell was ringing again and Grandma Ferguson was growing im-
patient of waiting to know if she should trim her brown silk
with velvet or fringe;

This time it was Mrs. Rossiter and her daughters, and into
Margery's mind there flashed the thought. ' Are all the Fer>
gusons coming here to-day, and what would they say if they
knew who my mother was 1 ' But they did not know or dream
of the exciting interview in the room above, where Reinette
questioned so rapidly and impatiently the woman who almost
crouched at her teet in her abasement and answered amid tears
and sobs. The Rossiters had merely come to ask when Miss La
Rue could do some work for them, and they left very soon,
taking grandma with them, to the great relief of Margery, who
locked the door upon them, determined that no one else should
enter until Reinette was gone and she knew herself why the
truth had been withheld from her.

Upstairs the talk was still going on, though the voices now
were low and quiet as if the storm was over ; but would the
interview never end ? would Reinette never leave her free to
go to her mother herself and demand an explanation 1 Slowly,
as it seemed, the hour hands crept on until it was twelve o'clock,
and then at last a door opened and shut, and Queenie came
down the stairs, her eyes red with weeping, but with a look of
content upon her face which surprised Margery a little.

* She cannot be ^ery angry with mother,' she thought, and
her heart began to grow lighter as Queenie came up to her, and
putting her arms around her neck, said to her :

' Margie, it makes you seem nearer to me, now that I know
your mother was my nurse, and I love you more than ever.
But how white you are, and your hands are like lumps of ice.
Are you sick ) ' she continued, as she looked with alarm at
Margery's face, which was as white as ashes.

* Not sick, but a good deal upset with what I have heard,'
Margery replied ; * but tell me,' she continued, ' what does
mother say % What reason does she give for having kept silent
so long ? Why has she never told you who she was ) '

* She says it was for your sake ; that she feared lest I might
think less of you if I knew you were the daughter of my former

liMIl

KEINETTRS INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE. 231

nurse/ Queenie replied ; and, looking earnestly at her, Margery
asked :

' And you believe this 1 believe it to be true, the only reason,
don't your

* No, I do not believe it is the only reason,' Queenie answered,
promptly. ' It is true in part, no doubt, but there is something
else — something she did not tell me, and which I am resolved
to find out. It' there is a mystery I shall clear it up. My
curiosity is great enough for that But I did not tell her so,
she seemed so scared — so like a frightened child. Margery, I
believe your mother is more than half crazy.'

* Yes, yes,' and Margery caught eagerly at the suggestion.
* You are right ; she is crazy, I can see it now, and that will
account for much which seems so strange. Oh, Queenie, be
patient ; be merciful, and don't let the world know what we do.
Kemember she is my mother.'

* And my nurse,' Queenie rejoined. ' She was with my
mother when I was born and when she died. I shall not wrong
her ; do not fear me,' and Queenie's lips touched Margery's in
token that through her no har Ji should come to the poor woman
who, in the chamber above, sat in a low chair rocking to and
fro, with a sickening dread of the moment when she must stand
face to face with Margery and m6et the glance of those clear,
blue eyes which might read the story she had not told Beinette,
and which she could not tell her child.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

REINETTK'S INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE.

'HEN Reinette went up the staire to Mrs. La Rue's
room, she had no definite plan of action ; indeed,
she had no plan at all, except to confront and con-
found the woman who had deceived her so long, and whom she
foiind sitting up in bed with so terrified a look on her face, that
•he stood an instant on the threshold gazing at her ere she

232

QUEEN IE HETHERTOK,

' II

plunged impetuously into the business which had brought there.
Secure in Margery's promise that no one should disturb her,
Mrs. La Kue had grown comparatively quiet, and was just fall-
ing off to sleep, when she was roused by the sound of carriage
wheels stopping at the gate, and p. moment after she heard
Beinette's voice speaking earnestly to Margery, and felt that the
hour she had dreaded so long had come at last. Eeinette had
heard from Mentone and had come for an explanation.

* Fool, that I did not end it all last night, when I had the
nerve to do it,' she said, as, starting up in bed, she listened with
bated breath until footsteps came up the stairs, and Keinette
Hetherton stood looking at her.

But not long : the girl was in too great haste to wait, and,
advancing swiftly to the bedside, she began, not angrily, but
reproachfully : ' Christine, you see I know you ; I have found
you at la../, traced you through Messes. Polignac to your agent
in Mentone, whose clerk put me on your track ; so there can
be no mistake. You are Christine Bodine, my old nurse, whom
I have so wished to find ; and you knew I wished it all the
time and did not speak ; did not tell me who you were. Why
did you treat me so, Christine ? What is your excuse 1 You
have one, of course ? *

She spoke so rapidly, pouring out question after question,
and her eyes blazed so with excitement, that for a minute Mrs.
La Bue was stunned, and answered nothing, but sat staring
blankly at her like one in a dream. At last, however, her white
lips moved, and she said, faintly : ' Yes, I am Christine, and I
don't know why I didn't tell you.'

*You don't know why you didn't tell mel That is very
strange,' Beinette replied. < If there is nothing to conceal, if
all your dealings with my parents were honourable and up-
right, I see no reason for hiding from me the fact that you were
once my nurse. Christine, I did not come to quarrel with you,'
and Beinette's voice softened o. little. * I have loved you too
much for that, but I have come to hear about my mother. You
were with her when she died. You nursed me when I was a
baby. You know what mother said to me and of me. She
loved you, Christine, and trusted you. I have it in a letter
written to my father before she died, when he was away in

i
,i

['<i— www

REINETTE'S INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE. 233

Russia or Austria. And that is why he paid you money, was
it not, Christine 1 '

She was looking fixedly at the woman on whose white face
blood-red spots were beginning to show an^l who answered,
falteringly :

* Yes, that is why he gave me the money. Oh, Reinette
leave me ; go away ; don't try to unearth the past. There
are things you should not know — things I cannot tell. God
help me. I wish I had died before I ever saw your face.'

She looked so pale and death-like that Reinette bent an-
xiously over her, and bringing the camphor bathed her fore-
head, and held it to her nostrils until she was better ; and,
raising herself from the pillows upon which she had fallen, she
said :

' I cannot lie here ; I feel that I am smothering. I must
get up, while I talk to you ; but oh, you'll be so sorry. You'll
wish you had never come. Bring me my wrapper there on the
chair, and my woollen shawl, for I am shivering with cold.'

Her teeth were chattering, and her lips were blue and
pinched as Queenie brought the wrapper and helped her to put
it on, kneeling on the floor to button it herself, and occasion-
ally speaking soothingly to her, though her own heart was
beating rapidly with a dread of what she might hear. Then
it was that Margery appeared on the scene, and by suggesting
that no one but themselves need know what had so long been
hidden, changed Mrs. La Rue's intentions altogether. For a
few brief moments there had been in her mind a resolve to
make a clean breast of it, and to tell the truth, and then when
that was done, she would kill herself, and so escape the storm
sure to follow her revelations.

* Better die,' she thought, ' than to live and be questioned
and suspected by the Rossiters, and Fergusons, and everybody,
as I should be if they knew I was Christine.'

But when the idea was suggested that only Margery and
Reinette need know, she changed her mind, and in what she
would now tell the latter there was to be a deep, dark gulf
bridged over in silence.

* Help me to my chair, I am very weak,' she said to Reinette,
when Margery had gone.

234

qUEENIE HETHERTON.

Bemette complied with her request, and leadiug her to a
chair placed her gently in it, and drew the shawl closer around
her, for she saw how she shivered, though there was a fire in
the wood on the hearth. At this little act of attention Chris-
tine broke down entirely, and throwing her arms around
Keinette, sobbed out :

' Oh, my darling, my pet, my baby whom I nursed. I have
so longed to clasp you to my heart, but dared not, &nd now I
must, I must. 1 have hungered to hold you in my arms as I
held you years ago, and to feel your soft cheek against my own.
Reinette, Reinette, kiss me — because — because — I am — Chris-
tine.'

It was not in Reinette's nature to resist such an appeal, and
she kissed the poor trembling woman twice, and then drawing
a chair to her side spoke very softly to her, and said :

* Now tell me.'

' Tell you what, child ? What do you wish most to know ) '
Christine asked, and Reinette replied :

* About my mother — all about her. You are the first I have
ever seen who knew her after she was Mrs. Hetherton. I
have heard what she was when a girl — the sweetest, loveliest
creature, they say, with eyes like the summer sky, and a face
so fair and pure — not a bit like me — and I wish to hear from
beginning to end all you know about her, and when you saw
her first, and where and about her death in Rome, when I was
born, and only you there to care for either of us.*

* Would you mind holding my hand while I tell you of my
first days with Mrs. Hetherton 1 ' Christine said, and Reinette
took the cold, clammy hand between both of hers and rubbed
and chafed it as tenderly as Margery herself would have done.

She was beginning to feel very kindly toward this woma^
who had known her mother ; the insinuation in Messrs. Polig-
nacs' letter and her own suspicions were forgotten for the time,
and she saw before her only one who had cared for her when
an infant and had seen her mother die.

* Begin ! ' she said. * I am impatient to hear.*

And so Christine began, and told her of the advertisement
for a waiting maid, which she had answered in person, and
how she had been preferred to all the gay, flippant, airy appli-
cants for the position, even though some of them boasted of

REINETTES INTERVIEW ff^ITH CHRISTINE. 235

her to a
)r around
a fire in
on Chris-
I around

I have
i now I
ms as I
nay own.
— Chris-

eal, and
irawing

know ? '

I have
»n. I
»veliest

a face
r from
)u saw

I was

of my

linette

ubbed

done.

omai:

>olig.

time,

when

ment

and

ppli-

d of

having attended upon duchesses ; told her, too, of the hand>
some rooms at the Hotel Meurice, and of the beautiful young
lady who was so kind to her and made her more a companion
than a maid, notwithstanding that her proud husband fre-
quently protested against it and talked of bad taste, which
sometimes made madame cry.

* And did she tell you of Merrivale and her old home ?
Did you know she was an American ) ' Queenie asked, and Mrs.
La Rue replied :

' Yes, she told me all about her home and Merrivale, and I
was familiar with every rock, and hill, and tree, I think, espe-
cially the elms upon the common, and the poplars near her
home. She leasso fond of Merrivale and her friends, and used
often to cry for the mother so far away.'

'Was she very homesick T Keinette asked, and Mrs. La
Rue answered her :

' At times, yes, when monsieur was away with his associates
or staid out so late nights, as he sometimes did.'

Reinette's breath came so quickly for a moment, and her
voice shook as she asked, very low, as if afraid some one might
hear :

* Was not father kind to her always 1 '

* If beautiful dresses and jewellery, and horses, and carriages,
and plenty of money means kindness, then he was kind, for
she had all these in profusion, but what she wanted most she
did not have, and that was her husband's society,' Mrs. La
Rue said, and then Reinette drew back a little haughtily and
answered :

* Christine, you did not like my father. I see that in all you
say, but he was very dear to me, and I loved him so much !
You are prejudiced* against him, but I insist upon your going
on just the same and telling me everything. Why did she
not have his society ? Where and how did he pass his time,
if not with her 1 He loved her, I am sure. You know he did.
You know he loved my mother.'

She kept asserting this, for there was an expression on Mrs.
La Rue's face which she could not understand and which did
not quite please her.

* He was very proud of her girlish beauty and in his way was
fond of her, but I do not think it was in Mon^ ieur Hethertoo's

236

QUEEN IE BETHERTON.

nature to love any one '^ery long, or more than he loved him-
self. Her habits did rot suit him ; his did not suit her ; she
breakfasted at nine and was up two hours before that as was
her custom at home, she said ; he breakfasted at eleven in his
room, and frequently dined out, returning generally to see her
dressed for the opera or concert, and dictating about her toilet
until we were both at our wits' end. Her tastes were too
simple for him. He wished her to wear velvet and satin, and
diamond and pearls, while she would have liked plain muslin
gowns and a quiet home in the country, with hens and chick-
ens and pets. She was very happy at Chateau des Fleurs, and
would have been happier if monsieur had staid more vrith her ;
but he was much in Paris, and Switzerland, and Nice, and so
we were alone a great deal and she taught me many things and
was so kind to me.'

* But why did not my father stay with her more ? ' Reinette
asked, and Mrs. La Rue replied : ' He was fond of travel, and
hunting and racing, and had many gentlemen friends there,
whose influence was not good, and he complained that Chateau
des Fieurs was lonely. If he only had a child — a son — he
could bear it, he said, but as it was, the place was unendurable,
and so he staid away weeks at a time, while your mother pined
and drooped like some fair lily which has neither water nor
sunshine.'

' Oh, this was very dreadful,' Queenie said, with a choking
sob. * 1 am glad grandma will never know Ivhat you have
told me of her daughter and my mother. But go on and tell
ue the rest. I insist upon knowing the whole.'

So Mrs. La Rue went on and told of the weeks and weeks
which her mistress passed alone at the Chateau des Fieurs, while
Mr. Hetherton was seeking his pleasure eFsewhere ; of his great
desire for a son to bear his name ; of Mrs. Hetherton's failing
healthy and removal at last to Southern France, and then, as
the season advanced, to Rome ; of the great joy which came to
her so unexpectedly and which she purposely kept from her
husband, wishing to surprise him when he joined her in Rome
as he promised to do ; of the weary weeks of waiting, hoping
against hope, for he was always coming in a few days at the
most and never came ; and then of a girl baby's birth sooner
than it was expected, and the scene which followed, when the

REINETTFS INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE. 237

young wife died, with her little girl clasped to her hosom and
her own head pillowed on Christine's arm.

Here Christine stopped suddenly and covering her face with
her hands sobbed hysterically as she recalled that scene, while
Keinette, too, cried as she had never cried before for the dying
mother in Rome, who had held her babe to the very last and
prayed that God would bless it and have it in his keeping, and
make it a comfort and a joy to the husband and father, who
was far away, joining in a midnight revel where wine and
cards, and women, such as Margaret Ferguson never knew,
formed a conspicious part.

' Her baby was a gr'^at comfort to her,' Mrs. La Rue said,
when she could speak, ' and she would have it where she could
feel its little hands upon her face, even after blindness came ^
upon her, and she could no longer see. The English physician
had been in, and told me she would not probably last the
night through, and that I should have some one with me.
But she said, "No; Christine and baby are all I want," and
when he was gone she made me sit by her, while she talked
as she had done many a time, of her home over the sea, of
her sister and her mother, to whom she sent messages. I
remember her very words. "Tell them," she said, "that I
never ceased to love them, and to long for them with such
longing as only home-sick creatures know, and if I have
seemed neg'^'ctful, and have not written as I ought, it was
because — because — I couldn't. I can't explain, only I love
them — love them so much ; and now if I could lay my head
on mother's lap, as I did when I was a little girl, and it ached
as it is aching now, I should die more willingly. Dear old
mother ! poor old father ! with his hard brown hands, which
have worked so hard for me — God bless them, and comfort
them, when they hear I am dead ! " '

*0h, Christine !' Reinette sobbed, 'grandma ought to know
this — she and Aunt Mary, too. They have never heard one
word of her last days, for father only wrote that she was deadj
and did not even tell them of my birth. I ought to tell my
grandmother ; she will be so glad to know.'

*No, no ! oh, no ! better not. You said you would not !'
Christine exclaimed, in terror. ' It would lead to so much
talk — so many questions about- — about your father, and Rei-

238

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

nette, forgive me — but his record was not the fairest. Even
you, his daughter, would not like to see its blackest pages/

Reinette's face was crimson with shame and resentment, and
in her eye was that peculiar gleam which so bewildered and
confounded those on whom it fell. The fair structure she had
built about her father's memory was tottering to atoms, bat
she would struggle bravely to keep it together as long as
possible, and she replied ; —

* If there were pages so black in father's life, don't show
them to me, lest I should say you told me falsely. He was my
father, and I loved him so dearly, fie was kind to me always
— always — and I will stand by him forever. He might have
been wild and might have sought his own pleasure, but he did
not mean to neglect my mother. He loved her : he used to talk
of her to me.'

' Did he ? Did he talk of your mother to you 1 ' Christine
asked eagerly ; and Beinette, who could not say truthfully that
her father bad ever of his own accord spoken to her of her
mother, replied :

' It made him feel so badly that he did not often speak of
her unless I mentioned her first. I used to ask him about her,
and he told me how beautiful, and sweet, and good she was,
and that he wished me to be like her : and then, if I was sit-
ting on his lap, as I most always was when I talked to him of
her, he would put me down suddenly and walk across the
salon so fast, and once I saw him wipe away great drops of
sweat from his forehead. He must have loved her very much,
or he would not have held her memory so sacred. But you
have not finished. I want to know just how mother died —
want to see her up to the last.'

So Christine went on and told of the long hours when the
dying woman lay with her baby clasped to her bosom, and her
head pillowed on the strong arm of her maid, who held her
thus until the darkness was passed and the early dawn of the
mild spring morning began to creep into the room, when Mar-
garet roused a little and said :

' " It is almost over, Christine. I am going home to Jesus,
whose arms are around me so that I am not afraid: Tell them
at home I was so happy, and death had no terror for me. Tell
tbeip I seem to hear the children singing as they used to sing

REINETTE'S INTEBVIEJV iVITH CHRISTINE. 239

in the old church in Merrivale, and the summer wind blows in
and out, and brings the perfume of the pond lilies with it, and
the river flows on and on amid the green meadows away —
away — ^just as I am floating so quietly out upon the sea of
eternity, where the lilies are fairer and sweeter than those
which lift their white heads to the sunshine in the ponds of
Merrivale. And now, Christine, place my baby so I can kiss
her once more, for sight and strength have failed me."

*■ The child's face was lifted to the pale lips which kissed it
tenderly and then, just as the warm Italian sunshine lighted up
the distant dome of St. Peter's with a blaze of gold, and all
over the great city, and far out upon the Campagna the morn-
ing was warm and bright, the young mother lay dead in the
silent room, with only her servant and baby with her.*

There was a fresh burst of tears and sobs from Reinette as
she listened to the story, and when it was ended she threw her
arms around her nurse's neck and nearly strangled her with
kisses, as she said :

* My darling old Christine, I can forgive you everything now
that I know how good and true you were to my mother.'

With something like a moan Christine freed herself from the
girl, and went rapidly on :

* I did not know just where your father was, for he was
never long in the same place, and as we could not wait to hear
from him, and I did not know what to do, strangers took the
matter in hand and buried her in the Protestant grave-yard at
Rome, where your father has never been since.'

* And I ? ' Reinette said. ' You took me to him, took me to
Chateau des Fleurs ? '

* Yes, I took you to Chateau des Fleurs,' Christine replied,
while her face grew scarlet and then turned ashen pale, and
Queenie never dreamed of the chasm that leaped in silence, or
of the bitter remorse which brought those livid spots to the
face of Christine, who did not look at her now, but shut her
eyes and leaned wearily back in her chair.

' I am so weak, and talking all this tires me so,' she said ;
but Reinette was not satisfied, and her next question was :

* What did father say when he first saw me ] Tell me 9\\
about it.'

240

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

1 ^

f !

ChrisUne did not reply t > this, but sat with her hands locked
together, and a look upon her face as if her thoughts were far
back in the past, and she was living over some painful scene.

' Tell me : how did he act ? What did he say ? ' Keinette
repeated, and then, with a smile full of irony and bitterness
Christine answered :

* He swore, becaube you were not a boy ! '

* Oh-h ! this is terrible,* Reinette exclaimed, as her face grew
very red.

But she was too proud to lot her nurse see how she was
pained, a ^"^ she continued :

* Yes, 1 can understand how a man like him would be disap-
pointed if he wanted a son very much : but he loved me after-
ward. I am sure of that. How long did you stay with me at
Chateau des Fleurs, and why did you leave 1 Was it M. La
Rue ? You must have been married soon after mother died,
for Margery is almost as old as I am.'

* Yes, yes,' and Christine caught eagerly at this unexpected
help. * Yes, I wag married and had to leave, but I saw you
gjmetimes when you were a little child, playing in the grounds
of the chateau.'

' I remember it — yes; a woman came one day when I was
with my nurse and kissed and cried over me, and gave me
some bon-bons ; and that was you.' Reinette said, and Mrs. La
Rue asBontad, while Reinette continued :

* And you lived all the time in Paris, aiid never let me know
or brought Margery to see me ; and, oh, Christine, when I
found her up in that room that day and she told you of me,
did you know then who I was ? '

' Yes, I knew,' was the reply, and Reinette went on :

* You knew I was Reinetiie, my mother's child, and never
s'ooke, or tried ^o see me even I That is very strange. And
did father know, when Margery was at school with me, and
afterward at the chateau ] Did he know she was your
daughter 1 '

' Not then, no ; but after she was grown he knew, and was
not please(^ to have you so intimate with her. You will re-
member that he tried to separate you from her. You wrote her
something of it, when we were in Southern France.'

<-.i

REINETTE'S INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE. 241

ds locked
were far

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Keinette

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be disap-
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Reinette did remember that her fatljer had objected to her
further intercourse with Margery La Rue, and that he had
seemed very much excited and even angry about it, and that
after this she had lost track of Margery until she found her in
America. But why should her father object to friendship for a
little girl whoso mother had been so much to his wife 1 Why,
unless he were offended with something in the woman.

' Christine,' she began, at last, after there 1 *d ^een silence
for a moment, * you may as well tell me the truth, for I am re-
solved to wring it from you, and I will not tell Margery either.
You had done something to displease my father ; now, what
was if? I insist upon knowing.'

' Nothing, nothing, no, no,' Christine gasped, ' He was very
proud, and did not wkoh to be intimate with people like me ;
that is all — everything.'

' And was that the reason why after he was dead, and you
met me here you kept silent ? Were you afraid I, too, was
proud, and would think less of Margery, if 1 knew.'

' Yes, yes ; you have guessed it. I was afraid,' Mrs. La Rue
said quickly, as if relieved that Reinette had put so good a
reason into her mind.

She was very tired, and had borne so much that it seemed to
her she could bear no more, and clasping her hands to her
head she said imploringly :

< Leave me now, please ; there is nothing more to tell, and I
am 80 tired and sick, and — and^there is Margery yet to see.
Oh, Miss Hetherton, make it as easy as you can to Margery
Don't let her think ill of me. I could not bear that. I'd
rather have the bad opinion of the whole world than hers.
She is so good, so true, and hates deception so much. Go now,
and leave me to myself. I believe — I think — yes, I am sure I
am going mad.'

Reinette looked at her in surprise, wondering that what she
had confesssd should affect her so.

„ * There is something else,' she thought, * something behind,
which she ha.^ not told, and I mean to know what it is, but I
will leave her now,' and taking Christine's hot hands in hers
she said, very kindly, ' Good-by, Christine : I am going, but
another time you'll tell me more of my mother.'

Then pressing the hand to her lips she ran down the stoirs

242

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

to Margery, who was waiting anxiously for her, and whose
face was white and ghastly as she turned inquiringly to her
friend. But Reinette's manner was reassuring. Throwing her
arms around Margery's neck, she said :

' I shall love you better than ever, now that I know you aie
the daughter of my nurse.'

* Do you believe there was no other reason for concealment ? '
Margery asked, when told of the excuse her mother had given
for her silence.

* I know there is something else, and I shall find it out,' was
the substance of Reinette's reply, and in her heart, Margery,
too, believed there was something else, which she, too, must
know, and for the first time in her life she was glad when Rei-
nette said good-by and left her alone to meet the trial she felt
was awaiting her.

%\Y

CHAPTER XXXV.

MARGERY AND HER MOTHER.

*jfjFS<OR a full quarter of an hour after Reinette's departure,
NTcr Margery sat motionless, with her head bent down, think-
"^^^ ing of all the incidents of her past life as connected
with her mother, and recalling here and there certain acts,
which, viewed in the new light shed upon them, seemed both
plain and mysterious. Buzzing through Margery's brain, and
almost driving her mad, was the same sickening suspicion which
had at times so disturbed Reinette, but like Reinette, she fought
it down. But not for the dead man whose costly monument
was gleaming cold and white in the graveyard of Merrivale.
He was nothing to her save as the father of her friend, who,
for his daughter's sake, had been kind to her so far as money
was concerned. But it was for the woman up stairs, her mo-
ther, that her heart was aching so, and the hot blood pouring
so swiftly through her veins. To lose faith in her whom she
believed so good, and who had taught her always that truth

MAROERY AND HER MOTHER,

243

and purity were more to be prized than all the wealth in the
world, would be terrible. And yet that mother's life had for
years been one of concealment, for which she could see no excuse.
That given to Queenie was not the true reason. There was some-
thing else — something behind ; ' and I must know what it is/
she thought ; ' and if my fears prove true, I must keep it from
Reinette.

Starting to her feet at last, and forgetting how weak and
sick her mother was, she went half-way up the stairs and
called :

* Mother, will you come down, or shall I come up 1 '

The voice was not the same which Mrs. La Rue knew as
Margery's. There was a hardness and sternness in it which
boded no good to her, and a mortal terror took possession Ot
her as she thought :

' My hour has come. She will wring it from me. Well, no
matter. It will be better for her, perhaps.'

' Say, mother, will you come down or shall I come up 1 '
came again from Margery, and this time Mrs. La Rue replied :

* Oh, Margery, Margery not yet — not yet ! Spare me a
little longer. I have been so tried and worried. I am not
quite right in my head ; wait awhile before you come, dear
Margery.'

There was a world of pathos in those two words — * dear
Margery ' — ^pathos and pleading both, as if the mother were
asking mercy from her child. And Margery recognised the
meaning, but her heart did not relent. Indeed she could not
understand herself, or define the strange feeling which had
taken possession of her, and was urging her on to know what
it was that her mother had hidden so long and so successfully.

But she did not then go up ; she waited awhile, and going
to the kitchen, prepared a tempting dinner which she arranged
upon a tray, and then took to the room, where Mrs. La Rue
still sat just as Reinette had left her, her face as white as marble,
her eyes blood-shot and dim, and her whole attitude that of a
guilty culprit awaiting its punishment.

And she was awaiting hers, and when the first blow came in
the person of Margery bringing her the nicely-prepared dinner,
she seemed to shrivel up in her chair, and her head dropped
upon her breast. But she did not speak, and when Margery

244

QUEENIE HETHERTOK.

\ •%.

drew a little table to her side, and placing the tray upon it,
poured out her tea and held it to her lips, she swallowed it
mechanically, as she did the food pressed upon her. At last,
however, she could take no more, and putting up her hand,
she made a gesture of dissent, and whispered faintly :

'Enough!'

How sick and old and crushed she looked ! But for this
Margery would not spare her ; or, rather, she could not, for the
something urging her on and making her very determined and
calm, when, after taking the dinner away, she returned to her
mother, and sitting down where Queenie had sat, said :

* Now, mother, tell me.*

* Tell you what ? ' Mrs. La Rue asked, and Margery replied :
' Tell me the whole truth, every word of it, as you did not

tell it to Queenie.'

' What did I tell her ? ' Mrs. La Rue said, in a bewildered
kind of way, as if the events of the last few hours were really
a blank to her.

* You told her you were Christine Bodine, her former nurse,'
Margery began, and her mother interrupted her with :

' And I am, Margery ; that was the truth. I was Christine
Marie La Mille Bodine ; but I dropped the first name and the
last, and for years was only Marie La Mille.'

* Yes, 1 know,' Margery returned. * You deceived me with
regard to your name, and you kept your identity a secret from
Reinette, when you knew how much she wished to find you,
and you gave her as a reason that you feared she would think
less of me, if she knew I was the child of one who had once
served her mother.'

' Yes, that's it — that's it, Margie ! ' Mrs. La Rue gasped, as
she clutched the skirt of Margery's gown and rubbed it caress-
ingly.

* Mother,' Margery said, and her voice was low and stem,
* that excuse might do for Queenie, but not for me, who knows
all our past life. There is something else — something you are
keeping from me,, and which I must know. What is it,
mother ? Why were you afraid to let Queenie know who you
werel'

* There is nothing— nothing— believe me, Margie, nothing/

MARGERY AND HER MOTHER.

245

Mrs. La Rue said, still caressing the gown, as if she would thus
appease her daughter, who continued :

* Yes, there is something ; there has been a something always
since I can remember. I see it now — recall it all — your fits
of abstraction, your moods of melancholy, amounting almost
to insanity, and which have increased in frequency since wo
came to America and met Keinette. The money you received
at stated times was from her father, was it not % '

* Ye-es/ came in a whisper, from Mrs. La Rue's white lips,
and Margery went on :

* You must then have always known his whereabouts. When
we lived in Paris, and father was alive, you knew that Mr.
Hetherton was in the city, too, and did you ever see him 1 '

* Never — never I He would have spurned me like a dog,'
Mrs. La Rue answered, energetically, and Margery continued :

* But you knew he was there, and when Queenie came to me
that day when I wore her scarlet cloak and she my faded plaid,
you knew who she was, and did not speak ? '

' Yes, I knew who she was, and did not speak,' moaned Mrs.
La Rue, and Margery went on :

* And when I was at school with her, and her father paid
the bills, and when I visited her at the chateau, you knew, and
did not tell me. But did you tell my father % Did he know
who Queenie was " -knew of Mr. Hetherton 1 '

* No, he did not,' Mrs La Rue replied, ' nor was it necessary.
I was a faithful wife to him, and there was no need for him to
know.*

* Mother,' Margery began, after a moment's pause, * why did
you wish to hide from Queenie who you were 1 I have a right
to know. I am your daughter, and if there has been any wrong
I can share it with you. I would rather know the exact truth
than think the horrible things I may think, if you do not tell
me. Why did you take another name than your own, and why
did you not reveal yourself to Queenie, but leave her to grope
in the dark for what ahc so much wished to find ? Tell me,
mother. I insist upon knowing.'

Driven to the last extremity, and, forgetting herself in her
distress, Mrs. La Rue replied :

* I had sworn not to do it : had taken a solemn vow never to
let Queenie know who I was,'

■iA

246

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

* Had made a vow % Had sworn not to do it ? Who made
you swear 1 Who required that vow from you 1 Was it Mr.
Hetherton ? * Margery asked, sternly, and her mother replied :

' * Yes, Mr. Hetherton ; curse him in his grave ! He has been
my ruin. I was so happy and innocent until I knew him.
He wrung the vow from me ; he paid me money to keep it :
he '

She stopped here, appalled by the look on Margery's face —
a look which made her cower and tremble as she had never
trembled and covtrered before.

Wrenching her dress away from the hands which still held it,
and drawing herself back, Margery demanded :

* Tell me what you mean 1 You have said strange things to
me, mother. You have talked of ruin, and innocence, and
money paid for silence, and as your daughter I have a right to
know what you mean. And you must tell me, too, before I
look on Queenie's face again. What is it, mother ? What was
the secret between you and Mr. Hetherton 1 What have you
done, which you would hide from me 1 Speak, for I must
know, and I'll forgive you, too, even if it brings disgrace to
me. If you do not tell, and suffer me to live on with these
horrid suspicions torturing me to madness, I can never touch
your hand again in love, or think of you as I have done.'

She had risen from her chair, and stood with folded arms
looking down upon the wretched woman, who moaned :

* Don't, Margie, don't drive me to tell, for the telliag will
involve so much — so much ! Some will be disgraced and others
benefited ; don't make me tell, please don't.'

She stretched her arms towards Margery, who stood im-
movable as a rock, and said, with a hard ring in her voice :

* Disgrace to me^ I suppose. Well, I can bear that better
than suspense and uncertainty.'

' No, Margie, not disgrace to you, thank Heaven ! not dis-
grace to you in the way you think,' Mrs. La Rue cried.

And with this horrid fear lifted from her mind, Margery
came nearer to her mother, and said :

* If there is no disgrace for me, then tell me at once what it
is. I shall never cease worrying you or leave this room till I
know.'

* Then listen.'

"W'llft'll

MARGERY AND HER MOTHER,

247

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And raising herself erect in her chair, while the blood came
surging back to her face, and her eyes flashed with the fire of
a maniac, Mrs. La Rue continued :

< Listen ; but sit down first. The story is long, and you will
need all your strength before it is through. Sit down,' and
she pointed to a chair, into which Margery sank mechanically,
while a strange, prickling sensation ran through her frame, and
she felt a sickening dread of what she was to hear.

' I am ready,' she said ; but her voice was the fainter now,
for her mother's was calm and steady as she commenced the
story, which she told in all its details, beginning at the day
when she first saw Mr. Hetherton's advertisement for a waiting-
maid for his wife.

For a time the story was pleasant enough to listen to, for Mrs.
La Rue dwelt at length upon the goodness and sweetness of
her mistress, who was always so kind to her, and who trusted
her so implicitly ; but at last came a change, and Margery's
eyes grew dark with horror and pain, and her cheek paled, as
she listened to a tale which curdled the blood in her veins and
seemed turning her to stone.

Without the sleepy rain was beating in gusts against the
windows, and the wind, which had risen since noon, roared
down the chimney and shook every loosened blind and case-
ment, but was unheard by the young girl, who, with a face like
the faces of the dead and hands locked so tighly together that
the blood came through the flesh where the nails were pressing,
sat immovable, listening to the story told her by the woman
whose eyes were closed as she talked, and whose words flowed
on so rapidly, as if to utter them were a relief and eased the
terrible remorse which had gnawed at her heart so long.

Had she looked at the girl before her she might have paused,
for there was something awful in the expression of Margery's
face as she listened, until tho story was ended, when, with a
cry like one in mortal pain, she threw up both her hands and
fell heavily to the floor, while purple spots came out upon her
face, and the white froth, flecked with blood, oozed from her
livid lips.

Mf^rgery knew the sepret of Christine Bodine ! -

248

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

MARGERY'S ILLNESS.

HEN Reinette left the cottage that morning she drove
straight to the office of Mr. Beresford, whom she
found alone, and to whom she communicated the re-
sult 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 pos-
sible, 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 will keep our own counsel. T
can trust you, Mr. Beresford.* . .

The lawyer bowed and looked searchingly at her to see if
no other thought or suspicion had been suggested to her by her
interview with Christine. But if there had she gave no signs
of it, and her face was very bright r,nd cheerful as she said good-
by and was driven home, where she sat directly down to write
the news to Phil.

He had left Rome and was journeying on toward India, where
she was to direct her letter. Telling Phil was just the same as
keeping it to herself, she thought, for he was perfectly safe,
and so she wrote a minute account of the affair, and gave him
all the gossip of the place, and told him how she missed him
more and more every day, and could not get accustomed to
living without him, and how silly it was in him to fall in love
with her and then go off, when but for this foolishness they
might have been so happy together.

It was three o'cloclc 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 by sunsetting, Reinette determined to take the
letter to the office herself and then call upon her grandmother,
and possibly upon Mrs, La Eue again.

3BS

MARGERTS ILLNESS.

249

Christine's pale face had haunted her all the afternoon, and
fearing she might have been a little hard with her, she longed
to see her again and assure her of her faith in and love for her.

* To be sure,' she thought, * sho is not just the kind of per--
son I had fancied Christine to be, but then she is Christine,
and I must kill all my old prejudice for her, and love her for
mother's sake and Margery's.'

In some things Reinette was easily influenced and persuaded,
and though she did not altogether accept Christine's explana-
tion as the real and only one, she was just now too glad to find
her to doubt or question much ; and as she drove again across
the causeway to the village, she felt lighter and happier because
there was now someone who could tell her of her mother as
Mrs. Hetherton.

Depositing her letter in the office, and bowing to Mr. Beres
ford, who happened to be passing in the street, she drove next
to her grandmother's, but was told by the girl that Mrs. Fer-
guson had gone to see Mrs. La Rue more than an hour ago, and
had not yet returned, though she did not intend to be gone any
length of time.

* Very well, I will go there too,' Reinette said, and her car
riags was soon draving up before t> r - ottage where the docj
tor's gig was standing.

* Dr. Nichols here ? Mrs. La Rue must be worse. I'm 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 recognised
as a neighbour.

' Don't you know 1 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 doc-
tor stood, with a grave, troubled Iqok, 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

250

QUEENIE BETRERTON',

I i

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, with that pinched, blue look about the mouth and nos-
trils which precedes dissolution. And she had seemed and
looked like this 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,
and only across the garden was startled by a succession of
cries, each louder than the preceding, and which came appar-
ently 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 Mar-
gery up and carry her to her 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 once
in token that she knew anything that was passing around her.
When questioned by the physician, who was greatly puzJiied
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 often 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 restora«
tives and stimulants failed to produce any effect, or to move
80 much as an eyelid.

MARGERTS ILLNESS.

251

red with
K^oman'o
inted to
with no
like one
ind nos-
led and
at the

ess and
herself
firl, and
d tears,
ler eyes

much
of love
ith that
;ht, her
ct door,
sion of
) appar-
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to the
th her
ft Mar-
l^sician,
B could
ly once
id her.
mz^ied
leemed
d that
to her

1 give,
fe, the
^ho, it
estora*
» move

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, and mny
I come up % '

* Yes, yes. Hush ! Margery is very sick,' the neighbour,
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 kin<l of tremulous-
ness 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 didn't appear nateral at all, and her hands was just
like ice. Have you tried a mustard paste the whole lengtlfi of
her backbone 1 My Margaret sometimes had such fain >in' spells,
and that always brought her to.'

Grandma was standing at the far side of the bed as she talked,
and when she mentioned her daughter Margaret, Margery's
eyes unclosed again and turned toward her with a look of re-
cognition, and when grandma took one of her hands in hers
she clasped it tightly, and would riot let it go, while two great
tears rolled down her cheeks, and her lips move<l 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 I what is it ? what is it ? Margery 1 Margery ! What
has happened to her 1 '

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 air Queenie — little

252

QUEENIE JJETHERTON.

•i

Queenie. Speak to me, Margery, if you can, and tell me what
is the matter % What made you sick so suddenly ? '

' No, no ! oh, no ! Go away ! I can't bear it 1 You hurt 1
Margery said, as she tried to disengage her hand from lleinette.
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 Fer-
guson was with her, and agitated when Reinette came in, with
her caresses and words of sympathy and love.

It wfis a most singular case, and greatly puzzled the physi-
cian, who said once to Reinette :

' It seems like some mental shock more than a bodily ail-
ment. 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 oc much.'

* Temperaments differ,' the doctor replied. While Queenie
thought to herself : ' •

' Can it be possible that Margery takes her mother's silence
so to heart, and does she fear that it will make any difference
in my love for her ? It cannot, 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
seemed to have lost her senses, and did nothing but sit by
Margery and watch her with a pertinacity and earnestness
0\vhich 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.

' Don't look at me,* she said, 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, she spent with Mar-
gery, on whom she lavished so much love that her caresses

MARGERY'S ILLNESS.

253

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 youl' 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, sud-
denly raising herself in bed, ahe threw her arms around Rein-
ette's neck, and sobbed out :

* 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 youl'

* 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. ' Mar-
gery,' she continued, * do you feel so badly because of your
mother's silence ) She has explained it to me and I am satis-
fied. Don't let that trouble you any w > 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 ofl'ended your father, who forbade her coming
near him or you. 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 any one
in France. Promise, or I shall certainly go mad.'

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 :

;' N'-

>ii

* I promise. I will uot write to any one in France, but may
be you will tell me some tir 'j. Will you, Mviger/V

' Never — never, so help , Heaven . ' was the emphatic re-
ply, as Margery fell back an> ng the pillows wholly exhaust 1.

For a moment Keinette r*' od looking curiously at her ; iben
seating herself upon the si.i of tue bed, and taking "^fargery's
hand, she said :

* You make u.ia Lalf repent my proiiiise made without stop-
ping 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 to make my father angry 1 '

* Yes,' Margery replied ; * it was very dreadful — it would make
you hate her and me, too, if you knew. Don't, Queenie — don't
talk to me or any one about it. Don't mention it again, ever.'

' But tell me one thing more,' Queenie persisted ; ' I have a
right to know. Was my father at all to blame 1 Was he in-
volved in it ? '

She held her breath for the answer, and looked earnestly at
Margery, whose eyes grev. larger and brighter, and whose face
was scarlet as she answered at last :

* At first he was in the wrong, some would say ; while others
would wink at it ; but for the last, where 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 papa and
Christine — thoughts which dishonoured him in his grave and
insulted you through your mother, but now they are all gone.
Forgive me, Margery, do,' she continued, as she saw a strange
look leap into ' .r friend's eyes, a look which she construed into
one of resentment toward her for having harboured 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
BO fast t:nd so long that Queenie became alarmed, and tried to
comfort and quiet her.

i fci»w*ii4iNi i< 'j

MARGERY'S ILLNESS.

255

* Don't, Margie, don't.' she said ; ' it distresses me to see you
so disturbed. If fathei 'as not to hiaine, I do not care for the
rest — do not mind it vi iie least, but I could not bear disgrace
through hira whom I 1 ve loved and honoured so much.'

* You shall never have it to bear, 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,
a» ^ what had affected Ler so powerfully, taking away all her
f^\.•eh h and seemingly all her vitality so that she did not
rd% M take the slightest interest in anything about her. Every
A&y Grandma Ferguson came to the cottage to inquire after
1 '»% and ascertain the probabilities of her being able to make
tiie brown silk in time for the grand wedding which was to
"^ . tne off soon, and was the theme of so much gossip. At last,
tinding there was no prospect that Mifis La Rue could make it,
she took it to West Merrivale, but before doing so questioned
Margery closely how it should be made and trimmed. She had
the utmost confidence in Margery's taste, and weak and listless
as she was, Margery entered heart and soul into the details of
trimming, and told the old lady what to have done and how,
and when Reinette protested against it, saying it tired and
worried her too much, she replied :

* It neither tires nor worries me. I like to tell her — like to
please her — like to have her in the room with me. I wish her
to come every day.'

So every day grandma came with her knitting work and
some little delicacy for the sick girl, who would smile so sweetly
upon her, and sometimes draw the old face down beside her
owr: and kiss it lovingly.

At last the physician said Margery must have a change or
she would not rally, and then Reinette insisted upon taking
her to Hetherton Place, which would be change enough.

* She will be so quiet there, with nothing to excite her, and
I shall t&ke care of her all alone. You, 1 suppose, will have
to stay hiTe and see to the cottage,' bhe said to Mrs. La Rue,
who asseLted in silence, for she knew that her presence was a

256

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

I !

i ■■

constant source of pain and excitement to Margery, who, un-
doubtedly, would improve, more rapidly away from her.

But she doubted if Hetherton Place were the spot to take
her, and Margery doubted, too, and shrank from going there
with a pertinacity which almost offended Queenie, who, never-
theless, 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'sf which were to have bee)i Mr. Hetherton's,
were given to her, and all the rarest, costliest flowers in the
green-house were brought to beautify th'jm, and make them
bright and summery. And there the two girls took their
meals, and sat and talked, or rather Queenie talked, while Mar-
gery listened, with her hands folded listlessly together, and her
eyes oftentimes shut, while around her moutli there was a firm,
set expression, as if she were constantly fighting something
back, rather than listening to Keinette, who chatted gaily on,
now 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, or
rather you suit it, better than the cottage where it is work, work
all the time, for people who are some of them snippy 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, more a child of the people, and do and say
things which shock my high-bred cousins, Ethel and Grace.*

Margery did not reply, but her fingers worked nervously,
and she was glad her companion could not see the pallor which
by the faint, sick feeling of 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 the fire and Margery's easy-chair.

MARGERY'S ILLNESS.

257

How cheery and pleasant the tea-table looked, with its snowy
linen, its decorated china, and the silver urn from which Rein-
ette poured the tea.

' This is so nice,' she 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 1 '

' Yes, yes ; I remember ; I have forgotten nothing connected
with you,' Margery replied, and Reinette went on :

' I made believe so much that you were I, and I was you,
that I used actually at times to feel as if it were real, and that
my rightful home was up in Number Forty) in the Rue St.
Honor6. 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 1 ' Margery asked, while cfomething
arose in her throat, and seemed to be choking her, or rather to
be forcing out words which she would sooner die than speak to
that young creature, whose face was all aglow with happiness
because ahs was there, and in whose eyes there was that strange
light which dazzled and bewildered those on whom it fell.

* How did I like it ? ' Queenie repeated, and the colour deep-
ened a little on her cheek. ' To tell you the truth, Margie, 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 — that coarse linen which covered your
neck and arms, and I dreamed I wrenched it off and tore it
into shreds, and was going to tlirow myself out of the window,
when my maid woke me up and asked me what was the matter,
that I had cried out so in my sleep. I told her that I was Mar-
gery La Rue, living in Rue St. Honore, and wearing coarse
clothes, and she could not pacify me till she had brought my
prettiest dress, and showed it to me, with my turquoise ring,
papa's last present to me. That made it real — made me Rein-
ette Hetherton again, and I grew calm and quiet. It was very
foolish in me, was it not 1 '

Margery did not answer at once, but sat looking at her friend
with a queer expression in her groat blue eyes, while the lump
in her throat kept increasing in size, and threatened to thrust
out the fatal words which she must not speak.

>;)

i 1i

258

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

Turquois rings and pink silk dresses trimmed with real Val-
enciennes were far better suited to the proud, dashing Queenie
than coarse aprons and coarse fare in the Kue St. Honore.
These last were for her — for Ma/rgery, who was accustomed to
them and could bear it, while the high-spirited Reinette would
indeed dash herself to the ground, as she had thought to do in
her dream, if subjected to such degradation.

' No, no, I must never, never speak 1 God help me to keep
my vow ! ' Margery said to herself, while the drops of perspira-
tion stood thickly on her forehead and about her mouth, and
at last attracted Queenie*s notice.

* What is it, Margery 1 ' she said. ' Are you too warm 1 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 the words ' it might have been ' kept repeating them-
selves over and over again.

That evening Mr. Beresford called, and sending his card up
to both young ladies, 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 over- work and the l< is of sleep was the
cause assigned. But, shrewd and far-seeing as he was, Mr.
Beresford did not believe in the over- work 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 to the one given to Reinette ^e did not doubt ;
and with his suspicions strengthened. He was > irious to see the
girl and watch her with his new knowledge, which he felt al-
most certain she possessed.

The mother had confessed her guilt to her daughter, and how
would the daughter bear it and what would be her attitude to-
ward 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 expres-

MARGERTS ILLNESS.

259

•ion 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, accustomed to study the human
face and learn what he wished to know by its varying expres-
sions, looked closely but in vain for what he had expected to
find

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 no-
ticed before, and he studied her curiously and wondered if after
all he was mistaken, and the insinuations, amounting almost
to assertions, of the clerk in Mentone, false. How inexpres-
sibly 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 or
fascinated him most, the Pearl or the Diamond.

Both seemed to be at their best that night, and from both
he caught a new inspiration for the picture, which was pro-
gressing slowly, for he was so anxious about it and so particular
withal that he frequently painted out one day what he had
painted in the previous one. He had not intenddd letting
either of the girls know what he was doing until the picture
was finished, but under the spell of their beauty he grew com-
municative, and, telling them his secret, asked them to come
some day and see his work, and give him any suggestions they
saw fit.

' I do not think I quite understand the arrangement of a
French kitchen, but I do not need any help with regard to the
two little girls. I know just how they looked,' he said, and
Reinette, who was all enthusiasm about the picture, ex-
claimed :

* Indeed, sir, you do not, you cannot know how beautiful
Margery was, even in that high coarse apron which covered her
neck and arms. No picture you or any one else can ever paint
will be >s lovylj as she was, with her golden hair and great blue
eyes, which were just wonderful when wc changed dresses, and
I put. my scarlet vU.^k on her and said she was Mr. Hether-
ton'ir. irMf) daugbttr, and I was Beinette La Itue,'

260

QUEEN IE HETUERTON.

Mr. Beresford was not looking at Keinettc as she talked, but
at Margery, whose face grew very white and was even ghastly in
its expression when Reinette spoke of the change of dress and
name on the day they both played ' make believe.' About her
mouuh, too, there was a nervous, twitching motion of the mus-
cles, and her hands were clasped tightly together. Evidently
she was trying to suppress some strong emotion, though when
Reinette noticed her pallor and agitation, and asked what was
the matter, she replied that she was tired and the room was
very warm.

But this did not deceive Mr. Beresford, who felt certain now
that his suspicions were correct, and pitied intensely the girl
on whose innocent head, it might truly be said, the sins of her
father were being visited. He did not remain long after this,
but said good night to the two young ladies, telling Keinette
he was going to write the next day to Phil , who was in India
by this time ; and saying to Margery, that, as she lived in town,
and near to his studio, as he playfully called it, he should ex-
pect her to run in often and watch the progress of his picture.

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, ap Queenie had hoped it would. It
was very rarely that she ever laughed, even at Queenie's live-
liest sallies, and there was upon her white face a look of inex-
pressible sadness, as if there were a heavy pain in her heart,
of which she could not speak. To Reinette she was all sweet-
ness and love, and her eyes would follow the gay young girl,
as she [flitted about the house, with an expression in them
which was hard to fathom or explain, it was so full of tender-
ness, and pity, too, if it were possibly to connect that word
with a creature as bright and merry-hearted as "Queenie Heth-
erton was then. Towards 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

MARGERY'S ILLNESS.

261

watched you as I ha/e seen some naughty child watch its
mother to see if it was forgiven and taken again into favour.
I hope, Margery, you are not too hard upon her because of
that concealment from me. / have forgiven that, and nearly
forgotten it, and surely her own daughter ought to be more
lenient than a stranger.'

Reinette was pleading for Mrs. La F^ue ; and, as she went
on, Margery burst into a fit of weeping.

* Thank you, [Queenie,' she said v^hen 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 man-
ner toward her was that of a dutiful and affectionate child,
and when Mrs. La Rue asked : v

* Are you never coming home to me again, Margie 1 ' she
answered her :

* Yes, to morrow, or next day sure. I have left you too
long already. I know you must be lonely without me.'

* And are you going to stay — always — ^just the same V was
Mrs. La Rue's next question, to which Margery replied :

* Yes, stay with yeu always 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, Margie, my child, my child ! God will bless you
sure for what you are doing. Oh, Margie, if I could undo it all,
I would suffer torture for 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, re-
turn 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
t'^ere was a prospect of her ultimate recovery. Even Anna Fur-

ill '

262

QVEENIE BET HE RT on.

guson, with all her airs and pretences, and talk of city dress-
makers, had kept her work for Margery, and it was rumoured,
had even postponed her wedding that her bridal dress might
be made by the skilful fingers of the Freroh 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. It was dangerous to stay too long
amid the luxury and elegance of Hetherten Place. She might
not be able to bear what she had sworn to herself she would
bear, and so she said, ' I must go to-morrow at the very latest.'
But with the morrow there came to Reinette news so appalling
and terrible that Margery's plan was changed, and where she
had been cared for and comforted in her sickness and sorrow,
she staid to comfort and care for her stricken friend.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

POOR PHIL.

OTHING had been heard from him by any member of his
family since he left Rome and started for India, with a
friend whose acquaintance he had made on the voyage
from New York to Havre, and who, Phil, wrote in a letter to
his mother, had persuaded him to deviate a little from his first
intention to make his way directly to Calcutta, and to go, in
stead, for a week or more to Madras, where his friend's father
was living. This was the last news which had been received
from the young man, and, with her aunt and cousins, Reinette
was growing very impatient, and either sent or went herself to
the office after the arrival of every mail which, by any chance,
could bring her tidings of Phil. To Margery, during her stay
at Hetherton Place, she had talk:ed very freely and confiden-
tially of what had sent him away, and had more than once la-
mented the fate which had made him her cousin, and so, in her
estimation, precluded the possibility of her marrying him, even
if she were disposed to do so.

"aan

SaBHNHI

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Poor phil.

263

* And sometimes I think I am,' she said, one day , when speak
ing of him. * I don't mind telling you, Margery, because I tell
you everything. Since Phil, went a»vay, and I have missed him
so much, there has come to me the belief that I do love him in
the way he wished me to, and that if he were not my cousin I
would write to him at once, and say, '* You silly boy, come
home, and I will be your wife."'

* Yes,' Margery replied, regarding her attentively, with her
blue eyes unusually large, and bright and eager,*you really think
you love him well enough to marry him, it he were not your
cousin % *

* I know I do/ Reinette replied. * You see there is a thought
of him always with me ; morning, noon, and night I seem to
hear his voice, and see him as he stood before me that day
pleading for my love, and finally reproaching me for having so
cruelly deceived him, if I did not love him. Oh, Phil, Phil. —
he little knows how my heart has ached for him, and how
drearily my life goes on without him.'

There were tears in Queenie's eyes as she said this, and in her
voice there was a ring of unutterable tenderness and earnest-
ness as if she would fain have the wanderer hear her cry and
hasten back to her. For a moment Margery looked at her with
that same curious expression on her face, which was very pale,
and then she said :

' Do you think you love him so much that you would give a
great deal, or rather bear a great deal, to know you were not
his cousin, after alii'

It was a strange question — put, it would seem, without any
cause, but Reinette's mind was too intent upon Phil. To give any
thought to its strangeness.

* As I feel sometimes,' she answered, * I'd give everything not
to be his cousin so I could be his wife — endure everything but
disgrace or sJiame for Philip's sake. '

' Yes, yes ; disgrace or shame,' Margery said to herself, and
her heart was heavy as lead and ached with a new pain as she
thought, * God help me to keep my vow ; disgrace and shame
are not for her ; she could not bear them as I could, for the
man I loved ; ' and then suddenly there flashed into Margery's
mind a thought of Mr. Beresford, whose manner had been so
different toward her of late from what it was formerly.

264

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» He had always been courteous and polite, but since she came
to Hetherton Place, where he had called frequently, there had
been a change, and with a woman's quick instinct she saw that
she was an object of greater interest for him than she had for-
merly been — that his visits there were almost as much for her
as for Queenie, the heiress, the young lady of the house, who
teased and coquetted with him, and then, when he was gone,
laughed at him as a spooney to be coming there so often with
any thought that she could ever care for him after knowing
Phil. And Margery kept silent and hid her own thoughts in
her breast, and when evening came and Mr. Beresford with it,
felt herself grow hot and cold alternately, and her heart throb
with a new and pleasurable sensation as she met so constantly
the gaze of eyes in which there was certainly intense interest,
if not admiration for her, the poor dressmaker, the child of an
obscure Frenchwoman, without money or position, save as
Queenie's friendship and attention gave her something of the
latter in Merrivale.

' If he only knew; oh, if he only knew, then perhaps it might
be 1 ' was the bitter cry in Margery's heart, for she knew by
this time that she could love the proud, grave man, whose man-
ner toward her was more than kind — more than friendly — for
even to her it seemed to have in it something like pity and re-
gret for the gulf there was between them — a gulf she felt sure
he could never pass, educated as he had been in all the social
distinctions of rank and position.

It was hard to know what she knew and make no sigh ; but
she had s^orn, and she swore it again in the silence and dark-
ness of her chamber, the night after her decision to return home
the following morning. 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 be-
long to her — seemed like something she could adopt so easily
— seemed far more to her taste than the hard work at the cot-
tage — the stitch^ stitch, stitch, from morning till night for people
the majority of whom looked down upon her, even while they
acknowledged her great superiority to the persons of her class.

Mr. Beresford had spent the evening with them, and at
Queenie's earnest solicitation, Margery had played and sung for
him, while he listened amazed as the clear tones of her rich, mu-

POOR PHIL.

265

sical voice floated through the rooms, and her white hands fin-
gered the keys as deftly and skilfully as Qneenic's could have
done.

That Margery could both 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 am astonished that — that '

He did not finish the sentence, but stopped awkwardly, while
Marger}', who understood his meaning perfectly, finished it for
him.

'You are astonisLad,' she said, laughingly, 'that one of my
class should have any accomplishments save those of the needle,
and it is surprising. But I owe it all to Queenie. You remem-
ber I told you it was through her influence with her father that
T was sent to one of the best schools in Paris. I think i have
naturally a taste for music, and so made greater ;>roficiency in
that than in anything else. If I have pleased you w\th my play-
ing I am glad, but you must thank Queenie *'cr it, *

' Yes. ' Mr Beresford a^iswered, thoughtfully, looking cu-
riously at each of the young girls as they stood side by si do,
and trying to decide which was the most attractive of the two.

Queenie always bewilrlv^ved, and intoxicated, and bewiiohod
him, and made him feel v^ry small, and as if in some v/ay ha
had made hiixiself ridiculous, and she was laughing :X him with
her vonderful eyes, while Marge y, on the contrary, soot'ied
ar quieted, and rented him, and by her gentle deference of
m ner, and evident respect for whatever he said, fluttered his
seli-iove, and put hJi:^ in good humour.with himself, and during
hiF ride home that night he found himself thinking moie of he?
Tinned sweet face, and of the blue eyes which had lookfLioO

yly into his, than of Reinette's sparkling, brilliant beauty,
which seemed to grow more brilliant anf sparkling every day.

He had said to Mari^ery that he was glad she wavS to return
on the morrow, a)id that he hoped she would take enough in-
terest in his picture to come and see it often and criticise it,
too. And as he talked to her he kept w his the hand which he
br^d taken when he arose to say good-night, and ',/hiol). was very
Cfid, and trembled perceptibly as 1 lay in iiia broad, warm

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266

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

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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 the
first thrill of a certain kind she had ever experienced.

She was not mistaken, 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 then vowed more solemnly than ever before,
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 made her use, and the dainty slippers which
matched them, were laid away for the last time. She
should never wear such garments as these, for she should not
again be a guest at Hetherton Place. She could not with that
awful secret haunting her continually, and shrieking in her
ears. * Tell it, tell it, and not go back to that drudgery, and
dreariness, and the life which must always be distasteful and
hateful to you now.

She dared not put herself in the way of so much temptation.
She must stay in her place, and only come here when she could
not help herself for Queenie's importunities. She had enjoyed
it so much, and.had tried to imagine what it would be to live
in ease and comfort like this all the time — to have no care for
to-morrow's rent, or to-morrow's bills — to see no tiresome cus-
tomer coming in with her never-ending talk of dress, and the
last fashion, and the thread and sewing-silk, and pieces which
ought to have been sent home and were not — the assertion that
so much material never could have been put into one dress —
that there must be some mistake — must be yards lying around
somewhere, and the look which made her feel that she was sus-
pected of being a thief, who kept her customer's goods for
uses of her own.

All these indignities she had experienced at times, but had
laughed at them as something which belonged to her trade,

POOR PHIL.

267

which she had professed to like so much, and which she did
like, for there was a deftness and nimbleness in her fingers
which could only vent itself in such occupations.

But after three weeks' experience of a life so different ; after
knowing what it was to have every wish anticipated and grati-
fied, 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 she had thought so pretty, and so
much pretier a-^d pleasanter than any home she had ever known.
But it was not like Hetherton Place, and for a moment Mar-
gery's weaker nature held her in bondage, and her tears fell
like rain as she went from one thing to another, softly whisper-
ing her farewell. The sitting-room which had been given to
her, and which communicated with her bedroom, had been
Mrs. Hetherton's in the days when that proud laJv q eened it
over Merrivale, and on the walls were portraits of herself and
husband, the stern old man who had turned Grandma Fergu-
son from his door when she came to tell him of bis son's mar-
riage with her daughter, and to proffer her friendship on the
strength of the new relationship.

The pictures had a great attraction for Margery, who was
never tired of studying them, and for whom there was a won-
derful fascination about the lady, with her finely cut features
so indicative of blood and birth, and her quaint, old-fashioned
velvet dress, with its low neck, its short waist, and wide belt,
'and the beautiful hands and arms, with the rich lace and jewels
upon them.

Reinnette, on the contrary, professed the utmost indifference
to the portraits, except as they gave her some idea how her
father's parents looked.

' I think Mrs. Hetherton jubt as frumpy and fussy as she
can be, with those puffs piled so high on her head, and that lit-
tle short waist,* she said, once, when with Margery, shew as
looking at them. * And would have turned grandma Ferguson
out of doors twice when grandpa did it once, and yet I have a
pride in all that rich lace she wears, and the diamonds on lier
neck and in her ears, and am glad to know she was my grand-
mother, and highly born, as she shows upon the canvas.'

* You are a genuine aristocrat, Queenie,' Margery had said,

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268

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

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with a faint smile, and then she asked if there was any resem-
blance between Queenie's father and the portraits.

'Yes,' Queenie replied, 'he was like both his parents, but most
like his mother ; he had her nose, but his eyes were like father's.*

After this Margery gave more attention to the portrait of
Mrs. Hetherton, and on the morning when she was preparing
to leave, she stood a long time before it, saying once, very
softly, as if the painted canvas were a living thing : .

* Would you approve of what I am doing, if you knew ?
Yes, I am sure you would, if you knew Queenie as I know her,
and yet I'd like to kiss you once for the sake of — your dead
son,' she continued, and standing upon a footstool, she
pressed her lips to the fair, proud face, which did not seem to
soften one whit in its expression, in token that the great sacri-
fice the girl was making was apprehended or approved. * Good-
by to you, and you too,' Margery said, nodding to the picture
of Mr. Hetherton, and then taking her hand satchel, shawl,
and hat, she left the room, not expecting to return to it again,
for she was to start with Queenie for the village immediately
after breakfast.

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, dis-
mounting from his steed, which had evidently been ridden
very hard. It did not occur to her to wonder why David was
there so early.

' Some message from the young ladies for Reiuette, most
likely,' she thought, and a few moments after started for the
dining room, which she at first imagined to be empty, for she
saw no one and heard nothing. But as she advanced farther
into the room 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 cataleps}'.
At the sound of footsteps, however, she moved a little, and
when Margery went swiftly to her, asking what was the mat-
ter, she held the letter towards her and whispered faintly :

'Read it. .

B8ES

THE LETTER.

269

Very rapidly Margery ran her eyes over the letter, feeling
the blood curdling in her own veins as she read what it con-
tained, and when she had finished, saying :

' Alas, alas, poor Phil. ! '

CHAPTER XXX VIII.

THE LETTER.

T was written at Madras, and was from William Mather,
a young man who had been Phil.'s compagnon de voyage
from New York to India, and was as follows : —

* Mr. and Mrs. Rossiter : — Respected Friends : — I do not think
I am an entire stranger to yon, for I am very sure your son Philip
wrote of me to you in some of his letters. We were together in tho
same ship, occupied the same state-room, and, as we were of the
same age, and had many tastes and ideas in common, we soon be-
came fast friends. I have never met a person whom I liked so
much upon a short acquaintance as I did Philip Rosster. He was
so genial, so winning, so kind, so unselfish, and, let me say, with
no detriment to him as a man, so like a gentle, tender woman in
his manner towards every one, that not to like him was impossible.
He was a general favourite on shipboard, but he attached himself
mostly to me, whom he was good enough to like, and we passed
many hours in quiet conversations, which I shall never forget.

' My parents are American by birth, but I was born in India, in
Madras, whore my father has lived for many years, and where we
have a handsome home. Seeing in your son a true artist's love and
appreciation for everything beautiful both in nature and art, I was
anxious for him to see n)y home, which, with no desire to boast, 1
may say is one of the most beautiful places in Madras. I told him
about it, and begged him to accompany me thither before going on
to Calcutta, and he at last consented. I was the more anxious for
this as he did not seem quite well ; indeed, he was far from being
well, although his disease, if he had any, seemed to be more mental
than physical. Frequently during the voyage from New York to
Havre, he would go away by himself, and sit for hours looking out
upon the sea, with a look of deep sadness on his face, as if brooding

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270

QUEENIE nETIIERTON.

over some hidden grief, and once in his sleep, when he was more
than usually restless, he spoke the name Queenie — * little Queenie,*
he called her, and said he had lost her, but in his waking hours he
never mentioned her, I think, however, that he wrote to her from
my father's house at the same time he wrote to you. Probably you
have received his letter ere this. He was delighted with my home,
and during the few days he was with us improved both in health
and spirits. He was very fond of the water, and as I had a pretty
sailing boat and a trusty man to manage it, we spent many hours
upon the bay, going out one morning fifteen or twenty miles along
the coast to a spct where my father has some gardens and a little
villa. Here, we epent the day, and it was after sunset when we
started to return, full of anticipated pleasure in the long sail upon
the waters, which at first were so calm and quiet. Gradually, how-
ever, there came a change, and a dark cloud which, when we started,
we had observed in the west, but thought nothing of, increased in
size and blackness and spread itself over the whole heavens, while
fearful gusts of wind, which seemed to blow from every quarter,
tossed and rocked our boat as if it had been a feather. I think now
that Jack, our n;an, must have drank a little too much at the villa,
for he seemed very nervous and uncertain, and as the storm of wind
incrjased, and in spite of all our eflforts, carried us .:'wiftly out to
seu, instead of towards the coast, which we tried to gain, he lost his
r>elf-pos8ession entirely ; and when there came a gust of wind
stronger than any previous one, he gave a loud cry and sudden
spring, and then we were struggling in the angry water with the
boat bottom side up beside us.

* Involuntarily I seized your son's arm, and with my other hand
managed to get a hold upon the boat, which Mr. Rossiter and Jack
also grasped, and there, in the darkness of that awful night, we
clung for hours, constantly drifting farther and farther away from
the shore, for the gale was blowing from the land, and we had no
power to stem it. Far in the distance we saw the lights of vessels
struggling with the tempest, but we had no means of attracting the
attentiox\ of the crew, and our condition seemed hopeless, unless we
could hold on till morning, when we might be discovered and picked
up by some ship. For myself, I felt that I could endure it, and Jack,
too, but I .'eared for my friend. He was breathing very heavily,
and I knew his strength and courage were failing him, besides his
p':»sition was not as easy as mine, as he had a smoother surface to
cling to.

* '* It you can get nearer to me," I said, " I can support you with
one hand. Supj/ose you try it."

* He did irv. and made a desoerate effort to reach me, while I
held my hand toward him, and then— oh, how can I tell you the
rest ? — there came a great wave and washed him away

if'

THE LETTEB.

271

wliile

* I heard a wild cry of agony above the howling storm, and by
the lightning's gleam I caught one glimpse of his white face as it
went down forever to its watery grave. Of what followed, I am
scarcely conscious, and wonder how I was able to keep my hold
with Jack upon the boat till the storm subsided, and the early dawn
broke over the still angry waves, when we were rescued from our
perilous situation by a small craft going on to Madras. I cannot
express to you my grief, or tell to you my great sorrow. May God
pity you and help you to bear your loss. If there is a Q-yteenie in
whom your son was interested, and you know her, tell her that I am
certain that, whether waking or sleeping, she was always in the
mind of my dear friend, and that a thought of her was undoubtedly
with him when he sank to rise no more. Indeed, I am sure of it,
for his last cry, which I heard distinctly, was for her, and Queenie
was the word he uttered just before death froze the nam^ upon his
lips. You can tell her this, or not, as you see fit.

' Again assuring you of my heartfelt sympathy,
' 1 am, yours, most respectfully,

* William J. Mather/

And this was the letter the Rossiters had received and read,
and wept over — the mother going from one fainting fit into an-
other, and refusing to be comforted, because her Philip was
not. And then they sent it to Queenie, v^ho read it with such
bitter anguish as few have ever known, for in her heart she
felt she was guilty of his death. But for her he would not
have gone to that far-off land. She, with her cruel words and
taunts, had sent him to liis death. She was his murderer. She
whispered the word murderess to herself, and felt as if turning
into stone as she finished the letter and stood clutching it so
tightly, with no power to move or even to cry out. It was like
that dreadful phase of nightmare when the senses are alive to
what is passing around one, but the strength to stir is gone.
There was a choking sensation in her throat, as if her heart had
leaped into her mouth, and if she could she would have torn
the collar from her neck in order to breathe more freely.

When Margery came in she rallied sufficiently to pass the
letter to her, and that broke the spell and set her free from the
bands which had bound her so firmly. At first no words of
comfort came to Margery's lips. She could only put her arms
around her friend, and, leading her to her room, make her lie
down, while she stood over her, and rubbed her ice-cold hands,

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272

QUEENIE EETHERTON,

and bathed her face, which, though white as marble, was hot
to the touch, like faces burning with fever.

' You won't go 1 You Will not leave me t ' she said to Mar-
gery, who replied :

' Of course I shall not leave you. You stayed with me, and I
must stay with you.'

Later in the day, Mr. Beresford, who had heard the dread-
ful news, came to Hetherton PLce, bringing the letter which
poor Phil, had written to Queenie from Madras, and which,
together with one for his mother, had come in the same mail
which brought the news of his death.

When Queenie heard he was below asking for her, she started
from her pillow, where she had lain perfectly motionless for
hours, and pushing her black hair back from her pallid face,
said to Margery :

'Yes, I will see him. I musi see him. I must vent these
horrible feelings on some one, or I shall go crazy I Show him
up at once.'

Years ago Margery had seen Queenie in what she called her
< moods,' when her evil spirit had the ascendant, and she fought
and struck at anything within her reach, but of late these fits
had been of rare occurrence, and so she was astonished, on her
return to the room with Mr. Beresford, to see the girl standing
erect in the middle of the flcor, her nostrils dilated and her eyes
blazing as she had never seen them blaze before, as they flashed
upon Mr. Beresford, whoso heart was iuU of sorrow for her loss,
and who went toward her to offer his sympathy. But Queenie
repelled him ijirith a fierce gesture of both hands, striking, out
upon the air as if she would have struck him had he bs^en
within her reach.

' Don't speak" to me, Arthur Beresford,' she cried, and there
was something awful in the tone of her voice. *• Don't come
near me, or I may do you harm, I'm not myself to-day, I'm that
other one you have never seen. I know what you are here for
without your telling me. You have come to talk to me of
Phil., to say you are sorry for me, sorry he is dead ; but I will
not hear it. You, of all men, shall not speak his name to me,
euilty as you are of his death. 1 sent him away. 1 murdered
him, but YOU were the first cause ; you suggested to me the
cruel words I said to him, and which no man could hear and

THE LETTER.

273

not go away. You talked of ScirdanapcUuSf and efifeminacy,
and weakness, and lack of occupation, and every word was a
sneer, because, coward that you were, you thought to raise
yourself by lowering him, and fool that I was, when he came
to me and told me of a love such as you are incapable of feel-
ing, I spurned him and cast your words into his teeth and made
him loathe and despise himself and made him go away, to seek
the occupation, to build up the manhood you said he lacked ;
and now he is dead, drowned in far-off eastern waters, my Phil.,
my love, my darling. I am not ashamed to say it now. There
is nothing unmaidenly in the confession that I love him, love
him as few men have ever been loved, and I wish I had told
him so that night upon the rocks ; wish I had trampled down
that scruple of cousinship which looks to me now so small. But
I did not, I broke his heftrt, and saw it breaking, too ; knew it by
the awful look upon his face, not a look of disappointment
only ; he could have borne that, could have borne my rejection
of him ; few men, if any, die of love alone ; but there was on
his face a look of unutterable shame and humiliation, as if all
the manliness of his nature had been insulted by the taunts of
his womanish habits and ways. Oh, PhiL, my love, my love ;
if he could know bow my heart is aching for him and will Ache
on forever until I find him somewhere in the other world !
Don't speak to me,' she continued, as Mr. Beresford tried to
say something to her. * I tell you I am dangerous in these
moods, and the sight of you, who is the cause of my anguish,
makes me beside myself. You talked some nonsense once about
probcUionf you called it, waiting for my love. I told you then
it could not be. I tell it to you now a thousand times more
strongly. I would rather be Phil's wife for one second than
to be yours through all eternity. Oh, Phil, my love, my love,
if I could die and join him ; but life is strong within me, and
I am young and must live on and on for years and years with
that death-cry always sounding in my ears as it sounded that
awful night, when he went down beneath the waters with my
name upon his lips. Where was I that I did not hear it, and
know that he was dying 1 If I had heard it, if I had known
it, I believe I, too, should have died and joined him on his
journey through the shades of death. But there was no sig-
nal ; I did not hear him call, and laughed on as I shall never

2t4

Qt/EE^tE H^TH^BTOlr.

laugh again, for how can I be happy with Phil, dead in the
seal'

She was beginning to soften : the mood was passing off, and
though her face was pale as ashes, the glitter was gone from her
eyes, which turned at last towards Margery, who had looked
on in utter astonishment, wondering to see her friend so strangely
affected.

* Oh, Margie, Margie, help m& I don't know what I have
been saying. I think I must be crazy,' she said, as she stretched
her arms towards Margery, who went to her at once, and lead-
ing her to the couch made her lie down while she soothed and
quieted her until a faint colour came back to her face, and her
heart-beats were not so rapid and loud.

Across the room by the window Mr. Beresford was still
standing, with a troubled look upon his face, and seeing him
Queenie called him to her, and putting her icy hand in his said
to him very gently :

* Forgive me, if I have wounded you. I am not myself when
these moods are upon me. I don't know what I said, only this
I know, you must never think of me again any more than if
you had never seen me, for my heart is with Phil, and Phil, is
in the sea. Now go away, please, and leave me alone with
Margie.'

Mr. Beresford bowed, and, pressing the hand he held, said in
a choking voice :

* God bless you, Queenie, and comfort you, and forgive me if
anything I said was instrumental in sending PhiL away. He
was the dearest friend I ever had, the one I liked the best and
enjoyed the most, and I never shall forget him or cease to
mourn for him. Good-bye, Queeenie ; good afternoon, Miss
La Rue.'

He bowed himself from the room, and was soon riding slowly
homeward, with sad thoughts in his heart of the friend he had
lost and who seemed to be so near to him that more than once
he started and looked around as if expecting to see Phil's plea>
san^ face and hear his well-remembered laugh. Mr. Beresford
belonged to that class of men, who, without exactly saying there
is no God and no hereafter, still doubt it in their hearts, and,
by trying to explain everything on scientific principles, throw
a veil over the religion they were taught to hold so sacred in

\«

■)

THE LETTEtt.

276

their childhood. But death had never touched him very closely
or borne away that for which he mourned with a very keen or
lasting sense of loss and pain. His father had died before he
could remember him, and though his mother lived till he was
a well-grown youth, she had not attached him very strongly to
her. Ue had been very proud of her as an elegant, fashionable
woman, who sometimes came in her lovely party dress to look
at him before going out to some place of amusement, but he
had never been petted and caressed, and when his mother died
her place in the household was filled by a maiden aunt who ad-
ministered to all his physical wants better than his mother had
done, his sorrow was neither deep nor lasting, and in his ma-
turer manhood, when the seeds of scepticism were taking root,
he could think without a fancy that possibly there was beyond
this life no place where loved ones meet again and friendships
are renewed ; nothing but oblivion — a long, dreamless sleep.

But now that Phil, was dead — Phil, who had been so much
to him — Phil whom he loved far better than the cold, unsym-
pathetic elder brother who had died years ago, he felt a bitter
sense of loss, and pain, and loneliness, and as he rode slowly
home in the gathering twilight of that wintry afternoon, and
thought of that bright young life and active mind so suddenly
blotted out of existence, if his theory was true, he suddenly
cried aloud :

* It cannot be ; Phil, is not gone from me forever. Some-
where we must meet again. Death could only stupefy, not
quench all that vitality. There is something beyond ; there is a
ndlying point, a world where we shall meet those whom we
have loved and lost. And Phil, is there, and some day I shall
find him. Thank God for that hope — thank God there is a
hereafter.'

4 *

<*'*

•

276

QtTEENIE BBTHERTON,

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MOURNING FOR PHIL.

T was very, very bitter and deep, and all the more so be-
cause the blow had fallen so suddenly, without a note of
warning. At the Knoll there was a small and select din-
ner party the evening the letter came. Some friends from Bos-
ton were visiting in the house, and Mrs. Bossiter had invited
a few of the villagers to meet them, and in her evening dress of
claret velvet, with diamonds in her ears and at her throat,
looked as lovely and almost as young as in her early girlhood
when she won the heart of the grave and silent Paul Rossiter.
Dinner had been over some little time, and she was standing
with her guests in the drawing-room, when the fatal letter was
brought to her. She saw it was from Madras, and that the
handwriting was a stranger's ; and though it was directed to
her husband, who imme(Uately after dinner had wandered off to
his conservatories, where he spent most of his time, she opened
it unhesitatingly, feeling sure that it contained tidings of her
son, and feeling, too, with that subtle and unexplainable intui-
tion which so often precedes dreadful news, that the tidings
were not good. But she was not prepared for the reality. — not
prepared to hear that Phil, was dead ; and when she read that
it was so — that he would never return to her again, she gave
one' long agonized shriek which curdled the blood of those who
heard it, and who gathered swiftly around her as she dropped
upoB the floor in a faint so nearly resembling death that for a
little time they feared she was really dead. Fortunately, the
family physician was among the guests, and so relief was im-
mediate, or she might never have returned to consciousness, so
terrible was the shock to her nervous systeuL For hours she
passed from one fainting fit into another, and when these were
over lay in a kind of semi-stupour, mourning sadly at intervals :
* Oh, my boy I my boy ! my Phil, my darling — drowned —
dead — ^gone from me forever — my boy, my boy I "

MOURNING FOR PHIL.

277

)re so be-
a note of
lelect din-
from Bos-
d invited
g dress of
Br throat,
' girlhood
Rossiter.
1 standing
letter was
that the
rected to
jredoflFto
te opened
gs of her
)le intui-
tidings
ity. — not
read that
she gave
lose who
dropped
hat for a
ktely, the
was ivor
isness, so
ours she
lese were
itervals :
)wned —

If Mrs. Rossiter had a weakness it was her almost idolatrous
loye for her son. Phil, had been her idol, and if her husband
and both her daughters had lain dead at her feet and PhiL had
been spared to her, she would not have felt as badly as she did
now when she still had husband and daughters, but Phil, was
not Nothing availed to soothe or quiet her, and the house
which had hitherto been so bright and cheerful, and full of
gayety, became a house of sorrow and gloom. The servants
trod softly through the silent halls, and spoke only in whispers
to each other, while Ethel and Grace, with traces of bitter
weepine upon their fair, sweet faces, sat from morning till night
with folded hands, looking hopelessly at each other as if para-
lyzed by the awful calamity which had fallen upon them. They
were of no use to their mother, who lay in her darkened room,
refusing to see any one excepting her husband, whom she kept
constantly with her, and who gave no sign of what he thought
or felt. Quiet, patient, all-enduring, he sat by his wife's li^d-
side and listened to her moans, and did what she bade him do ;
left her when she said so ; returned to her when she sent for
him, and if he felt pain or grief himself uttered no word, and
never mentioned Philip's name.

Of Mr. Rossiter, or Colonel Rossiter as he was frequently
called, we have said comparatively nothing, as he has but little
to do with the story, except as the father of PhiL He was a
very peculiar man. Silent, unsocial, undemonstrative, and,
save his love and admiration for his wife, of whom he was very
proud and fond, apparently indifferent to everything except his
conservatories, of which he had four, and what they contained.
Had he been poor and obliged to earn his own living he would
unquestionably have been a gardener, so fond was he of
flowers and plants of every kind. He had walked miles through
the tangled glades of Florida, hunting for some new specimens
of ferns or pitcher plants, and his greenhouses were full of rare
exotics from every clime. Here, and in the room adjoining,
where he kept his catalogues and books of pressed leaves and
flowers, he spent most of his time, and if beguiled away from
his favourites for a few moments, he was, as he expressed it, * in a
deuced hurr^ to get back to them.' With nothing to do he was
always in a ^ deuced hurry,' and this saying of his had passed
into a proverb in Merrivale, and wherever he was known. It

P'*

278

QUEEN IE HETHERTON,

was in one of his conservatories that the news of his son's
death reached him. After dinner was over he had asked Lu
gentlemen guests to go with him and see a new kind of fern,
gathered the previous autumn in some of the neighbouring
swamps, and he was talking most eloquently of its nature and
habits when his wife's shriek reached him, and the next
moment a servant rushed in, exclaiming :

'Oh, sir, come quick, Mrs. Rossiter has fainted, and Mr.
Philip is drowned.'

' Drowned ! My son drownecT ! Did you say Philip was
dead 1 It will go hard with his poor mother,' he said very
calmly, as he put the pot of ferns carefully back in its placa
But the hand which held the pot trembled, and the palms
were wet with great drops of sweat, as he went slowly to the
room where his wife lay in a swoon. He was a small man,
and weak, too, it would seem, but it was he who lifted the
fainting woman up and bore her to her chamber and loosened
her dress, and took the diamonds from her throat and ears,
and the flowers from her hair, as quickly and skilfully as her
daughters could have done. There was a good deal of Phil, in
his nature, and he showed it in his womanly and quiet manner
at the sick bed.

* Poor Mary, I am so sorry for you,' he said once, and pressed
his lips to the forehead of his wife, who sobbed convulsively,
and clung to him as a child in pain clings to its mother.

But there were no tears in his eyes — no change in his man*
ner, as he went about his usual avocations and watered his
ferns nnd tended his orchids and picked off the dead leaves
from the roses and carnations, and smoked the lilies and roses
on which insects were gathering.

* Where have you been so long 1 ' his wife asked him once,
when he came to her after an absence of more than an hour.

' Been watering my ferns,' was his reply, and with a half re-
proachful sob his wife continued : '

* Ob, Paul, how can you care for such things with Philip
dead f

' I don't know, Mary,' he answered, apologetically. * I am
sorry if 1 have done anything out of character ; the little things
seem so glad for the water and if I was to let every dsucedfem.

MOURNJNO FOR PHIL

279

and orchid, and pitcher plant die, it would not bring Philip
back.'

Had he then no feeling, no sorrow for his son 1 Mrs. Rossi-
ter almost thought so ; but that night waking suddenly from a
quiet sleep, she missed him from her side, and raising herself
in bed, saw him across the room by the window, where the
moonlight was streaming in, kneeling upon the floor with his
face buried in a pillow he had lain upon a chair, the better to
smother the sobs which seemed almost to send his soul from
his body, they wore so deep and pitiful.

*Phil., Phil., my boy, how can I live without him 1 I was
so proud of him and loved him so much. Oh, Phil, they think
me cold and callous, because I cannot talk and moan as others
do, but Grod knows my bitter pain. God help me and Mary,
too. Poor Mary, who was his mother, and loved him, maybe,
more than I did. God comfort her and help her to bear, no
matter what I suffer.'

This was what Mrs. Rossiter heard, and in a moment she was
beside the prostrate man, — her arms were around his neck, and
his bowed head was laid against her bosom, while she kissed
his quivering lips again and again, as she said to him :

' Forgive me, Paul, if I have been so selfish in m}^ own grief
as not to see how you, too, have suffered. Philip was our boy,
Paul ; we loved him together, we will mourn for him together,
and comfort each other, and love each other better beeause we
have lost him.*

Then Paul Rossiter, broke down and cried as few men ever
cry, and sobbed till it seemed as if his heart would break, while
his wife, now the stronger and calmer of the two, supported
him in her arms and strove to comfort him. There was per-
fect accord and confidence between the husband and wife after
that, and Mrs. Rossiter roused herself to something like cheer-
fulness and interest in the world about her for the sake of the
man who, except to her, never mentioned Philip's name, but
who grew old and gray and bent so fast, and sometimes even
forgot to water his ferns and let them dry and wither in
their pots where they might have died but for his wife,
who took charge of them hergrlf, and gave them the care they
needed.

280

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

Like their father, Ethel and Grace were very quiet and un-
demonstrative in their grief, which was not the less acute for
that. A thought of him was always in their 'hearts, thouffh
they never spoke of him voluntarily, and always changed the
conversation as soon as possible when his name was mentioned.
But oh, how they missed him everywhere, missed his quick,
springing step upon the walk as he came in, bright and fresh,
and gay, from doing nothing — his cheery whistle, or snatches
of song, or the last new opera — his playful badinage, and all
the thousand little acts by which a good, kind brother can make
himself beloved. If they could have seen him dzu%x — if his
body could have been brought home and burieu in quiet Mer-
rivale, under the shadows of the pines, where they could have
kept his grave bright with flowers and watered it with their
tears — it would have been some solace for their pain. But
alas ! he had no grave, no resting-place, save those deep, dark
Eastern waters, and who could tell what horrid monster of the
deep might have torn and mangled his manly form ere it
reached the bottom of the sea 1 It was too horrible to think
of : and the faces of his mother and sisters grew whiter and
thinner each day, for each day they missed more and more the
young man who had been the sunlight of their home.

Poor Grandma Ferguson, too, was completely prostrated at
first with the suddenness of the blow, and could only sit and
cry like a little child for the boy whom she had loved so dearly,
and who bad always been kind and affectionate to her.

' No matter if I ain't nothin' but a homespun, uneddicated
critter : he never acted an atom ashamed of me, and when he
had some high young city bucks visitin' him he alius brought
'em to see me and get some of my strawberry shortcake or
mince pies,' she said to a neighbour who was trying to com-
fort her. * Poor Phil ! he neverAassed me but once, and then
he was a boy, and didn't know no better, and he was so sorry,
too,' she said : and she went on to relate the circumstance of
his coming to her the night before he went away to school, and
asking her forgiveness for the rude words he had said to her,
when she kissed him and called hiin her baby.

He was her only grandson, and her heart was very sore and
full of pain ; and, laying aside her brown silk dress, which she
had thought to wear at Anna's wedding, she clothed herself in

MOURNING FOR PHIL

281

deepest black, and thought and talked of nothing but her boy,
her PhiL, ' drowned in the Ingies.'

As for Anna, she cried herself into a sick headache the first
day, aitd declined to see her affianced husband, the Major,
when he called, fiut she received him the next day, and was
a good deal comforted by the beautiful necklace and pendant of
onyx and pearls he brought to her with a view to assuage her
grief, which was not very lasting. She had liked Phil, well
enough, and had been very proud of him, and his sudden death
was a great shock to her, but she liked the major better, or,
rather, she liked the costly presents he made her, and the posi-
tion he would give her when she became his wife, as she ex-
pected to do in a few weeks. The grand wedding, however,
which she was intending to have, must now be given up ; and
this, perhaps, added a little to her sorrow and regret for Phil's
untimely end.

Outside of his family, too, there was deep mourning for the
young man who had been so popular with every one, and of
whom it was said that he had not a single enemy. Every-
body had some pleasant memory of him, some kind word to
uay of him, even to old Becky Thomas, ab inmate of the poor-
house, who never forgot the hot August day when she was
toiling up the steep hill with a pail of huckleberries she had
been gathering, and which made her old arms ache with the
weight, PhiL had overtaken her in his light sulky and though
he did not know her name he knew she was some feeble old
woman with neither friends nor home save that provided by
the town.

She was tired, too, and faint, he saw, and the hill was long
and steep, and the pail she carried heavy, so it mattered little
to him whether it were a queen or a pauper. She was a woman
and old, and in an instant he dismounted from his seat and
was at her side and had her pail of berries in his hand before
she well knew what he was doing.

'My dear madam,' he said, * excuse me, but the sun is
hot and the hill is long, and you are tired, I see, so just let me
put you in the sulky and carry you home.'

Old Becky was, as she afterwards expressed it, ' all of a
tremble and struck in a heap.''

282

QUEBNIE HETHERTON.

* Good Lordy massv/ she exclaimed, shading her eyes with
her hand to look at the elegant young man whose appearance
contrasted so strongly with her own. ' How you skeered me,
Mr. Rossiter, I b'lieve it is. Thank you all the sanie, but I
can't git into the waggon and let you walk. I'm nobody but
old Becky Thomas, who has seen better days ; but I'm poor
enough now, and live at the — the—'

She hesitated a moment, while all her olden pride asserted
itself and she could not say poor-house, even though it had
been her home for years. But Phil, understood her, and re-
plied :

' Yes, I know. You have been unfortunate, as we all are
liable to be, and by no fault of yours are now an inmate of the
big white house over the hill where I may one day have to live
when I am old like you, and if I do I shall be glad if some
young person gives me a lift like this ; ' and taking the little
shrivelled woman in his strong arms he put her upon the seat
of his sulky. < Sit there and hold to the sides if you are afraid/
he said, as he saw how frightened she looked at finding herself
high in the air, and in close proximity to the heels of the fast
horse which seemed to her so restless and skittish.

With Phil, leading him, however, he was gentle enough, and
holding fast to the narrow seat, her elbows akimbo and both
her faded sun-bonnet and gray hair falling down her back,
Becky rode in triumph up the hill and into the yard of the
poor-house, whose inmates came out one after another to stare,
and wonder, and admire, as Phil, lifted Becky from her eleva-
ted position carefully and gently as he would have lifted the
daintiest young lady in Merrivale. This attention from Phil,
made Becky quite a heroine among her companions to whom
she recounted again and again the particulars of her meeting
with ^ the rich Mr. Rossiter, who wasn't too big feelin' to let
her ride in his gig while he walked and carried her pail of huckle-
berries.'

From that day onward Phil, was Becky's idol whom she
would, at any time, have walked miles to see, and for whom, on
Sundays, when service was over, she lingered about the doors
of the chuitsh hoping to get a bow from him or a kind word of
recognition. And now he was dead, and the old pauper wo-
man's heart was very sore when she heard of it ; and when, on

MOURNim FOR PHIL

the Sunday following, the bereaved family was prayed for in
church, her sobs were heard distinctly, as, in her seat by the
door she rocked to and fro and cried for the young man who
had been so kind to her.

In Becky's scanty wardrobe was an old faded black veil and
shawl, which she had bought years before when her husband
died and she wore widow's weeds for him. These she had
kept carefully folded away in a bandbox, with lumps of cam-
phor and yellow vwxS as a preventive against moths.

' I wish I could dress in moumin' for him,' she thought,
when she heard of Phillip's death ; and remembering the shawl
and veil, she took them from their hiding-place, and airing
them upon the clothes'-line to remove the odour of camphor
and snufif with which they were strongly impregnated, put them
on when she went to church, as badges of her grief for Phil.,
' who had taken her up the hill in his gig,' and called her
* madam,' too, when to everybody else she was old Becky
Thomas.

Hearing at last how crushed and heart-broken was the little
lady of Hetherton Place, and that there had been more than a
cousinly love between her and the unfortunate Phil., she ven-
tured to go there one day to tell the young lady how sorry she
was for her, and that she know just how it felt, for she, too,
had hat her beau when she was young. But lieinette refused
to see her. Indeed, she saw no one, not even Ethel and Grace,
who, when they heard of her distress, went to call upon her.

* They hate me, I know,' Eeinette said to Margery, who took
their message to her : ' and why should they not ) But for me
Phil, would never have eone away, and met that dreadful death.
Tell them it was kind m them to come, and that I am sorry I
killed him, but I cannot see them yet. It would bring it all
back so freshly, and I cannot endure any more.'

So Ethel and Grace returned to their home, and left Poor
Queenie to her sorrow which she did not try to overcome, and
which seemed to grow more bitter every day.

284

QUEENIE HMTHBRTON.

CHAPTER XL.

CHRISTINE GOES TO HETHERTON PLACE.

^UEENIE had read with a fresh burst of anguish Phil's
letter written to her from Madras — a letter full of ten-
derness and love, showing how he kept her still in his
heart as the dearest, sweetest memory of his life, and at the
close containing a few words of passionate entreaty that she
would overcome her scruples — would try to love him as he did
her, and bid him come back to her by and by.

*■ Not now/ he wrote, *■ not while I am iu.^a shiftless, aimless
block you were right to despise, but after jl have shown that
there is something in me besides a love of indolence and femi-
nine occupations. I know I can retrieve the past, and if I do —
if I come home a man, with a man's tastes and a man's ways,
will you reconsider, Queenie, and see if you cannot love me ?'

*• Yes, PhiL I would. I will,' Queenie sobbed, as she finished
reading this letter, which she covered with kisses, and then
kept under her pillow where she could find it when the fancy
took her.

Everything Phil, had given her or helped to make was
brought to her chamber where she could see it, for she refused
to go down stairs, but stayed constantly in her own room, some-
times pacing to and fro, but often jying down with her face to
the wall and her big eyes open day and night for she could
neither sleep nor cry, and her head seemed bursting with its
pressure of blood and pain.

* If I covM cry,' she said once to Margery, as she pressed her
hand to her throbbing temples, ' If I could cry, it would loosen
the tightness in my throat and about my heart, but I cannot,
and I am so tired, and faint, and sick, I shall never cry again
or sleep.'

And it would almost seem as if she spoke the truth, for no
tears came to cool her burning eyelids, and her eyes grew lar-
ger and brightjier each day, while sleep such as she once had

CHRISTINE GOES TO HETHERTON PLACE. 286

known had deserted her entirely. They gave her bromide, and
morphine, and chloral in heavy doses, but these only procured
for her snatches of troubled sleep, which were quite as exhaust-
ing as wakefulness, for she always sew before her that dark
waste of waters, with the white face of her lover upturned to
the pitiless sky, and heard always that wild cry ; that call for
her who had been his evil star. Every morning the family at
the Knoll sent to inquire for her, and every evening Mr. Beres-
ford rode oyer to Hetherton Place to ask how she was. And
sometimes he stayed for half an hour or more, and talked with
Margery, not always of the sick girl, or poor, dead Phil, but of
things for which each had a liking and sympathy — of pictures,
and statuary, and books — and Mr. Beresford was surprised and
delighted to find how intelligent Margery was, and how much
she knew of the literature of other countries than France.

' I always had a fancy for everything English or American,
particularly the latter,' she said to Mr. Beresford, one evening
when they had been discussing English and American authors,
and he had expressed his surprise that a French girl should be
80 well posted.

* You like our country, then 1 ' he said. * Did you ever wish
you were part or whole American instead of French ? ' and
he shot a curious glance at her to see what efifect his question
would have upon her.

For an instant her cheeks were scarlet, and then she turned
very white about her lips, and her voice was not quite steady
as she replied, * I pray God to make me content in that station
to which he has called me, and if he has willed it that I should
be French, then French I will remain forever.'

It was a strange answer, and seemed made more to herself
than to Mr. Beresford, who felt more certain than ever that
Margery knew what he suspected, and was bravely keeping it
to herself, for fear of wounding and humiliating Queenie. What
a noble woman she seemed to him, ftnd how fast the interest he
felt in her ripened into a liking during the days when he went
nightly to Hetherton Place, ostensibly to ask after Queenie, but
reidly for the sake of a few minutes' talk with Margery La Rue
who was fast learning to watch for his coming, and to feel
her pulses*quicken when he came, and taking her hand in his,
held it there while he put the usual round of questions with

i 'i!

286

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

regard to Queenie and herself, appearing at last almost as much
interested in her welfare as in Beinette's.

* You are overtaxing yourself/ he said to her one evening,

* You are growing pale and thin. Why, even your hand is not
as round and plump as it was,' and he gently smoothed the
white fingers which he held and which trembled in his grasp,
but did not withdraw themselves from him.

It was the dawning of a new life for Margery, this feeling,
that Mr. Beresford, the proudest man in Merrivale, found de-
light in her society and loved to linger at her side. It made
everything else so easy ; her life was not one of perfect rest, for
Queenie did not improve as the days went on, and to soothe
and quiet, and minister to her was not an easy matter. She
could Tiot sleep, and the physician who attended her was begin-
ning to fear for her reason, when she one day said to Margery,

* Where is your mother, Margie ? Why has she never been to
see me 1 Doesn't she care for me any more 1 '

* Yes, she cares very much,' Margery replied, * and she has
been here seve/al times to ask for you, but as you would not
see your cousins or grandmother, she did not suppose you
would see her. Will you, Queenie, would you like to see my
mother ! '

' Yes, send for her, I wish to see her,' was Queenie's answer,
and Pierre was dispatched to Mrs. La Bue, with the message
that Miss Hetherton was anxious to see her.

And so Mrs. La Rue went to Hetherton Place, und up into
the room where Queenie sat in her easy chair, with her face so
pale and pinched, and her eyes so large and bright, that the
impulsive French woman uttered a cry of alarm, and going
swiftly to her, threw her arms around her, and cried, ' Oh,
Queenie, my child, my darling, that I should find you so
changed.'

* Yes, Christine,' Queenie replied, freeing herself from the
stifling embrace. * I suppose! am changed. I feel it myself, and
believe I shall die if I do not sleep. Why I have not slept
since I heard Phil, was dead, and I have sent for you to hold
me in your arms, just as you must have done when I was a
baby, after mother died. Sing me the old lullabies you used
to sing me then, and maybe I shall sleep. I feel as if I should
— there is such a l^paviness about my lids and pressure on my

CHRISTINE GOES TO HETHERTON PLACE. 287

t as much

)" eyening,
and is not
>thed the
hisgrasp,

s feeling,
found de-
It made
it rest, for
to soothe
ber. She
as begin-
Margery,
' been to

she has
ould not
lose you

see my

answer,
message

up into
' face so
hat the
going
d, ' Oh,

you so

om the
elf, and
>t slept
to hold
. was a
u used
should
on my

i^rain. Take me, Christine. Play I am a baby again. I can't
be very heavy now,' and she smiled a faint, shadowy smile, as
she put up her arms to the woman, who took her up so gladly
and covered the wan face with kisses and tears, while she
murmured words of pity and endearment.

' There, there, that will do — it wearies me,' Queenie said,
and she laid her tired head upon Christine's shoulder and
closed her heavy eyeli<Is, * Rock me to sleep, Christine. Rock
me to sleep, as you did at Chateau des Fleurs/ she whispered
faintly, and sitting down in the chair, Christine rocked the
poor little girl, and sang to her, in a low sad voice, a lullaby of
France, such as she used to sing when, as now, the dark cuiiy
head was pillowed on her breast.

Attracted by the sound, Margery stole softly to the door and
looked in, but Christine motioned her away, and went on with
her song of < Mother Mary, guard my child,' until nature,
which had resisted every artifice and every drug, however
powerful, which had been brought to bear upon it, gradually
began to yield — the head pressed more heavily, the rigid nerves
softened, a slight moisture showed itself under the hair upon
the forehead, and the eyes, which had been so wild, and bright,
and wide open, were closed in slumber.

Queenie was asleep at last, and when Margery came again to
the door of the room and saw the closed eyes and the parted
lips, from which the breath came easily and regularly, she ex-
claimed :

' Thank God, she sleeps at last. You have saved her life —
or, at least her reason ; but let me help you lay her down.
She is too heavy for you to hold, and you are not strong.'

* No, no,' Mrs. La Rue answered, almost fiercely, with a
look in her eyes of some wild animal when its young is about
to be taken from it. * No, no, I will not give her up, now
that I have her in my arms. I am not tired. I do not feel her
weight any more than I did when she was a baby, and if I did,
think you I would not do it all the same — I who have so longed
to hold her as I do now, and feel her flesh against my own. Go
away, Margie, and leave us aione again.'

So Margery went away a second time, and busied herself be-
low with some work she had been persuaded to take, and part
of Anna's bridal trousseau, for that young lady had found by

ii!

r
m

288

QUEENIE HETHEItTOK.

experience that Margery, with her exquisite taste, was worth
all the dressmakers in Springfield and Worcester both, and had
insisted on her making the travelling dress, which was all there
was now to finish of the elaborate and expensive wardrobe for
which, it was said, the major's money paid.

And while Margery worked in the sitting room below, Mrs.
La Eue sat in the chamber above, holding the sleeping girl,
until her limbs were cramped and numb, and ached with intol-
erable pain, while rings of fire danced before her eyes, and in
her ears there was a humming sound, and a fulness in her head,
as if all the blood of her body had centred there. And stUl she
did not move, lest she would awaken the sleeper, but sat as
motionless as a figure carved from stone, sometimes shutting
her tired eyes, which were growing dim, and again fixing them
with a stearlv gaze upon the upturned face resting on her arm.

' Little Queenie, myQueenie,'she whispered once, and there
was a world of love and pathos in her voice : ' darling Queenie,
I have not held you so in many a long, long year. You are
very lovely, Queenie, even in your sleep, with "All the sparkle
and brightness gone from your face and your wonderful eyes
shut from view, but not as lovely as my Margie ; no, not as
beautiful as she, nor as good either. You could not do what
she is doing — bear what she is bearing for your sake. God
pity her, and forgive me, the guilty one, who has caused all
this sorrow ! *

Two hours had gone by, and Mrs. La Rue was beginning to
feel that her strength was failing her, when Queenie at last
awoke, and smiled up at her with a smile so like a happy, good-
natured infant's when it wakes to find its mother bending over
it, that the impulsive woman covered the little wan face with
kisses, sobbing like a child as she did so, and murmuring some-
thing which Reinette could not understand.

* There, there, Christine ; don't, you almost strangle mo ! '
she said, her olden pride reasserting itself, and rebelling against
so much demonstration from an inferior.

She could be very familiar with Christine when the mood
suited her, but she did not care for a like return. Still she
could not be harsh with the woman now, and withdrawing her-
self from the arms which lad held her so untiringly, she said,
very sweetly and kindly :

CHRISTINE GOES TO HETHERTON PLACE. 289

* I have been asleep, I am sure, and I feel so much better.
How good in you, Christine, to hold me so long. It must have
tired you very much. Thank you, dear old Christine ! '

And taking the pallid face between both her hands, Queenie
kissed it lovingly, thereby paying the tired woman for her two
hours' endurance.

Queenie was much better after that long sleep. The spell
which bound her so relentlessly was broken, and she improved
steadily both in health and spirits, but would let neither Mrs.
La Rue nor Margery leave her.

* I shall sink right back again into that dreadful nervousness
if you go away,' she said. ' I need you both to keep me up —
Margery to cheer me by day, and Christine to soothe me to
sleep at nighT, when the world is the blackest, and Phil's dead
face seems so close to mine that I can almost feel its icy touch,
and can hear his bitter cry for me. Only Christine's song can
drown that cry, which, I think, will haunt me for ever.'

So the two women staid a little longer. Margery busying
herself with the work which her former customers ^ rsisted in
bringing to her as soon as they heard she was free to do any
thing ot that sort, and Christine devoting herself to Queenie,
to whom she talked of the days when she first entered the ser-
vice of Mrs. Hetherton in Paris. Beinef^e was never tired of
hearing of her mother, and the same story had to be told many
times ere she was satisfied.

' it brings her so near to me to hear all this,' she said to
Christine, one evening, when they sat together by the firelight
in Queenie's room, and Christine had been describing a dress
which her mistress wore to a grand ball at which dukes and
duchesses were present. ' I like to think of her, beautiful as
she must have been in that lovely dress, and happy, too, I am
sure, though you have sometimes talked as if she were not al-
ways as happy as she should have been — as if my father were
sometimes remiss in his attention. But I know he loved her
very much, though he might not have shown it before you.
Men are different from women. Did he never pet her in your
presence 1 '

* Oh, yes, sometimes, and called her his little Daisy — that
was his pet name for her,' ChrisAine replied, and Keinette
rejoined :

290

qUEENIE EETEERTON,

* Daisy is such a sweet name. I wish it were mine, though
Queenie does very well. I like pet names so much, don't
you?'

Mrs. La Bue was gaziog steadily into the fire with a look of
deep abstraction in her face, and did not at once reply, and
when at last she did she said, more to herself, it would seem,
than to her companion :

* Yes, yes — he used to call me Tina.*

' Tina,' Reinette exclaimed, ^ starting suddenly, while like
a flash of lightning there shot through her brain the memory
of the long black tress she had burned, and the letters whose
writer had signed herself Tina. * Who used to call you Tina ? '
she demanded. * Was it your husband, Mrs. La Rue 1 '

Not a muscle of Christine's face moved, nor did her voice
tremble in the least as, without withdrawing her eyes from the
fire, she replied :

' Yes, my husband ; there was more sentiment in his nature
than one would suppose from seeing him. He was very fond
ol me at times.'

' Tina is not a common pet name,' Keinette continued.
* Did you ever know any other Tina besides yourself 1 '

* Never,' was Christine's emphatic answer, and she looked
curiously at the young girl, and felt the blood rushing to her
cheeks. |

But her face was in the shadow, so that Reinette could not
see it, and as Pierre just then came in bringing candles and
tray with his mistress' supper upon it, the conversation was
brought to a close, nor was it resumed again, for after tea Mar-
gery came up and sat with Reinette and her mother until the
latter asked to be excused, and retired to her room.

TINA,

291

CHAPTER XLI.

TINA.

EINETTE kept saying the name over to herself after
Margery left her, and when at last she was in bed, it
repeated itself again and again in her brain, while a
horrible suspicion, the exact nature of which she could not de-
fine, was forcing itself into her mind. To sleep was impossible,
and with all her old wakefulness upon her she tossed restlessly
from side to side until she heard the clock strike one.

' I cannot lie here,' she said, and putting on her dressing-gown
she drew her chair to the grate where the fire which Pierre had
replenished just before she retired was burning ; she sat down,
and with her face buried in her hands, began to think such
thoughts as made the drops of perspiration stand thickly upon
her forehead and about her lips. ' Tina, Tina ; ' that was the
name of the woman or girl whose tress of long black hair she
had burned, and whose touch, as it clung to her fingers, she
could feel even now, shuddering as she felt it, and throwing out
her hands with a gesture of loathing as if to thrust it from her
as she had thrust it that day when she found it in the letter.

* Your little Tina,' the writer had called herself, and had
asked if Mr. Hetherton was wondering why he did not hear
from her 1

* Who was this Tina ? ' Reinette asked herself.

Not Ohristine ; surely not Christine, for that would be too
horrible. Christine was uneducated. Christine had been a
peasant girl, her mother's maid, and it was not like a proud
man like Frederick Hetherton to think of such as she. There
were other Tinas in the world, other Christines, who bore that
pet name. The writer of the letter, the owner of the tress
was some bright-eyed, bright-faced girl of humble origin, per-
haps, who had caught her father's fancy for a few days and been
flattered by a kind word from him, who, possibly, was for the
moment more interested thai> he ought to have been. That

392

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

was all : there was nothing more, and she was foolish to be so
disquieted.

Thus Queenie reasoned, or tried to, but all the time a terri-
ble fear was tugging at her heart, and she was living over again
that dreadful death scene on the ship when her father made her
swear to forgive him whatever might come to her knowledge. She
had thought at first that he meant her American relations, of
whom he had never told her, and she had forgiven that long
ago. Then camet the mystery concerning Christine and her con-
cealment of her identity : but Reinette had recovered from that
and had charged it to some offence which had made her father
angry. Margery had told her as much, or had told her there
was some cause for the concealment, but had said distinctly
that for what Margery would consider the greater wrong her
father was not to blame, and so she banished every unpleasant
thought from her mind, and was beginning to like Ohnstine so
much when this name Tina was th:rust upon her and awakened
anew all her old suspicions; aye, awakened them tenfold,for never
had she writhed under them as she was writhing now, as she
sat alone in her room while the clock struck the hours two and
three, and the fire in the grate grew lower and grayer, and the
winter night seemed to grow blacker and colder around her.

At last, when she could keep still no longer, she arose, pacing
the room hurriedly, beat the air with her hands, as she was
wont to do under great excitement.

* What is it I fear ) ' she asked herself. ' What is it I sus-
pect % Let me put it into words, and see if it sounds so very
dreadful that I should break my heart over it I fear, I sus-
pect that Christine Bodine, in her girlhood — when, I dare say,
she was rather pretty and piquant — attracted my father more
than she ought to have done. Such people are very ambitious and
susceptible, too ; and if my father was at all familiar in his
manner toward her, she probably was flattered at once, and may
be cheated herself into the belief that he was in earnest, and
meant to marry her, when such an idea never existed in his
brain. She probably wrote to him, and, like a gentleman, he
answered, and at last made her see how mistaken she was in
supposing he could ever think of her after having known my
mother. And then, by way of amends, he settled that money
upon her. Yes, that is probably the fact of the case,' she con-

TINA.

293

tinned, and the tightness around her heait >:ave way. She
could breathe more freely, and her hands ceased to beat the
air, until like lightning there flashed into her mind :

' But where was Mr. La Rue, and where was Margery, when
Christine wrote these letters to my father, if write them she
did 1 Margery is not much younger than I am. Christine told
me she was married soon after mother died, and that father
was angry about it, as it took her from me. Oh, if I onlv
knew the tru i — and I can know it, in part, at least, by read-
ing thoseietters which I hid away that day, swearing never to
touch them, unless circumstances should seem to make it ne-
cessary : and it is necessary, I am sure it is. I must know the
truth, or lose my mind. I am so unsettled since poor Phil
died, and to brood over this will make me crazy in time. Yes,
I must know who was the Tina who wrote those letters to fa-
ther.'

Reinette had reached a decision ; and, lighting her candle,
she opened the door of the closet where she had hidden the
letters mouths before. There was the box on the upper shelf
just where she had left it, and where she could not reach it
without a chair. This she brought from her room, and stepping
into it, stood a moment looking at the box, on which the dust
lay 80 thickly, while a feeling of terror besan to take posses-
sion of her, and she felt as if the dead hand of her father were
clutching her arm and holding her back, when she would have
taken the box from the shelf.

* I don't believe I'll do it,' she said, as she came down from
the chair with a sense of that dead hand's touch still upon her
arm. ' It seems just as if father were speaking to me and
bidding me let the letters alone. I wish I had burned them
when I found them, and then I should not be tempted. And
why not burn them now, and so put it out of my reach to read
them 1 ' she continued, as she stood shivering before the hearth
and listening to the storm which was beginning to beat against
the windows.

February was coming in with gusts of snow and the shriek of
the wild north wind, which swept furiously past the house, and
seemed to Eeinette to have in it a sound of human sobbing.
She thought of her father in the quiet grave-yard in Merrivale,
^th the tall pine overhanging his grave — of her mother, far off
S

294

QUEEN IE UBTBERTON.

\. 1' '

in Rome, where the violets and daisies blossom all the year
round — and of Phil, asleep beneath the Eastern waters, with
nothing to mark his grave, and her heart ached with a keener
pain than she had ever felt before as she stood in her slippers
and dressing-gown and shivered in the cold, gray, winter night.
And always above everything else the name of Tina, was in her
mind, with a burning desire to solve the mystery and know who
this Tina, was, and what she had been to Mr. Hetherton.

* I may as well burn them first as last,' she thought, and go-
ing again to the closet and mounting upon the chair, she took
the box from the shelf, and carrying it to the fire, sat down
upon the floor and began to open it.

There were four boxes in all, one within another, and Queenie
opened each one till she came i^o the last and smallest, where
lay the envelope containing the three letters.

'There can be no harm in glancing at the hand-writing, and
then if I ever see Christine's, as I sometimes may, I shall know
if they are same,' she thought, and took out the yellow, time-
worn package which seemed to her so different from anything
pertaining to herself or her surroundings.

The paper was coarse and cheap, and the handwriting
cramped and stiff, like that of an uneducated person doing her
utmost to write well, and Queenie shrank from it, and only held
it between her thumb and finger as she examined it more closely,
.and read her father's name upon it But looking at the outside
begat an intense longing to know what was inside — to have her
doubts confirmed or scattered to the winds, and at last she
made a desperate resolve, and jerking her arm which it seemed
to her the dead hand still held firmly, she said, aloud :

* I shall read these letters now, though a thouijltnd dead hands
held me.'

Queenie felt herself growing very calm as she said this, and
though outward the storm raged with greater fury, and the
sobbing of the wind was wilder and louder than before, she
neither heeded nor heard of it, for she had opened the letters
one by one, and selecting that which bore date farthest back,
began to read. And as she read on, and on, and on, she for-
got how cold she was — forgot that the fire was going out — ^for-
got the fearful storm which shook the solid foundations of the
great house, and screamed like so many demons past the wind"

the year
Bra, with
a keener
slippers
er night,
as in her
low who
m.

and go-
}he took
at down

Queenie
b, where

ing, and
ill- know
w, time-
ny thing

writing
ing her
ily held
closely,
outside
lave her
ast she
seemed

hands

IS, and
ad the
re, she
letters
) back,
he for-
; — ^for-
of the
wind-

THE LETTERS.

295

ows — forgot even that Phil, was dead in the Indian sea, so
horrible were the sensations crowding upon her and overmas-
tering every thought and feeling save her one dreadful conviction
that now she knew her father's secret — knew who Tina was,
and that the knowledge paralyzed for the time every other sen
sation.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE LETTERS.

I HEY 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 very
obscure lodgings, for in the first letter, written not very long
after Mrs. Hetherton's death in Rome, she said : ' The rooms
suit me exactly, for few ever come to occupy the lower floor,
and the old concierge is so blind and deaf that I go in and out
without attracting notice, which is what I am anxious to do at
present. 1 have found a trusty woman to stay with me, and if
I could see you sometimes 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, and in you as the best of hus-
bands. Oh, does she know f does she see me 1 Sometimes I
think she does — 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.'
Keinette whispered, faintly, while a prickly sensation was in
every nerve, and her lips quivered convulsively.

Aud 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, aud even
hinted at a vague hope for the future, when she might be ao-

296

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

knowledged by him as his wife. It was in this letter that she
called herself am liiile Tina^ and wrote : ' I have been sick most
of the time since you were here, and that is why I did not an-
swer your letter at once. You were so kind to mo and treated
me so much like a lady that I cannot help hoping you mean to
do me justice. But why wait 1 Why put it off until I am con-
demned by the world 1 I was good and innocent once, and
there must be still some goodness in me, or J should not hate
myself as I do at times, and wish that I was dead. Oh, if you
would take me to Chateau des Fleurs as your wife. I would
serve you so faithfully. I would be your very slave and make
up to you in love and fidelity what I lack in culture. In a lady's
dress I should look like a lady. You yourself say I am very
pretty. Tou are the first who ever told me so, and that was the
beginning of all the sin which followed. You praised my eyes
and hair in your last letter, and said you should not be likely
to forget me, if you could have them with you as a reminder
of me. I cannot send you my eyes, but I can a lock of my hair,
which I cut this morning when making my toilet'

' That's the tress I burned.' Queenie whispered, feeling as if
she, too, were burning and writhing on live coalc just as the
lock of blue-black hair had writhed and hissed in the flame.

But she had not finished yet. There was still another letter
— the last and the longest. 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, and her teeth chattered like the
teeth of Harry Gill, as she devoured the contents of the letter,
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, written
in November, and showing great physical weakness on the part
of the writer.

Dear Mr. Hetherton,' it began. * I have been very sick, 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 our dear little girl
who was born two weeks a^o, and who now lies sleeping at my
side.'

THE LETTERS.

297

r that she
sick most
id not an-
id treated
11 mean to
I am con-
once, and
not hate
Dh, if you

I would
and make
n a lady's
[ am very
it was the
1 my eyes

be likely
reminder
f my hair,

eling as if

ust as the

flama.

her letter

svery hair

f burning

' like the

he letter,

Qe before,

nough to

who, she

the real
', written

the part

y sick, so
ould die,
jely to be
little girl
ng at my

* What I ' Reinette exclaimed, aloud, clasping both hands to
her forehead, as if a heavy blow had fallen there. ' What does
she say 1 A little girl bom in Marseilles — born to Christine
Bodine, that was — that was — Margery V

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 uncon-
scious shn 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 re-
member 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 and loathing she had at first experienced. Mar-
gery was that little girl born in Marseilles, and whom Christine,
the mother, was sure Mr. HethortonVould love, because he was
so fond of children.

* Yes, that is Margery,* she said, ' and if so, then Margery
is my sister, for she is my father's daughter, and not M. La
Eue's Margery ; Margery, whom I loved the first time I saw
her up in that forlorn room ; whom I have loved ever since,
more and more. l^Iargery, Margery, my sister, my sister ; if
anything could reconcile me to my father's guilt, it would be
this, that through his sin I have Margery. Does she know, I
wonder 1 Did Christine tell her that day she was so suddenly
taken ill, and is that the reason she has seemed so different
since 1 seemed almost afraid of me, as she has at times ) Yes,
she knows, and I shall tell her that I know, too, and drive that
idea of shame from her mind. She is not to blame. No one
c^n censure her, or cast a slight upon her, for she is my sister^

^ppi

.!l i

298

QVEENIE HE2HERT0N.

and I shall proclaim her as such, and hring 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, or rather hiding there, for it was a hiding from
the world ? She could not have cared for me so 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 for what she
is, and shall deal with her accordingly.' ^

Such, in substance, were Reinette's thoughts as she sat shiver-
ing 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 drop-
ped from her nose while she was unconscious, and which added
to her unnatural appearance. The stains from 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 strangely enough, in spite of the wild excitement under
which she was labouring, there was stealing over her a heavy
stupor which i^he could not throw off, and when at the usual
hour Pierre came to make her fire, he found her sleeping so
soundly that he stole softly out and left her alone. An hour
later Margery looked in but Queenie was still asleep, nor did
she awaken when, as cautiously as possible, a fire was kindled
in the grate to make the room more comfortable, for the morn-
ing was bitterly cold, and the frost lay thickly upon the win-
dows. Margery could not see Queenie's face^^ as it was turned
to the wall, and partly covered with the sheet, and so she had
no suspicion of the frightful storm which had swept over the
young girl during the night, and no presentiment of the still
more frightful storm awaiting her when she awoke. The letters
which had wrought so much harm lay upon the table, and
Margery saw them there, but did not touch them or dreamed of
what they contained. She saw, too, the dressing-gown on the

TEE LETTERS.

299

re with me,
ler father's
I endure to
had lost in
e was false
was living
iding from
long after
;o Chateau
i. I have
r what she

sat shiver-
light crept
ctly in the
ggard face
es almost
nuuth and
had drop-
lich added
r face she
br a fresh
and faint,
ent under
5r a heavy
the usual
leeping so

An hour
), nor did
us kindled
the morn-

the win-
as turned

she had

1 over the
the still

he letters
;able, and
reamed of
«rn oa the

floor where Queeni<? had left it, and picked it up and laid it
over a chair, vKthout noting the stains upon it, and put the
little French-heeled slippers near it, and brushed the hearth,
and heaped fresh coal upon the grate, and then went quietly
out and closed the door, leaving her friend to the sleep which
lasted until the clock struck ten. Then, with a start, Queenie
awoke, and opening her eyes, looked about her with that a gue
sense of misery and pain we have all felt at some period of our
lives, when the first thought on waking was, ' What is this
which so weighs my spirits down ? 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 sobbing cry escaped her as she whispered : *

' I thought him so good and true, and now I know him to
have been so bad — false to mother whom he neglected and de-
ceived — false to Christine, whom he ruined and forsook, and
doubly false to Margery, his own child, whom he repudiated
and disowned. Why did he not bring her home like a man
when I first found her, and told him of her, and asked him to
educate her because she was so pretty, and I loved her so dearly 1
Why did he not say to me, * Queenie, I have sinned —have done
a great wrong to a poor, uneducated girl — a wrong which many
people in this country wink at as of too common occurrence to
be noticed, but which, nevertheless, is a sin, for which I am
sorry and would make amends. Little Margery La Rue whom
you love so much is your sister. Christine Bodine is her
mother, but I am her father, and I wish to bring her home to
live with you, and share equally with you as if no cloud of
shame hung over her birth. Will you let her come, Queenie "?
Will you take her for your sister 1 ' Oh, if he had done this I
should have understood it, and 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 .mtural 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 :

! «

i h

u«

300

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

* Excuse me, Margie, if I do not let you in. I have slept
heavily, and am not yet quite myself. I shall be down as soon
as T am dressed. I hope you have not kept any breakfast for
me. I am not hungry.'

But Margery did not heed her, and when at last she descended
to the dining room she found a most tempting breakfast set for
her in the large bay-window where the south sunlight came in
pleasantly, for the storm of the previous night had subsided,
and as the morning advanced the sun broke through the cold
gray clouds and shone with unusual brightness. In a slender,
silver vase Margery had put a white Easter lily from the
conservatory, while by the side of Queenie's plate there lay a
beautiful carnation pink with a few leaves of the sweet rose
geranium, the whole sending a delightful perfume through the
room. And Queenie, who was very susceptible to creature
comforts, saw it all and took it all in, and could not feel quite
as miserable as she had up stairs in her own room, where the
surprise and pain had come upon her so crushingly. But she
had no appetite, though for Margery's sake she tried to drink
a little coffee, and picked at the delicious cream toast which
she ordinarily liked so much.

* You are sick this morning,' Margery said, looking curiously
at her as she sat making a pretence of eating. ' You are 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 than she had since she first
heard Phil, was dead. Grasping Margery's hand she sobbed
hysterically for a moment, though no tear came to cool her
aching eyeballs.

' I mustr not give way,' she said. * I must not, for I have a
great deal to do to-day — a great deal to bear. 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 dis-
turb us there, and we must be alone. Call your mother, Mar-
gie, I cannot wait.'

What did it mean, and why was Queenie so strange this
morning, like one unsettled in her mind ^ Margie asked herself,

THE LETTERS,

301

bve slept

as soon

i'ast for

iscended
b set for
came in
ibsided,
>he cold
slender,
•om the
re lay a
eet rose
igh the
ireature
el quite
ere the
3ut she

drink
which

riously
re pale
Oh,
hil. as
y drew
g hair

le first
3obbed

01 her

as she went in quest of her mother, whom she found in her
room, and 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 not 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 very
peculiar expression as they fixed themselves on Mrs. La Rue.
It was the same chair and the same position Queeuie had occu-
pied 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 Queeiiie'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 went up to her and said :

* What is it ? What can I do for you. Petite i '

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, with her knowledge of the woman's sin fresh in her
mind, 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 presume to touch me, or come near me. I don't
know whether my head aches or not. Only this I know, 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 — the story you meant
to conceal. You are Ttna, the shame-faced, who wrote those
letters to my father and sent him a lock of your hair ! '

have a

your

bring

ill dis-

Mar-

this
erself,

302

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER XLIII.

QUEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

'HIS was not at all the way in which Queenie had in-
tended to commence. She was going to skirt round the
secret — come to it gradually — or, as she had expressed it
to herself, * hunt Christine down.' But when she saw her, and
remembered the mother who had been so wronged and deceived
even on her death-bed, her hot, passionate temper rose up at
once, and she blurted out what she knew, and than waited the
result. It was different from what she anticipated. She had
expected Christine to crouch at once at her feet and, cowering
before her, confess her guilt, and sue for pity and pardon. But
Christine did nothing of the sort. Quiet and gentle as she
usualiy seemed, there was still within her a fierce, fiery spirit,
which, when roused, was something akin to the demon which
ruled Queenie in her moods. When charged with being Chris-
tine Bodine she was worn in mind and body, and had shown
only nervousness and agitation, for Queenie had not approached
her then as she did now. There was no loathing, no hatred, in
her manner when she said, * You are Christine, my old nurse.*
She had merely been excited and reproachful ; but now she was
angry and disgusted, and proclaimed the woman's sin with so
muQh bitterness, and shrunk away from her with so much
loathing that Christine was roused to defend herself, though at
first she was stricken dumb when she heard of the letters which
she remembered so well, and which would tell what she had
kept so long. Standing but a few feet from Queenie, she gazed
at her a moment, with a pallid face, on which all the worst
emotions of her nature were visible. And when at last she
spoke, it was not in the low, half-deprecating, apologetic voice
natural, or rather habitual to her, but the tone was loud, and
clear, and defiant, in which she said :

* What do you mean ? What letters have you seen, and
where did you find them ?

QUEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

303

and

Her manner, so different from what had been expected, made
Queenie still more angry, and she replied with all the sternness
and dignity it was possible for her to assume :

* It does not matter to you where I found them. It is suffi-
cient that I have found them, and know your barefaced treach-
ery, and how you deceived my mother who trusted you so im-
plicitly, and who died believing you to be good, and honest, and
true to her, when all the time you were black to the core and
were carrying on an intrigue with my father. I believe, how-
ever, I could forgive the crime for the sake of what it has given
me, were it not for the faithlessness to my mother. That I
cannot forgive. You knew when you held her dying head on
your bosom that you were a traitor, a vile woman whose touch
was pollution. And yet you dared lay your hands on her dead
form, dared care for her baby, and kiss it with lips fron: , aich
all innocence and purity had fled, and then you wrote to my
father and called yourself his little Tina, as if you really sup-
posed he could care for you ! Don't you know it was only a
wicked passion ? there was no love in it, no respect, or it would
not have died so soon. Men never love women like you, and
my father was not an exception. He cast you off as we do a
worn-out garment ; he hated the thought of you, hated himself
for his sin, and repented so bitterly. I see it all now — under-
stand his remorse on shipboard before he died. He was think-
ing of the past and you^ and the thought was like a scorpion,
stinging him to madness and making him long to confess to me,
his daughter, the wrong he had done my mother. But he
could not, weak as he was then and worn, he could not look me
in the face and say, " I was false to your mother ; " could.not
tell me that, when he knew how much I loved and honoured
him, but he made me promise solemnly to forgive him if I ever
found it out, and I promised, and I'll keep the promise, too,
though just now I feel hard and bitter toward him, and were
he living I should rebel against him so hotly and say I never
could forgive him, as I never can you, whom I loved and res-
pected, but whom I now know to be false in everything. You
nave made me believe a lie from first to last, until I can credit
nothing you have told me, and am ready to doubt if your name
is really La Rue, or if that man were your husband.'

304

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

■I

* He was my husband. I never deceived you there/ Chris-
tine exclaimed.

' But he was not Margery's father/ Reinette continued, hold-
ing her breath for the answer, which did not come ab once.

While she had been talking so rapidly Christine had stood
rigid and immoveable, with a strange look upon her face and
a gleam in her dark eyes such as mad people sometimes wear
when they are becoming dangerous. Queenie's sudden and
unexpected attack had so confounded and bewildered Christine
that she felt her brain reeling and was conscious of a feeling
as if she were losing control of herself and would not long be
responsible for what she said. When Queenie spoke of M. La
Hue as one who possibly was not her husband she roused in
her own defence and answered back ; but at Queenie's next
question she hesitated, while the blood came surging into her
face, which was almost purple in spots, before she replied :

* Noy he was not Margery's father. She has better blood in
her veins than his, Queenie Hetherton,' and the woman's voice
was hard and pitiless, while the gleam in her eye was wilder
and more like a maniac.

* Queenie Hetherton, if you drive me too far I may say
what 1 shall be sorry for, and what you will be sorry to hear.
The worm will turn when trodden upon, and a miserable wretch
like me will not be pressed too sorely without trying to defend
herself. I am wicked and sinful, it is true ; but God knows
what I have suffered for my sin — knows of the years of an-
guish and remorse when I would have so gladly undone the past
if I could, but it was too late. You have found those letters,
it seems. Your father was foolish to keep them ; he ought to
have burned them, as I did his, but — but — the fact that he did
not tells me he cared more for me than I supposed — that in his
proud heart there was something which bound him to me, lowly
born as I am,' and over Christine's face as she said this there
came a smile of pleasure and gratification in the thought that
Frederick Hetherton had kept her letters, even though they
had failed to produce any result

The look made Queenie angrier than she had been before,
for she interpreted it aright, and her pride rose up against it*

* My father never cared for you,' she said. * It was only a

QVEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

305

passion, a fancy, which would never have existed at all, if you
had not tried to attract him.'

' It is false I ' Mrs. La Rue exclaimed, taking a step forward,
with flashing eyes, before which even Queenie quailed. ' It is
false. I did riot try to attract him. The wrong was on his
side. He sought me, a weak, ignorant girl, who at first was
frightened and bewildered, then flattered and pleased that the
proud American could find pleasure in my society. I was not
bad then, or had a thought of badness in my heart, and you,
Queenie — you, of all others— should not speak to me as you
have done. Margery did not, and hers is the greater wrong.'

' Then you have told Margery ! ' Reinette exclaimed, and be-
fore Mrs. La Rue could answer, Margery herself came to the
door, asking :

'Did you call me, Queenie) I thought I heard my name.'

' No, no,' Mrs. La Rue almost screamed, as she turned like
a tigress upon Margery. ' Go away, girl. I tell you, go away.
I am losing my senses, and with you both standing here, and
Queenie talking to me as she has talked, I shall tell what I
have sworn not to tell. Go away, Margery — go ! '

But Margery did not move except to advance a little farther
into the room, where she stood, with a blanched cheek and
wondering, frightened eyes, gazing first at her mother and then
at Queenie, who stretched her arms toward her, and with
quivering lips, and a voice full of unutterable pathos and love,
said :

' You are my sister. Come to me.'

But Margery did not move, and her face grew whiter and
more death-like, as she whispered to her mother :

* Sister I she calls me sister I What does she mean 1 Have
you told her ? Does she know it all, and still call me sister ? *

' Hush, Margie. No, she does not know it all,' Mrs. La
Rue replied ; and, sinking into a chair and bowing her head
upon her hands, Margery exclaimed :

* Thank God for that ! Oh, Queenie, I don't know what you
know or how you learned it ; but if you love me, if you care
for your own happiness, seek to know no more. Let the matter
end here. If you believe I am your sister, love me as such ; I
shall be content with that.'

QVEENtE HETMERTOlf.

■*: I

'is

She did not look up, but sat with her head bowed down as
if with grief or shame. Queenie thought it the latter, and
leaving her chafr she crossed the room to where Margery sat,
and kneeling beside her, wound both arms around her neck
and said, so lovingly :

* Margie, my sister ! I know you are that — know you are
my father's child — and I love you so dearly that the taint upon
your birth shall make no difference with me. You were not
to blame, my darling. You had no part in the wrong ; it was
my father, may God forgive him* and this woman, who I am
sorry to say is your mother, and whom I cannot forgive.'

' This woman ! ' and Christine's voice rang out awfully clear
and distinct, as she threw her arm towards the two girls.

* Say no more of this vjoman, nor pity Margery because she is
her mother ; Margery's parentage is as good as yours. Yes,
better, Queenie Hetherton, for she is Frederick Hetherton's
own child, and you *

She did not finish the sentence, for with a wild cry, Margery
put Queenie's clinging arm's from her neck, and rushing swiftly
to Christine, laid her hand upon her lips.

* Mother, mother,' she cried, in a voice of intense entreaty,

* are ybu mad ? Have you forgotten your vow, your promise
to me 1 Will you kill Queenie outright 1 '

* Kill her 1 No. She is not the kind which such things
kill,' Christine answered, fiercely, as she pushed Margery from
her. ' You ask if I am crazy. Yes, and well may I be — I
who have kept this horrible secret for so many years. Twenty
and more — twenty and more ; kept it since you were born.
How old are you Margery 1 How long since you were born
in Rome 1 There's a buzzing in my brain, and I do not quite
remember.'

She was softening a little, and taking advantage of this
Margery took her hand to lead her from the room, saying very
gently, ' Poor mother, you are not right to-day. Come with
me and rest ; and you, Queenie, don't mind anything she may
have said. She is not responsible when she is this way.'

* But I do mind,' Queenie said, stepping before the door
through which Margery would have passed. * I do mind, and
I cannot forget. Christine has said strange things to and of

QUEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

307

[own as
^er, and
ery sat,
er neck

you are
at upon
rere not
it was
10 I am

ly clear
girls.
9 she is
L Yes,
tierton's

Margery
swiftly

itreaty,
)romise

things
ry from
[be— I
Twenty
9 born,
re born
»t quite

of this
ig very
le with
)e may

door
d, and
and of

me — things she must explain. If you are Frederick Hether-
ton's ovon child, as she affirms, and were born at Romey who
am IV

* I tell you she is not in her right mind, and you are not to
believe what she says,' Margery replied, trying to put Queenie
aside, so that she might lead her mother from the room.

But Queenie kept her place by the door against which she
leaned heavily, while her breath came in quick gasps, and her
voice was unsteady as she said again, and this time to Chris-
tine, whose eyes were fastened upon her, holding her by a
strange spell she could not resist.

* Tell me, Christine,' Queenie said, ' and as you hope for
pardon hereafter when you stand with me face to face with
God, is Margery my sister t '

' Yes, Margery is your sister,' Mrs. La Rue replied, still hold-
ing Queenie with her awful eyes. * Margery is your sister —
your father's child.'

' My father's own lawful child ? ' was the next question, and
then Margery cried out, * Oh, mother, have pity, have mercy ;
remember all it involves, and how much I love Queenie ! '

' Hush Margery. Be still, and let me know the worst, Rein-
ette said, lifting her hand with the manner of one who would
be obeyed at any cost. ' Tell me, Christine, she continued,
* Is Margery the lawful child of Frederick Hetherton 1 '

* Yes, she is.'

* And was she born in Rome ? '

* Yes, she was born in Rome, and her mother waa Margaret
Ferguson, Christine replied, without the slightest quaver in her
voice or change of expression in her pitiless face.

Margery had released her hold of the woman's arm and sank
upon the floor, where she sat with her knees drawn up,
her arms encircling them, her head resting upon them, and her
whole body trembling as with an ague chill. She had done
all she could to avert the calamity. She had tried to save
Queenie from the blow which she knew would fall so crush-
ingly, and she had failed. Her mother was a maniac for the
time being. She had lost all control of herself, and was doing
what she had sworn never to do. She was telling Queenie,
and Margery was powerless to prevent it.

308

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

I I -'3

* Margaret Ferguson's daughter i ' Queenie repealed in a
whinper, which, low as it was, sounded distinctly through the
room, and told how the young girl's hear was rung with a mor-
tal fear as she continued : ' then who am I, and who are you ?

For a moment there was a death-like silence in the room, for
Christine, half crazed though she was, shrank from declaring
what she knew would be the bitterest dreg in all the bitter cup.
How could she tell the truth to that young girl who had been
so proud of her blood and of her birth, and who even in her
pain when every limb was quivering with nervous tread and ex-
citement, stood up so erect before her like one bom to command.
But she must do it now ; she had gone too far to recede — had
told too much not to tell the whole, and when Queenie asked
again * Who am I, and who are you 1 ' she answered, * / am your
mother / ' but she said it very softly and low, for her heart was
full of a great pity for the girl, over whose face there came that
pallid, grayish look which comes upon the face of the dying
when the death pang is hard to bear, and who writhed a mo-
ment in agony as the insect writhes when put upon the coals.
She was still looking fixedly at Christine, though she did not
see her, for there was a blackness before her wide open, star-
ing eyes, and in her ears there was a sound like the roar of
many waters, when the skies overhead are angry and dark.
For a second the scene around her had vanished away. She
did not see Margery upon the floor, with her arms still encircl-
ing her knees and her head bowed upon them — did not see the
woman standing so near to her, and who had spoken those
terrible words, but strangely enough saw the far-off Indian sea
and Phil.'s white face as it sank beneath the waves with a wild
cry for her upon his lips. Mechanically she put up her hand
to brush that vision away, and then the present came back to
her with all its horror so much worse than the death of Phil,
had been, and she remembered the words Christine had spoken.
* I am your mother ! '

* My-my-my-m-mo-th-er,* she tried to say, when she could
speak, but the words died away upon her white, quivering lips
in a kind of babbling sound, which was succeer'^'^ by a hysteri-
cal laugh so nearly resembling imbecility that Margery looked
up, and a cold shudder curdled her blood as she saw the face

QUEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

309

could
Qg lips
ysteri-
ooked
e facQ

from which all resemblance to Queenie had vanished, and on
which that ghastly, meaningless laugh was still visible.

Struggling to her feet she wound her arm around Queenie,
saying to her mother as she did so :

* You have destroyed her intellect. You have made her im-
becile/

But Margery was mistaken. Queenie's mind was not des-
troyed, though for many hours she remained in that condition,
when her reason seemed to be tottering and her white lips had
no power to frame the words she wished to say. They did not
send for a physician, though it was Christine's wish to do so ;
bui Margery said :

* No, we will not parade this secret before the world. I can
bring her to herself if any one can, and when I do I shall, if
possible, pursuade her that it is all a delusion of her brain —
that she did not hear aright. Oh, why did you did tell her 1
Why did you break your promise ? '

* Because I was angry, was beside myself, was crazy, and did
not know what I said,' Christine replied. ' Her manner to-
ward me provoked me more than her words, and roused in me
a demon which would not be quieted, and so I told her all ;
nor am I sorry. I knew it would come to this some time ; that
in one of my moods I should betray myself, and I have, and,
notwithstanding the misery it has brought to her, I am happier
than I have been for a single moment since I first conceived
the idea of hiding you from your father for the sake of gain to
lay own child.'

'Yes, but Queenie will find it hard to forgive you for the load
of shume you have put upon her/ Margery said, and Mrs. La
Bue replied :

' I know she will, and I am sorry for her, and still I am so
glad — so glad \ for now I carry no dreadful secret to make my
days so full of pain and my nights one long black horror. I have
told the truth, and can call her my daughter now — my child —
my baby ; for she is my own flesh and blood — the little black-
haired creature which lay in my arms and flashed her bright
eyes on me — on me — her mother, her mother.'

And as she said this, Mrs. La Rue's face glowed with excite-
ment and her eyes shone with all the fire of her fresh girlhood
when Frederick Hetherton had told her she was pretty. Mar-
T

310

QUEENIE HETHERTOK.

! 1'' |.

■u:

'i 3

gery had been dear to her as her own life, which she would at
any time have given for the girl whom she had so wronged ;
but with her confession there had swept over her a great wave
of mother-love and tenderness for the poor little girl who, in her
own room, whither Margery had taken her, sat in the great
easy-chair, motionless as a stone, with her hands lying helplessly
upon her lap, and her eyes, from which all the sparkle and
brightness were gone, looking always from the window across
the snov/clad hills and meadows to the spot where the tall
evergreens marked the burial-place of the dead. Sometimes
Margery went and spoke to her. But Queenie did not answer,
until late in the afternoon, when Margery came and stood
between her and the window. Then she said, entreatingly :

* Move away, please. I am looking over to where father lies,
and thinking of all he said to me before he died. Oh, Margie,'
and the poor little pinched white face quivered and the voice
was very sad and piteous, ' is a lie to the dead worse than a
lie to the living ? I told him I would forgive him, whatever
it was, and I cannot, I cannot, and my heart is so bitter
and hard toward him and hety and all the world except you.
Oh, Margie, Margie, you will not turn against me. You will
love me just a little, even if I am a child of shame. I could
not help it, and I love you so much. I would have stood by
you in the face of the whole world ; stand by me, Margie, will
your

She was looking at Margie with her heavy, pleading eyes,
and her hands were lifted in supplication as she spoke,
while her voice told how abased and humiliated she felt. In a
moment Margery knelt beside her and was covering the feeble
hands with tears and kisses as she said : ' Queenie, Queenie,
my love, my darling, will I stand by you ? Will I love you \
As well ask if the sun will rise again as to question my loVe
for you, my sister. It is very sweet to call you thus, even
though a shadow lies over us now ; but that will pass away.
There is brightness beyond — brightness and happiness, too —
and Queenie, you must not believe all mother said. She is not
in her right senses. She knows it now, and wonders at her-
self. You may believe I am your sister, but not the rest —
the part which touched you the Ciosest — because it cast a blot
on your birth — because —

QUEENIE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

311

will

' Hush, Margery/ Queenie said, vrithdrawing her hands from
Margery and leaning back wearily in her chair. ' You can-
not deceive me into bielieving that Christine did !iot tell me the
truth for she did. I am that child born in Marseilles. Mar-
garet Ferguson was your mother; Christine Bodine \%mine.*

Here a shudder ran through Queenie's frame so long and
deep that her teeth chattered as if she were seized with a chill,
and both her hands and lips were purple with cold. After a
pause she continued :

' I think the hardest part of all is losing all faith in father.
I cannot forgive him, though I promised him I would. Ho had
no right to bequeath me such a heritage of sliame. If he had
left me in obscurity, where I belonged, it would have been
better ; but now the fall has crushed me utterly. And, Mar-
gery, what of you 1 How came you in that garret — you, the
lawful daughter of the house, while I, the baseborn, was raised
to such a giddy height of prosperity that in my foolish pride
I held myself better than the most of mankind ] Why was it ?
Do you know 1 *

* Yes,* Margery replied, ' I know ; but it will be better for
mother to tell you.'

' Mother ! Do you call her mother still ? ' Queeuie asked,
and her voice expressed all the bitter scorn which she then
felt for the woman who had so injured her.

* Yes, I call her mother still,' Margery answered, softly.
' She is all the mother I have ever known, and, whatever may be
her faults, I shall always call her mother ; but I do not think
she expects you to. You cannot.'

* No ; oh, no, I cannot ; my idea of mother was so diffcient ! '
Queenie cried ; then, with a long-drawn sigh, i,he continued.
* Where is she, Margie 1 She must tell me'all about it — about
you, I mean. Ask her to come up.'

312

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

\ ■,[

Si -'.

CHAPTER XLIV.

CHRISTINES STORY.

11 1;

ARGERY found her mother in the library, standing by
the window with that gloomy, abstracted look upon
her face which she had so often seen there before she
learned the cause and knew of the keen remorse always
gnawing at her heartstrings and making her life so wretched.
Christine had done the worst she could do to Queenie. She
had told her the truth ; and though a great burden was lifted
from her, and in one sense she felt freer and happier than she
had felt in years, she was weighed down with a sense of shame
and regret, and filled with a dread of the future. That Queenie
could ever love or even respect her, was impossible, reared as
she had been in a very hot-bed of pride and aristocracy, and
taught from hor infancy that such as Christine Bodine were
creatures of an entirely different grade from herself.

* She may compel herself to be civil to me,' Christine thought,
' though I ought not to hope for that ; but if she only knew
how much 1 love her, and how the affection, smothered so long,
has grown since I confessed myself her mother, she would for-
give me, perhaps. Oh, Queenie ! my child ! my child ! why
was I left to sin as I did, and, having sinned, why did I not
end ray life, as I have thought to do so many times, and so
make the telling impossible. It won Id have been compara-
tively easy then, but now I shrink from it, and death is not
the^ desirable condition it once seemed to me. I must live now
for Queenie, even if she hates me forever.* .

'Mother,' Margery said just here, and with a start Christine
turned toward her ; ' Mother, Queenie wishes to see you —
wishes to hear the story you have to tell. Will you go to her
now?'

' Yes, yes,' Mrs. La Rue replied, in a frightened, trembling
voice, for there swept over her a great fear of the girl to whom
she must tell her story, and grasping Margery's arm she whis-

CHRISTINE'S STQRY.

313

iding by
»ok upon
sfore she
always
rretched.
e. She
as lifted
than she
)f shame
Queenie
'eared as
lacy, and
ine were

thought,
ly knew
so long,
3uld for-
d ! why
I I not
and so
ompara-
>h is not
ive now

Ihristine
you—
to her

embling
whom
le whis-

pered, * Does she hate me ? Will she scorn me ] Will she
make me feel that I am but the dust beneath her feet ? Oh,
Margie, go with me. I cannot meet her alone. She is so hot,
so imperious, so proud, so different from you, who have never
reproached me, except for her sake. Come, Margie, you must
go, too ; and if she is too hard upon me, say a word for me,
will you, Margery ? '

She was like a child shrinking from the rod, and Margery's
heart ached for the woman who had sinned so deeply, and who
clung to her nervously as they went up the stairs together to
Queenie's room. Pierre had been there before them, full of
concern for his young mistress, whose sudden and strange ill-
ness he did not understand.

' What is it, mademoiselle ? ' he asked ; ' Is it still Monsieur
Philip which makes you so bad, when I thought you were
growing better 1 *

* No, Pierre, Queenie answered, * It is not that which ails me
now. Death is easy to bear compared with this which has
come upon me, for that has no disgrace or shame. But go
away now, good Pierre, by and by I will send for you and tell
you all, and you will not desert me, I am sure of that. We
will stay together.'

He did not comprehend her at all, but when she bade him
go a second time he left her, meeting on the stairs Margery
and Mrs. La Rue, and shrewdly connecting them in some way
with Queenie's strange sickness. As they entered the room,
Queenie lifted her heavy eyes to them, but made no sign of
friendly recognition to Christine, who, like some guilty culprit,
sank into a chair, where she sat shaking in every limb, and
white to her lips which moved convulsively.

After the first glance at her, Queenie shut her eyes and said
languidly and slowly, as if speaking were wearisome, * I wish
to hear how it happened, .tbout Margery and mo. You will
skip all sickening details as something irrevelant to the subject,
and tell me only of Margery and myself; tell me why she was
desertea and left to live in the Rue St. Honors, while I was
taken to Chateau des Fleurs and treated as the lawful daughter
of the house. That is all I wish to know, I will not hear a
wcwd of what went before Margery's birth at Rome. I should
hate you both, father and you.'

314

QUEENIE EETHERTOK.

While Queenie talked she did not once look at Christine, but
sat with her eyes closed and her whole attitude one of extreme
weariness. But she heard Margery as she was stealing from
the room and called to her to come back.

* You must stay with me, Margery,' she said, * I want you
here close to me — want to hold your hand so that I can feel
there is something left when all else slips from me.'

So Margery came back and sitting down by Queenie with
one of the hot, feverish hands in hers, caressed it occasionally
as Christine told her story, beginning as Queenie had desired at
the time when Margery was born in Rome.

' It was not until my mistress was dead,' she said, * and I sat
with her baby in my arms, that the horrible temptation to
which I afterwards yielded was suggested to me. I knew Mr.
Hetherton's great love for children, or rather his desire for a
child of his own, and had once heard him say that if none were
born to him he would adopt one from the street, rather than
have a childless home. Of Margery's expected birth he knew
nothing, for his wife had purposely kept it from him to make
the surprise and pleasure greater when it did come to him.
He had not seen her in months, and had no suspicion of the
existence of the little girl whom my mistress committed to my
charge with her dying breath. We had lived very quietly in
Bome, and few knew or cared for the young mother who died
alone with me. But when she was dead and I was beside my-
self with not knowing what ^ » do, strangers kindly came for-
ward and when they heard that Mr, Hetherton was far away
in Austria or Russia, I did not know which, they took the
matter in hand and buried h^r in the Protestant burying-ground
in Rome, but left me to do wiiat I pleased with the baby. I
should write to my master first, I said, and then take it to
Chateau des Fleurs, there to await his arrival. But I did not
go to the Chateau. I went straight to Paris, to an old woman
whom I had known for years, and to her I intriisted the child,
telling her it was mine, and hiring her to care for it until I
was in a position to claim it. She asked me no questions,* for
the gold I paid her was a conclusive argument in my favour,
and would, I knew, insure kind care for the child.

* My next step was to go to Chateau des i'leurs to await the
coming of my master, for I had written him from Rome, tell-

CHRISTINE'S STORY.

315

ine, but
Bxtreme
ng from

mt you
can feel

lie with
sionally
3sired at

nd I sat
ition to
lew Mr.
ire for a
ne were
ler than
le knew
bo make
to him.
of the
i to my
ietly in
10 died
ide my-
me for-
tr away
ok the
ground
iby. I
ce it to
did not
woman
child,
until I
>ns,* for
favour,

ait the
le, tell-

ing him of his wife's death, and my intention to return to the
Chateau with whatever effects she left in my care. The letter
was some time in finding him ; but on its receipt, he hastened
home at once, and for a day or two seemed crushed with grief
and remorse. Then for a short time he drank hard and deeply,
and kept his room, where bottle after bottle of wine and brandy
was sent, and in his drunkenness he was more like a brute than
a man.'

* Oh, don't tell such things, please don't ; it hurts me to hear
them, and I thought him so good,' came faintly from Reinette,
as she leaned back still more heavily in her chair, with her face
as pale as ashes, while Margery's eyes were full of tears, and
her lips quivered in a grieved kind of way.

Heretofore she had felt no affection for this man whom she
knew to have been her father, but whom she had never known.
Henri La Rue, rough and uneducated as he had been, had been
kind to the little girl, whose parentage he never suspected, and
she remembered him alone as her father. Bat now, as she
listened a second time to this story of her infancy, something
of Queenie's affection for the proud and sinful Frederick Heth-
erton communicated itself to her, and she, too, felt hurt and
wounded to hear such things of him.

' After his drunken revel was over,' Christine continued,
* and he was himself again, I had an interview v/ith him, and
pressed my claim upon him. so vehemently and passionately,
that, as a result, he gave me money to secure lodgings in Mar-
seilles, where I had once lived when a little girl, and for which
I had a fancy. Before going there, however, I paid a visit to
old Florine, and saw Margery, who was thriving well, and evi-
dently had the best of care. Then I went to Marseilles, where
your father visited me once, appearing so kind ar^d even affec-
tionate, that the wild hope rose within me, tnat one day I
might be his wife. But I lived to see that hope blasted and
trampled on with scorn and contempt.

" On the twentieth day of October, Queenie was born ; and
oh, my child, don't hate me when I tell you how th- sight of
you filled me with love and pride, for I thought I saw in you
a means of advancement in your father's favour. I knew his
fondness for children ; and though he had often expressed a
preference for a boy, I hoped the sight of you, who then looked

316

QUEENIE HETHERION,

80 much like him, would reconcile him to a girl. I wrote
him as soon as I was able — wrote the letter which you found
— and it brought him to me, or rather you brought him, though
he swore because you were not a boy, and seemed to blame me
for it. But he loved you from the first ; and when 1 begged
him to take you home as his own, he listened thoughtfully
awhile, and then partially consented, but spurned the plea I put
in for myself

* " Christine," he said, and I can see now just how proud and
handsome he looked as he stalked up and down the room,
" you must be very weak to suppose for a moment that you
could ever come to Chateau des Fleurs other than as a servant
— a nurse to the child. Men of my stamp do not marry girls
like you. Bad we may be ourselves, but we demand that our
wives shall be pure and good, and such you are not. I'll admit
that I am far more to blame than you, but you can never be
my wife, though I will care for the child. It is lonely at
Chateau des Fleurs ; a baby's voice and baby's prattle will make
it more endurable. I have wanted a child so much, and if
Margaret had left me one I should be so glad — so glad."

* You will not believe me if I tell you that when I heard this
my first impulse was to fall at his feet and tell him of the little
girl in Paris. But I had gone too far to confess. He would
never have forgiven me, and all my ambitious schemes would
have come to naught. I had no hope for myself ; his impe-
rious manner and cold, disdainful words crushed all that ; but
I felt I could endure everything to see my child a lady, and I
begged him again to take you, whatever he might do with me.
And he consented at last, but bade me stay where I was until
I heard from him again. !^e wished to make some change in
his household, he said, for if he took you home, it would be as
the child of his dead wife. I was only the nurse, who might
or might not be retained ; it would depend upon myself.

* Then he left me, and I knew I was no more to him than a
cast-oflf garment, of which he was tired, and that, in whatever
arrangements he might make, no thought for me or my comfort
would actuate him. And I was right, as the result proved
afterward.

* On quitting Marseilles he went straight to Chateau des
Fleurs, and, on one pretext or another, dismissed all the ser-

CHRISTINE'S STORY.

317

des
ser-

vants in his employ, filling their places with a fresh supply from
Paris — strangers to him, who knew nothing of his past life, and
who readily believed him when he told them of his wife who
had recently died in Rome, and of his little daughter whom he
was to bring home with her nurse. A huge nursery, which
communicated with his apartments, was fitted up with every
possible luxury. And then he bade liie come ; and I obeyed,
and took you to him as the heiress of the house, his lawful
child, which I was only the head nurse — for he aped royalty
and hired another Woman to look after you, simply giving me
the post of looking after her.

* I remember so well the day I took you to the Chateau. It
was in January, and you were nearly three months old, and
had already learned to notice what was passing around you,
and to laugh in the faces of those who petted you. I had put
on you one of the many dainty white dresses he had ordered
for you — had brushed and arranged your thick black hair
which lay in rings all over your head, and then I laid you in
your crib with the satin linings and lace hangings, and waited
for his coming, but waited in vain, for though he knew I was
in the house, and had been for hours, he kept aloof from me
and took his dinner, and read his paper, &^d smoked his cigar,
and then at last, when I had given him up for that day, he
sauntered into the nursery with that air of elegant indifference
and superiority so natural to him. I had not seen him since
his visit to Marseilles when you were a few weeks old, but t e
simply bade me good-evening, and asked if I had found every-
thing in readiness. Then he walked up to the cradle and stood
gazing down at you. You had been asleep, but were now
awake and looked up at him with those great black eyes, which,
even at that age, seemed to read one's very soul, they were so
searching and bright. You always awoke good-natured, and
you laughed in his face as he bent over you, with that pretty
cooing sound which babies make when they are content and
happy, and whether it was an accident, or whether some intel-
ligent impulse stirred you, I know not, but you raised your lit-
tle white, fat hands toward him as if asking him to take you,
whicii he did. He lifted you in his arms, kissed your lips, and
laying your head upon his shoulder, said : " My daughter, my
child, my heiress, Reinette Hetherton."

Ifi

318

QUEENIE HETHERTON,

* Thus he gave you his name, and I knew he bad adopted you
as his own. But for me, your mother, he had no word of re-
cognition that I was more to you than your hired nurse, Chris-
tine Bodine, who was entitled to consideration in the household
because I bad been the trusted maid of his wife, who had died
in Kome, and whose motherless infant I had cared for. This
raised me somewhat above my fellow-servants, who treated me
with a great deal of respect, and asked me many questions con-
cerning my late mistress and Mr. Hetherton, who puzzled them
with his cold, quiet, haughty manner. He.never spoke to them
except to issue some command, and required from them the
most servile attention, but he paid them liberally, and as the
duties were light they were glad to keep their places as his me-
nials.

* With your advent at the Chateau all his former habits were
changed, and he seldom left home except to go to Paris, where
he never staid more than a day or two. All his old associates
were dropped, and few ever came to see him. And yet he did
not seem to be lonely, so great was his love for you. From the
moment he took you in his arms and kissed you, he was per-
fectly devoted to you, coming often to the nursery to see you,
and having you brought to him in the library every night aftt r
his dinner was over. I generally took you to him myself, but
he never noticed me by a word or look, and this so enraged
me that I spoke out to him at last, and threatened to go away
and take you with me, if he continued to treat me with so mucli
contempt.

* " \ou can do so at any time ; tomorrow, if you like," was
his reply, and I knew that he meant it.

* But my desire to see you a lady was stronger than my re-
sentment, and so I staid, content to be trodden down, if by
that means you might rise. But those foolish words of mine
sealed my fate; for from that time I think he began to hate me,
or at least to plan how to be rid of me. The sight of me was
distasteful to him, and when you were about a year and a
half old, we had a bitter quarrel, which ended in a final separ-
ation ;' but I oould not take you from all the luxury with which
you were surrounded, and which, young as you were, you seemed
to enjoy. You were just beginning to talk a little, and your
father's life seemed bound in yours, so that I doubt if he would

CHRISTINE'S STORY.

319

have given you up, had I desired it, which I did not. I would
rather that you staid there and never know me as your mother
than to take you with me to obscurity and poverty, and, when
he offered to settle upon me a certain sum of money if I would
go away quietly, and promise, solemnly, never to come near you,
or let you know that I was your mother, I consented, and left
you at Chateau des Fleurs the acknowledged and petted child
of the whole house.

' How well I remember you, Queenie, as I saw you for the
last time in your embroidered white dress, with coral clasps at
your neck, and your hands full of flowers, which you offered to
me when I bent over you, crying as if my heart would break.
You were so beautiful and bright, and I loved you so much,
that for a moment 1 was tempted to break my vow, and, defy-
ing my cruel master, publish to the whole world that you were
mine, and, if possible, carry you off in triumph. But when I
remembered the home to which I must take you, and how dif-
ferent all your future life would be, I abandoned the project,
and with one more kiss and heart-clasp left you there in the
sunshine, with wealth and luxury all around you, and went out
into the darkness, where only toil and poverty awaited me.'

Here Christine paused, and with closed eyes and clenched
fists seemed to bethinking intently, or living over again the scenes
she had described, while Reinette raised herself from her reclin-
ing position in the chair, and winding her arms tightly around
Margery's neck, rested her white cheek upon the bowed head,
and said :

* Well, Christine, you have let me see one side of the picture,
have shown me myself, the base-born, the shame child, sur-
rounded with riches and love, and sunshine and flowers, to which
I had no right. Now reverse it ; show me the other side ; take
me to the garret where Margie, to whom belonged the sunshine
and the flowers, was struggling with cold and hunger, and
shrinking, it may be, from harsh words and cruel blows.'

* No, no, Queenie, never,' Margery exclaimed. * Never hunger
or cold, or blows, or harsh words. I had none of these. The
woman who cared for me was always kind, always ; and my
childhood was a happy one, for I knew no other life, and the
children of poverty are as much pleased with a toy which costs
a penny as are the children of the rich with one which costs

'i.i

I! t-

320

QUEEKIE BETHERTON.

I
I

many francs ; and after mother came and took me to live with her,
T T7as very happy, for if she def lauded me of my birthright, she
made it up in love and tender cares.'

Margery's generous defence of the woman who had wronged
he so deeply, touched Queenie closely, and her voice was softer
and her manner less imperious as she rapidly continued : ' I
know she loved you, Margie — know she has been kind to
you, and I thank her for it ; but I wish to hear about it all the
same — wish to know where you lived, and how, after she left
Chateau des Fleurs and went back to you. Tell me please ; '
and she turned to Christine : ' tell me of Margie when she was
a baby.'

Christine was quick to detect the change in Queenie voice
and manner, and her face was brighter, as she replied ; * After
I left you I went straight to Paris, to Florine's apartments,
where I found a healthy, beautiful child, whom no one could
see and not love. My heart was very sore and full of a great
longing for my own baby girl left a Chateau des Fleurs, and
when she toddled to my side and put up her sweet lips to be
kissed, as was a habit of hers, I took her in my arms and into
my heart and made a solemn vow to be true to her and never
let her feel the want of a mother's love. I told her to call me
mamma, and the name came prettily from her lips. I was
younger and better looking than Florine, and she took to me
readily, and slept in ray arms and cried when I left her to look
for lodgings and employment. I found both ; the first with a
hair-dresser in Rue de Richelieu, and the second on the upper
floor of number — Rue St. Honor^, where you came to us one day
and changed Margery's whole life. Had I chosen to use the money
your father paid me annually, we might have lived in m'ch
better style, but I shrank from touching more of it than it was
absolutely necessary, and took pleasure in supporting her by
my own hard labour. . I would lay the money by for her until
she married, if she ever did, or until she needed it more, I
thought ; and should she marry now she would not go empty
handed to her husband, for there are many thousand dollars in-
vested for her in France.

* How I toiled and slaved for her, and how I loved her as
time went on and she grew more and more into my heart :
loved her so much, in fact, that your image gradually began to

CHRISTINE'S STORY.

321

fade, and I could think of you without a pang. I saw you oc-
casionally — once in the grounds at the Chateau, where I came
upon you with your nurse, and several times in the streets of Paris,
after your father brought you there. I used to take Margery
out upon the Champs Elysees on fine afternoons when the
streets were sure to be full of people driving out to the Bois,
and hiring a chair I would hold her in my lap and watch for
your father to pass. Though not the most showy — for his taste
was to good for that — Mr. Hetherton's turn-out was the most
elegant and probably the most expensive of all the private car-
riages in Paris, while his splendid thoroughbreds were the
talk of the city. I always watched anxiously for him, and when
he appeared, sitting up so proud and erect, with that look of
haughty indifference and selfishness in his handsome face, and
with you sitting beside him on the silk ,n cushions, clad in
dainty apparel, I used to hold little Margery tightly to my
heart, and bite my lips till the blood almost forced itself through
the skin, so fearful was I lest I should shriek out the truth so
loudly that he would hear it above the roll of the wheels and
the tramp of the horses' hoofs. Something impelled me strongly
to hold you high in my arms and,* making him see you, say to
him : " This is your lawful daughter, the child of your wife who
died in Kome. Her place is there beside you among the silken
cushions, and not where I dwell, far up in the tenement house
on the Rue St. Honors."

* But I did not do it ; I kept silent and let you go by in all
your splendour, and if at night I kissed Margery more tenderly
than usual and held her closer to me as I undressed her for bed,
it was by way of atonement for the great wrong I was doing
her.

' It was about ihis time that I fell in with Gustave La Rue,
who offered me ma^^riage. He was a good-natured, easy-going
man, who would nevar trouble me much with questions con-
cerning the past, provided I made his home comfortable and
his life easy, and so I married him, and gave Margery his name,
and said to strangers that she was his daughter. He was fond
of children and always kind to her, and never pressed me hard
with regard to her parentage but once, and then I swore to him
that she was not my child ; but he did net believe me, though
he never suspected the truth.

322

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

* One day he came home from a restaurant in the Palais
Royal, where he was for a time employed as waiter, and handed
me three francs, which he said had been given him as his pour
boire by an American gentleman who had brought two friends
there to breakfast

' " A regular swell," he said, " and one of the richest foreigners
in the city. Hetherton his comrades culled him ; " and then I
knew it was your father and Margery's, and I took the money
and bought with it the first doll with hair and ear-rings which
Margery ever had, and which she has yet.

* Yes Queenie ; I will show it to you sometime. I was very
fond and proud of it,' Margery said.

But Queenie's heart was too sore and her brain too bewildered
to care for a doll, and she only answered :

* Yes Margie. Go on, Christine, Tell me the rest. When
I went to your room in the Eue St Honors, you knew I was
Margery's sister 1 '

* Yes, I knew it, and kissed the chair you sat upon, and in
my poor blind way thanked God for sending you there, and
thanked Him again when, through your influence, Margery was
placed at the same school with you, and her education paid for
by the man who never suspected the truth, or even knew that
the little girl in whom his daughter was so interested was any-
thing to me until her education was finished and she was a grown
young lady. Then we met accidentally, and through some in-
advertence of mine he learned that Margaret La Kue was my
daughter. He was surprised, of course, and angry and jealous,
lest in some way through us you should learn who your mother
was, and he hired me to leave Paris, and, as you well remember,
forbade your corresponding with Margery, and tried his best to
separate you from her.

' It was then that the idea of immigrating to America was
suggested to my mind by some ladies for whom Margery had
worked, and who gave such glowing accounts of the country
and the prospects for dressmaking that I began to consider the
matter seriously, and finally made up my mind to go, without
communicating with Mr. Hetherton upon the subject. I wrote
him, however, from Oak Blu£fs, and directed to the old address
in Paris, but possibly he never received my letter.* ^

hii

CHRISTINE'S STORY.

323

* Yes, he did ; I am sure he did,' Queenie exclaimed. ' There
were letters forwarded to him at Liverpool, and one of them
made him very angry, Pierre told me. He was present when
Papa read it, and h^ard him say, " Cuise Christine ! " or some-
thing like it, and after that he was very nervous and excited,
and suggested to me that we give up America and go back
to Paris. But I would not listen. I made him come, and he
died on the voyage, and you were the cause of his death. He
dreaded meeting you here, and the dread and the remorse killed
him. Oh, papa — I can see him so plain as his eyes followed me,
and he m'ule me promise to forgive him if something ever came
to my knowledge, and I promised ; but it is so hard. Oh,
Margie, if it were not for you, I could not keep my promise.
It would have been better to have left me in Marseilles where
I was born — left me to poverty and shame — for then I should
have known nothing better, nothing higher, and might have
been as happy as the girls I have seen dancing on the street for
the amusement of the crowd. But now, to fall so far — it makes
me dizzy, and sick, and dazed, and there's a buzzing in my
head, and a feeling as if I were crazed and could not understand
it at all.'

She was very white, with a drawn look about her lips, which
alarmed Margery, who bent over her and said :

* You have heard enough. There can be nothing more to tell
which will interest you. Mother must go out now, and leave
you to rest.'

* Yes, yes, Margie ; tell her to go ; I am so tired and sick,'
Queenie whispered, and without a word Christine left the room,
and the two girls were alone.

324

QUEEN IE HETHERTON

CHAPTER XLV.

THE TWO SISTERS.

[^OR 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 noth-
ing 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 Mar-
gery 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 of 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 with
shame and* humiliation. Oh, Margie, you do not know how
foolishly proud I was when I believed myself Queenie Hether-
ton — proud of my position — proud of my Hetherton 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

THE TWO SISTERS,

325

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, the unlawful
child of Christine Bodine ! Once I knelt in the room I sup'
posed 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 neeiled
to subdue my pride, but littlQ did I dream the time would come
when that prayer would be so terribly answered — when I would
give my life to be free from the disgrace and know the Fergu-
sons 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 had no right to be born. I have neither name, nor friends,
nor position, nor home ; oh, Margie, Margie, I had not thought
of iluit before ; ' and Queenie bounded to her feet so suddenly
that Marg ry was thrown backward upon the floor, where she
sat staring blankly at the girl who it seemed to her had actu-
ally lost her mind.

She was walking rapidly across the floor, beating the air with
her handS; as she always did when greatly excited. There were
blood-red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes ohone with a
strange, unnatural light, as they flashed first upon one object
and then upon another, and finally rested upon Margery, before
whom Queenie stopped, and said, in a whisper :

' Don't you know it ? Don't you see that X am an outcast, a
beggar, a trespasser where I have no claitp 1 Frederick Heth-
erton's unlawful child has no right to a penny of his money.
Toa are his heiress ; you are his daughter, and I only an intru-
der, 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 I do not pre-
tend not to understand you, for I do. You are excited now,
V

?26

qmENIE HETHERTOK

■a

and insane enough to think that because you are not Margaret
ITergusoD's daughter you have no right to Frederick Hether-
ton's money. You are kis child as much as I am, and it was
his wish, his intention, that you should be his heir. He knew
nothing of Twe, never dreamed of my existence, and, Queenie,
the world need not know what we do. 1 would far rather re-
main Margaret La Eue for ever than meet what we must meet
should the truth be known. Stay»as you are, Queenie, 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, Margery, never!' Queenie said, disengaging herself
from her sister's embrace. * I have no right here, none what-
ever, and I cannot stay. It is your home, not mine; not a
penny of all my father's wealth is ine. 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, the base-born, and flown to you, on whose birth
there was no stain. I knew him, and you did not, and you
cannot understand how proud he was, or how he loathed and
hated the very sin of which he was guilty. I will not say which
1 think more in fault, he or Christine, but I know he hated her
for the weakness which made her fall, and sometimes he must
have hated me because I was her child^ — hated the look in my
face like her, for it is there. I saw it so plain when she stood
talking to me — have seen it many times in the glass, and won-
dered at myself. And he saw it, too, at times, and would put
me from him suddenly, as if I had been a reptile, and bid me
go away and not come again till he sent for me. I thought
'then it was his temper, or mood, the servants called it, but I
know now it was remorse, and a loathing of me, who reniinded
him so constantly of the past.

* He loved me, I am sure of that ; but, had he l-nown o? 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 ta'ceti his lawful daughter home, and so, after you are es-
tablished here as Miss Hetherton, I shall go away — where, I
do not know — but svmewhere in the world there is a place for

THE TWO SISTEttS. j

327

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 1 am suffering so
terribly — oh, Margie, it does ache so hard, so hard 1 ' and with
a gasping sob Queenie sank into her chair, where she sat wri-
thing like one in mortal pain.

For a moment Margery regarded her intently, then kneeling
before her again and taking the hot, quivering hands in hers
said to her : ' Quetnie, do you think 1 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, sup-
posing mother's statement is proved to be trqe ] *

' Proved to be true I ' Queenie said ' What do you mean by
thatr

* 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 / was born at Rome and that Margaret
Ferguson was my mother.'

* Do vou doubt it, Margie 1 ' 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.'

328

QUEENIE IIETHERTON.

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 a while to myself.'

Margery obeyed, thinking that Queenie wished to rest, but
such ./as not the 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 enclosing 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 sum-
mons at once, for he was very anxious about his young mistress
and the sickness which had come so suddenly upon her. Step-
ping 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 be-
fore 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 Fer-
guson's daughter, and I am — am — nobody ! My father was
Frederick Hetherton, and my mother is Christine Bodine, and
they were never married. Do you understand me Pierre 1 *

He did understand her, and the shock made him reel for-
ward 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 tnte,* 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 ihere 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,

THE EXPLOSION.

329

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 vas 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 be-
ing taken care of by this little girl who had been reared so
tenderly and had never so much as waited upon herself. 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 Pierre 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
GramJma Ferguson.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE EXPLOSION

ARLY as it was, Mr. Beresford was at his office. He
had an important suit pending in the court, a suit which
involved much thought and research, and he was hunt-
ing up certain points bearing upon it, when Pierre came in, and

330

QUEEN IE HETUERTON.

with a simple * hon jour monsieur^* laid the package, upon the
table and departed in the direction of Grandma Ferguson's.
Mr. Beresford recognised Queenie's hand-writing, and thinking
she had probably sent him some business papers of her father's,
which she had overlooked, he laid it aside for a time and went
on with his own matters, so that it was an hour or more, and
the one-horse sleigh which Grandma Ferguson had hired to carry
her to Hetherton Place had driven rapidly past the door before
he took the package in his hand and opened it. The three yel-
low, time-worn letters which Queenie had inclosed, first met his
eye, and he examined them curiously, noting that they were
dated in Marseilles more than twenty years ago ; but as they
were written in French it would td.ke him some time to decipher
them, so he put them down and took up Queenie's letter which
he read through rapidly, feeling, when it was finished, so be-
numbed and bewildered that he walked several times across the
floor of his o£Eice, and then went out into the open air to shake
of the nightmare which oppressed his faculties and made his
brain so dizzy. Then, returning to the letter, he read it again,
weighing carefully every word, and jumping at conclusions, re-
jecting this statement as improbable, and that as impossible,
and saying to himself as Pierre had done. * I do not believe
it.' Anon, however, a doubt stole into his mind that it might
be true, and this doubt was succeeded by another, and another,
until there were great drops of sweat upon the lawyer's face,
aud an intense pity in his heart as he thought of Queenie and
all she would have to suffer if this thing were true, and she was
only the illegitimate child of Frederick Hetherton.

' Poor little Queenie ; so proud, and so high-spirited ; she
cannot bear it, and I shall do all I can to prove the story false,'
he said, and then suddenly there swept over him another
thought which made him reel in his chair, while the sweat-
drops on his forehead and about his lips grew larger and
thicker. * If the tale were true, then Margery was the daughter
of the house ; Margery was Miss Hetherton, of Hetherton
Place, and — '

He did not allow himself to think any further, but, throwing
out his hands, with a fierce gesture, he exclaimed, * Get thee
gone, Satan ! Is this a time to indulge in low, mean, selfish
feelings ? Were Margery a thousand times a Hetherton, she

THE EXPLOSION.

331

would be no sweeter or lovelier than she has seemed to me as
Margery La Rue, nor will Queenie be one whit the worse for
this stain upon her birth, if stai'^ there be, which I doubt ; at
all events I will leave no ston^ unturned to prove the truth or
falsity of this Bodine woman's statement If I could only read
her letters I might find something on which to base a conclu-
sion.'

Taking up the letter which bore date the furthest back, he
began to decipher it slowly and carefully, succeeding better
than he had anticipated, and when it was finished he possessed
a pretty accurate knowledge of its contents. Then he took the
second and the third and went through with them both while
the conviction deepened in his mind that there was something
in the story which would bear investigation.

* I must see Queenie at once,' he said, * and Mrs. La Rue al-
so, and hear from her if she has any other proof to offer than
her mere statement and these letters, which she may or may .
not have written.'

Ordering his horse and giving some directions to his clerk in
case clients called, he w£^ soon riding rapidly toward Hether-
ton Place where Grandma Ferguson bad been for more than an
hour. Pierre had found the good woman seated at her break-
fast-table, arrayed in her usual morning costume, a short, wine-
coloured 8tu£f skirt, and a loose woollen sacque, with no collar
on her neck or cap on her head. But her white hair was
combed smoothly back and twisted into a little knot, and her
face shone with content and satisfaction as she drank her coffee
from her saucer or soaked her fried cake in it.

• Who's that? ' she said to Axie, her maid of all work, as she
caught a glimpse of Pierre coming up the walk, ' I believe it's
one of them pesky tramps. Run quick and don't let him in :
they always make the house smell like the rot. If he's hungry,
give him them baked beans and that piece of cold johnny-
cake, and see that he don't carry off the plate. Them tramps
is thjvin' critters.'

^ut it was not a tramp to whom Axie opened the door. It
was Pierre, who, with his usual polite bow, handed the pack-
age to her, saying : * It is to madaijae ;' then, with another bow
he departed, and Axie carried the letter to her mistress, who
put on her spectacles and studied the superscription carefully.

332

QUEEN IE IlETHERTON.

i ' \n

I \

* Mrs. John Ferguson, Present.' she read aloud. ' What did
Rennet want to put present on for, I wonder, and bow finefied
she writes. I don't b'lieve I can make it out at all, the letters
are so small and Frenchy,' and -tearing off the envelope she
tried in vain to decipher the contents of the letter.

Queenie had written it under great excitement, and her
handwriting, always puzzling to grandma, was more illegible
than usual.

' Here Axie, read it for me ; 'tain't likely there's any secret ;
wants me to come over there I presume, but I don't see how
under the sun I can go unless Miss Rossiter tackles up and
carries me,' she said, and taking the written sheet of paper in
her hands, Axie began to read what Queenie had written.

It was as follows :

* Dear Grandma : — You must let me call you that just this once,
though you are not my grandmother. A dreadful thing has been
done — an awful sin committed, and kept secret until yesterday,
when I found it out, and it almost killed me. I am not the baby
born at Rome ; Margery is that baby ; Margery is your grandchild,
and I am nobody. I am the daughter of Frederick Hetherton and
Mrs. La Rue, who was Christine Bodine, my old nurse. She has
told me all the deception, and her hiding Margery from her father,
who did not know of her , existence. It is terrible — and I was so
proud and hot-tempered, and so bad to you sometimes,, and now
I'd give the world if you were really my grandmother.

' Come as soon as you can and see Margery and question Mrs. La
Rue yourself. Queenie.*

* Not her gra'ma ! / not her gra'ma ! Who then is her
gra'ma, I'd like to know 1 ' Grandma Ferguson exclaimed, when
Axie read the first lines of the letter.

But Axie did not answer. Her quick eye had gone rapidly
on, and, with an ejaculation of surprise, she read what Queenie
had written, while her mistress turned white as ashes, and could
only whisper her incredulity.

* Rennet not mine ! not Margery's child ! No, no, I camiot
believe that ,* she said, and a sense of pain began to rise inner
heart at the thought of losing in this way the little dark-eyed
girl who had crept into her love in spite of her wilful, impe-
rious ways. * Read it again, Axie,' she continued ; * read what
she's writ, and careful, too. You did not get it right before.

THE EXPLOSION.

333

Rennet never said no such thing, unless she's crazy. Yes, that's
it,' and grandma's face brightened, and her voice was more
cheery. ' Fretting for Phil, has done her out of her mind. She
hain't slep', nor cried, nor et sense he died, and now she's took
crazy. I shall go over there at once ; and do you run as fast
as you can to the livery after a hoss and sleigh.'

And so it came about that within an hour after Pierre deliv-
ered Queenie's letter to Grandma Ferguson she was alighting
at the door of Hetherton Place, and dismissing the driver, as
she said she should probably spend the day. Margery saw
her, and as she knew nothing of Pierre's journey to the village,
was surprised at the early visit She opened the door herself
to the old lady, whose first exclamation was :

* How is she, and when did the spell come on her 1 *

' Do you mean Rein 3tte, and how did you know anything
ailed herT Margery asked, and grandma replied :

* How do I know 1 Didn't that Frenchman fetch me a letter
from her this morniu', in which she said she wasn't my grand-
darter, and that '

Here grandma stopped short, struck by the face of the young
girl before her, so like the face she had loved so dearly years
ago, while for the first time since she had heard the letter she
remembered that Reinette had said, ' Margery is your grand-
daughter.' She had paid no attention to this assertion, but now,
as she looked into the blue eyes confronting her so steadily, she
saw there something which awoke within her a strange feeling
of kinship and love, and she continued with a faltering voice :
* She said that you was Margaret's girl. Be you, Margery 1
Be you my granddarter ? '

* I don't know, the story seems so incredible,' Margery re-
plied ; but she took the hands extended toward her in her own,
and covered them with kisses, as she continued : * If I am Mar-
gery Hetherton, it is very hard on Queenie, and you must love
her just the same — love her better, if possible.'

' Yes, yes,' grandma replied. * Nothing shall chp,nge my love
for her. Where is she ? Let me go to her at once.'

Margery had been to Queenie's room, and found her dressed
and lying upon the broad lounge with her face to the wall. She
did not want any breakfast, she said ; she only wished to be
alone, while she thought it out.

334

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

So Margery left her just as Grandma Ferguson found her
when she stole softly up the stairs into the room. Queenie
must have been almost asleep, for she heard nothing until a
hand was laid gently upon her head, and a voice full of love and
pity said to her :

' Rennet ! Poor little Rennet ! *

Then she started up, with a low cry, caused partly by sur-
prise and partly by the sharp pain which seemed to pass from
her heart to her head and to force to the surface the tears which
had been so kng pent up, and which » ""^ fell like rain. She
had never before heard her grandmother call her ' Kennet *
without a feeling of irritation, or, os she had expressed it to
Phil, without a * jerking of her elbows,* but now, as the fami-
liar sov»>t1 fell on her ears, there swept over her such a feeling
of anguish, aifd regrel, aud intense longing for what she had
lost, that the fountain of tears was broken up, and for some
mil utes bhe lay in the motherly arms held out to her, and cried
so hard and piteously that Mrs. Ferguson became alarmed at
last, and tried to soothe and quiet her. But Eeinette could not
be quieted.

* Let me cry,' she said ; * it does me good. You know I
have not shed a tear before since poor Phil, died, and I guess
I am crying more for him than for my lost birthright — my
heritage of shame.'

* Hush Eennet ; don't talk of shame,' grandma interrupted.
* I don't know what you mean — don't want to know — and if
there's anything, my advice is, keep it to yourself I took you
to niy heart as my own that fust day I saw you at the train, a
little scart thing among the strangers. I loved you then ; I've
|oved ycu ever sense, and alius will, no matter who you be.'

' * Don't ! you hurt me so ' ' Queenie crit. \ with a keen pang
of remorse, as she remembered how sne had once rebelled
against this woman, and lofused to acknowledge her claim to
relationship until it wa^ proved beyond her power to gainsay
it.

And now she would have given the world to have called her
' grandmother,' and known hat it was true.

* i don't deserve your love,' she eaid. * I have been so
wicked, and have vexed you so many times, but, after Margery,
you are nearer to me now than any living creature, though I

THE EXPLOSION.

335

some

am not your grandchild — Margery is that ; Margery is the baby
born at Rome and hidden away from her father. Mrd. La Rue
has told us all about it. SJui is my mother.*

Qiieenie spoke very low, and a flush of shame stained her
cheeks, where the tears were btill falling though not so fast as
at first. She was growing a little calmer and more composed,
and she was beginning to tell Mrs. Ferguson what she had
heard when Mr. Beresford was announced. To Margery, who
had met him as she did Mrs. Ferguson, he had said. ' Queenie
has ^ritten me a strange story. Do you know anything about
it r

* Yes,' Margery answered, with a quivering lip, * I heard
mother tell her.'

* And was that the first you knew of it 1 ' he asked, scrutiniz-
ing her closely.

* No,' she said, hesitatingly, as if the confession were a pain.
* I knew it a few weeks ago '

* When you were sick, and you kept it to yourself for her
sake,' Mr. Beresford interrupted her. * You are a brave girl,
Margery. Few would have done what you have.'

' If they loved Queenie as I do they would,' she said. * Oh,
Mr. Beresford, if it should be true, is there no way to keep it
to our.ielve8 ] Need the world know of it ? '

* If it depended upon you and me, it might be done,* he re-
plied. ' But I am afraid we could not manage Queenie. She
seems determined to do you justice. Where is she, and can I
see her 1 '

* Yes, let him come at once. I wish to have it over,' Queenie
said, when told that Mr. Beresford was in the house and had
asked for her.

She heard him coming, and rising to her feet and brushing
her tears away she stood erect, with the old, proud look flash-
ing in her eyes, for she would not allow this man, who had
once asked her to be his wife, to see how utterly crushed and
humiliated she was. But when she caught sight of his face, so
full of pity, and sympathy, and concern for her, she broke down
utterly, and cried harder even than she had done when grand-
ma had called her Rennet. It was a perfect storm of sobs and
tears, and Mr. Beresford, who had never witnessed anything
like it, felt the moisture gathering in his own eyes as he looked
at the little figure writhing in such pain.

336

QUEEN IE UETUERTON.

1 ,

*■ You must excuse me, for I cannot help it/ she said, when
she could speak. ' It is not this alone which affects me so. It
is everything. The death scene on the ship, when father's
strange words foreshadowed this which has come upon me, and
the loss of Phil.) who would have stood by me in the face of
everything.*

' And do you think I will not do that, Qneenie ? * Mr. Beres*
ford said, sitting down beside her and taking her hot hands in
his as naturally as if he had been her brother or her lover.

And as he looked upon her, so broken and crushed, and help>
less, and yet so sweet and lovely withal, there swept over him
again something of the same feeling which had prompted him
to ask her to be his wife that night upon the rocks. True it
was that recently he had learned to think of another face very
different from the white tear-stained one before him. But
there was a great pity in his heart for the girl who had so
dazzled, and bewildered, and bewitched him — a desire to com-
fort and reassure her, and he felt tempted to take her in his
arms and soothe her as he would have soothed a little child.
Grandma Ferguson had left the room as he came in, and the two
were alone together, and Queenie's eyes, in which great tears
were shining, fixed upon him, and Queenie's lips he had once so
longed to kiss were quivering in a grieved kind of way, and
Queenie's hands were in his, and so it is not so very strange
that for a moment he forgot the face he had thought fairer than
the one which he had finally took between his two hands and
held, while he ^-aid :

* Queenie, you do wrong to talk as if anything for which you
are not responsible can make a difference with your friends —
with me, who once hoped to be more than your friend. You
believe that Phil, would ^vave stood by you in this trouble. I
know he would, and so wii) I. Queenie, I asked you once to
be my wife, when you stood upon a dizzy height of prosperity,
but you refused and scorned me, and now I ask you again when
misfortune seems to be overtaking you. Will you be mine,
Queenie, and let me shif id you from the storm and prove to you
that 1 have loved yon for yourself rather than for your sur-
roundings V

Queenie's f?/'0 was a study, as she drew it away from his en-
circling hands, and from her sheer weakness and exhaustion lay

we
at
so
as

tha

THE EXPLOSION,

337

and

mme.

wearily down upon the pillows of the lounge, while she looked
at him long and earnestly. Never before had Mr. Beresford seen
so sweet, so soft, and so womanly an expression in the dark eyes
as he saw there now, and never had she seemed more desirable
than she did when she answered him at last :

' I thank you much, Mr. Beresford, for what you have said.
It has done me a great deal of good, for if you can like me for
myself alone there may be others who will do the same, and my
life will not be quite so dreary. I will do you the justice to
say that I believe you are in earnest now and mean what you
say, but you are mistaken in the feeling which prompts you.
It is a pity for me, not love. But I thank you just the same,
though I cannot accept your offer. When Phil, went down be-
neath the waves my heart went with him, never to return.
And you, Mr. Beresford, are destined for.another, I know it j
I have seen it, and am so glad. She is worthy of you, and was
worthy before accident revealed that in everything she was your
equal. And you will be so happy together sometime when it
is all settled, as it must be at once. Send for Mrs. La Kue and
hear her story ; or, rather, go to her. I could not listen to it
again. Khe wid convince you of the truth of what she sayp,
and you muct ilx whatever there is to fix, so that Margery will
have justice done her as Mr. Hetherton's daughter. Don't let
a thought of me interfere with her rights. And now, go to
Mrs. La Rue.'

She waved him from her with her old air of authority, and
he had no alternative but to obey, and wishing her good-morn-
ing he went below stairs to seek an interview with Mrs. La
Rue.

As they had no suspicion of what had happened, it was a
mere accident which sent the Rossiters to Hetherton Place that
morning — Mrs. Rossiter and her daughters Ethel and Grace,
clad in their deep crape for Phil. — and Mr. Beresford found
them in the library with Grandma Ferguson, who had told
them what she knew, and thrown them into a wild state of
surprise and excitement.

' Oh, Mr. Beresford,' Ethel said, going swiftly up to him as
he entered the room, ' this is a strange story that Grandma has
told us, and is it true that Reinette is not our cousin ? '

< I do not know/ he replied ; ^ I am going to investigate it —

338

QUEENIE HETHERTO^.

going to question Mrs. La Rue. Shall I have her in here and
let you hear what she has to say I '

' Yes, yes, let her come,' Mrs. Rossiter said ; and in a few
minutes Mrs. La Rue entered the room, calmer and more col-
lected than she had been in months.

She had told the truth to Queenie. The worst was over.
She could meet anything now ; and at Mr. Beresford's request
she beuan her story, which she repeated in a straightforward
manner, never once crossing herself or hesitating in the least,
except when some strong emotion overcame her, as she spoke
of Margery and the day Queenie came to her in the Rue St.
Honor6. No one could doubt that she was telling the truth,
and Mr. Beresford did not doubt her, but said to her, when she
had finished :

* Have you no other proof than your mere assertion of facts ? '

* Yes,* she replied : * I can give you the name of the pension
in Rome where Mrs. Hetherton died, and of the physician who
attended her, and the clergyman who buried her. These men,
if living, will testify to the fact that she left an infant daughter,
whom I took away with me. Then old Floiine is still alive in
Paris, and will show that I brought Margery to her and took
her away at such a date, while Jacques Berdotte and his wife
Jeanne, in Marseilles, can tell you I was their lodger twenty
years ago, when Queenie was born ; and I doubt not they will
remember the American gentleman who came to see me, and

to whom I went when I left their house. I told Jeanne who
he was, and gave her to understand that he was Queenie's
father. I think they are both alive. You can write and see.
I have also Mr. Hetherton's last letter, written me from Paris
when I was in the south of France, and he had heard that the
girl Margery, in whom Queenie w«s so much interested, was
my daughter. That will prove that Queenie is my child ; and
alter that you surely will believe me without the letter v/hich
my mistress wrote to her husband the day before she died, and
in which she speaks of her blue-eyed, golden-haired baby, whom
she hopes he will love because it is so much like her. I did not
destroy that letter, though tempted to do so many times. I
kept it, and can show it to you, but not now, for it is at home
ftt the cottage, laid away with Mr. Hetherton's/

THE EXPLOSION.

339

She talked rapidly, and every word carried fresh conviction
to Mrs. Kossiter, who was eager to see Margery, and claim her
as her sister's child. Of the meeting between Margery and her
newly-found friends it is not my purpose to speak, except to
say that at its close there was not in the minds of eitl)er a
shadow of doubt as to the tie between them, and Mrs. Kossi-
ter was surprised that she had never before recognised tlie
striking resemblance between Margery and the sister she had
loved so dearly.

* I see her in every feature,' she said, as she folded Margery
in her arms and kissed her fai:* face, where the Ferguson roses
and lilies were showing so plainly.

But amid their joy there was a keen pang of regret and pain
for the little, desolate girl up stairs, who, when at last they
went to her, received them at first with a calm, stony face and
dry eyes, which seemed to flash defiance at any pity they might
feel for her, but she finally broke down in a storm of sobs and
tears, and, laying her head on Mrs. Rossiter's lap, begged her
not to despise her utterly for what she could not help,

♦If I could die, I would,' she said, 'and so be out of every-
body's way, but I cannot I am young, and life seems so lo-iely
to me now, when once the days were too short for all I iiad to
enjoy. Oh, why has God so dealt with me 1 '

It was hard to answer that question, or explain why, to this
young girl, whose life had been so full of sunshine, so much
wretchedness should have come. Anna Ferguson said it was
to punish her for her pride, and that it served her right for
having felt above them all. Miss Anna heard the news with a
wonderfiil degree of equanimity. She was not greatly surprised,
she said, for she had always thought Keinette peculiar and dif-
ferent from other young girls, and now she knew it was the
bad blood there was in her. She pitied her, of course, and
supposed she should go over and see her, but Keinette could not
expect people to treat Christine Bodine's daughter just as they
had treated Miss Hetherton.

This was the ground Anna took, and kept it, or tried to,
though she met with little or no support from any one. On
the contrary, the utmost sympathy was felt for Keinette when
the story was known. Never before had Merrivale been ao ex-
cited <m it was now, for men, women, and children did nothing

I n

340

QVEEmB HETHERTON

but talk of the strange affair from morning till night, and Mar-
gery, whom they all knew so well and had seen so many times,
became as great an object of curiosity as the Queen of England
would have been had she passed through the town

* There she comes — there she is — that's Miss Hetherton/ was
heard on every side whenever she appeared, and the men left
their work, and the women ran to the windows, and the chil-
dren to the corners of the street to look after her, wondering
how she felt, and if this change in her fortnne vould make any
difference in her manners, which they had thought so sweet and
attractive, and reeling sorry, some of them, that they had lost
the dressmaker whose skill and taste they prized so highly.

To Margery this notoriety and scrutiny were exceedingly dis-
tasteful. She had fought the story of her birth as long as pos-
sible ; had said that it could not be true, even after Mr. Beres-
ford, in whose judgment she relied so much, had told hei' to be-
lieve it without other proof than he had gathered from Mrs.
La Rue. Of course he was bound to obtain all the evidence
possible, both from Rome and France, and this he had taken
steps to do ; but there could be no doubt upon the subject, and
she was undoubtedly Miss Hetherton, the heiress of Hetherton
Place. He called her Miss Hetherton, now, whenever he ad-
dressed her, as did the other people in town, and there always
came an increase of colour to Margery's cheek when she heard
the name and thought of the 'ittle heart-broken girl who had
shut herself up in her room aud refused to see those of her for-
mer acquaintances, who, prompted partly by curiosity, and partly
by genuine sympathy, came to the house to assure her of their
continued friendship and esteem.

* It is very kind in them, and I thank them so much ; but I
cannot see them yet,' she would say, when Margery brought her
the message. * By and by I shall feel better, or die ; oh, if it
could be the latter,' and with a gush of tears she would hide
her face in her hands and sob bitterly.

Disappointed in their desire to see Reinette, the curious and
meddlesome ones turned their attention to Mrs. La Rue, but
she, too, avoided and baffled them ; she had returned to the
cottage in town, where she remained perfectly quiet, seeing no
one and talking with no one except Margery and Mr. Beres-
ford, to the latter of whom, as a lawyer, she was always com-

THE EXPLOSION.

341

municative, giving him any information he wished for, and aid-
ing him materially in procuring the proof, which, though he
deemed it superfluous, he was desirous to obtain. To others
she had said all she ever meant to say, and on the subject of
her past life, her lips were sealed forever. Silent, cold, and im-
passive, she moved about her house, with no look of human in-
terest on her white, stony face, except when Margery came, as
sho did almost every day, with news of Queenie. Then the
pale cheek would flush for a moment and the heavy eyes light
up with eager expectancy as she asked the same question :
* Has she mentioned me yet 1 '

* No, not yet,' was always Margery's answer, and then the
colour would fade away and the lips shut tightly together as if
in pain, but no word of protest ever passed them, or complaint
that she was not justly dealt with by the girl whose life she
had blighted.

It was Grandma Ferguson who stayed constantly with Queenie
daring the first few days after the story was known, and it was
wonderful to see the love and confidence between them. With
Queenie the feeling was almost idolatrous which she felt for
the woman whose coarse speech and common ways had once
been so obnoxious to her, but to whom she now clung with
more than a child's fondness for its mother. On her bended
knees with her head in grandma's lap, she had confessed all the
past, even to her rebellious feelings on that day when she stood
on the platform at the station and was claimed by relatives of
whom she had never heard.

* I was so wicked and proud,' she said, * for I thought myself
equal to the greatest lady in £urope, and I hated the way you
spoke to me — hated everything about you, and Aunt Lydia,
and Anna ; and went on hating it, especially the purple gloves
and moire antique, which made my elbows jerk, they so oflend-
ed my eye.'

And grandma forgave the beautiful little sinner, and stroked
the glossy, black hair, and told her not to mind, but get up and
wipe her tears away, and be comforted.

* I ain't an atom like you,' she said, * and never could be if
I tried ever so hard. 'Taint the purple gloves, neither, nor
the mory antiquef which makes the difference ; it's my whole
make-up from the beginnin'. Some vessels is coarse, and some

342

QUEEN IE HETIIERTON,

^i'U;

is fine. Some is jugs, and some is china, and I'm a jug of the
roughest kind, but I love you, Queenie, and will stick to you
through thick and thin.'

Then they talked together of Queenie's future, and where she
would go when she left Merrivale, as she was resolved upon
doing, for a time as least.

* 1 must go where no one knows me,' she said ; 'where no
one will look at me curiously, and pity me. I will not be
pitied, and so I must go away.'

* Then why not go to that place in Florida where your
Gra'ma Hetherton used to live,' Mrs. Ferguson suggested.

* She's your gra'ma just the same, for she was your father's
mother, and I've heard it was a fine place where they once kept
a hundred niggers, though it must be awfully rjin down.'

* You mean Magnolia Park,' Queenie rejoined. * It's near
Tallahassee, and where Mrs. Hetherton lived before her mar-
riage. I have heard my father speak of it. He used to go
there when a boy, and he told me what a grand old house it
was, standing in the midst of a grove of magnolias, with rooms
enough to accommodate twenty or thirty guests. Yes, I should
like to go there. I should like to see Florida. Pierre will go
with me, and it will cost us but little to live.'

' And let me give you that little,' grandma said. * I've money
in the bank, laid up for Anny ; but now she's goin' to marry so
rich, she does not need it. Let me give you a thousand dollars .
to start on, and when that's gone, you shall have more, unless ,
you are ready to come home, as you most likely will be.' ,

The Florida plan struck Queenie very favourably. She had
heard from her father of Magnolia Park, where Mrs. Hether- ,
ton had lived before her marriage, and knowing nothing of the
dilapidated condition of the house, or the manv difficulties to
be met and overcome befoie she could even be comfortable
there, she was anxious to go at once, and broached the subject
to Margery, who naturally opposed it with all her powers. It
was her wish that Queenie should remain at Hetherton Place
just as she had done, and share equally with her in their father's
home and fortune.

But this Queenie would not do. After a time she might feel
differently, she said, but now she must go away, and as Magnolia
Park could not be of any great value to Margery she was willing

c(
kl
\i
tl

..r

THE EXPLOSION.

343

to accept so much and go there to live. So Mr, Beresford was
consulted and quebt.ioned with regard to the place, of which he
knew very little. Originally it was a fine plantation, with at
least a hundred negroes upon it but these were scattered by
the war, and since that time, or rather since he had done busi-
ness for Mr. Hetherton, the farm had been let tq different
parties, who took the house furnished as it was when, the last
of Mr. Hetherton's relations left it, and who were not supposed
to have had any particular care for it. Now, however, it was
untenanted, and only a few acres of the best land were rented
to s> man whose plantation adjoined it. It might be habitable,
and it might not, but his advice was that Queenie stay in
Merrivale and give up Florida, as it was getting near the last
of February, and not at all the time for going to Florida.

But Queenie argued differently. Marcli was the month when
many tourists flitted to the South, she said. She should have
plenty of time to get acclimated before summer, and she seemed
so anxious, and excited, and determined, that a consultation
was held between Mr. Beresford, Grandma Ferguson, and Mar-
gery which resuiled in the decision that as soon as the neces-
sary arrangements could be made, Queenie should leave Merri-
vale for Magnolia Park, accompanied by Pierre and Axie, Mrs.
Ferguson's coloured girl, who was trusty and efficient, capable
of overcoming almost any difficulty, and delighted with the
prospect of a change from the monotonous life in Merrivale.
This giving up of Axie, who had lived with her so many years,
was grandma's own proposition, which she strenuously insisted
upon, saying, when Queenie remonstrated, that it would not be
for long, as they'd soon get enough of that heathenish land of
niggers and sand, and be back to the North again.

The last week in P'ebruary was fixed upon for Queenie's de-
parture, and the day before she left, the Hetherton carriage
drove through the village to the cottage, where Mrs. La Rue
was living alone. From it Queenie alight'ed, and entering un-
announced remained there for half an hour or more. But of
that interview nothing was ever known, except this : When,
next day, after seeing Queenie on board the train at West
Merrivale, Margery called at the cottage and reported that
Queenie had gone, Mrs. La Rue said, with a quivering lip and
trembling voice :

* She kissed me and called me mother.'

344

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER XLVII.

MAGNOLIA PARK.

HIRTY years before our story opens, Magnolia Park was
one of the finest places in middle Florida. But after
the death of Mrs. Hetherton, who had been born and
married there, and who spent a part of every winter in her old
home, there was no one left to care particularly for it, as Mr.
Hethorton had lands enough of his own to look after. So the
place began to go down, and when the war swept like a wave
of fire over the South, it was left tenantless and unprotected
save by an old negro. Uncle Sim, and his wife. Aunt Judy,
who lived in the whitewashed cabin on the grounds, paying no
heed to the rumours of freedom which reached them from time
to time, as the terrible conflict between brother and brother
went on. They were as free as they ever wished to be, they
said, and all they asked was to be left alone and left to die on
the old place. So they staid, and did their best to guard the
house of which they were so proud, and which, at two different
times, was made a kind of hotel for the soldiery, who were
scouring the country. A night and a day the Boys in Blue
halted there, carrying off whatever they conveniently could of
the many valuable articles with v^hich the house was furnished,
and one of them, an officer, having a hand-to-hand fight with
old Judy, who tried to wrench from him a pair of silver can-
dlesticks he was stuffing in his pockets. He took away the can-
dlesticks and also a black eye and a bloody nose which Aunt
Judy had given him as a memento of his stay at Magnolia Park.
A week later, and a party of the Boys in Gray swooped down
upon the place and spent the night in the house and fed on
Judy's corn-cakes and bacon, and killed Uncle Sim's big turkey,
and turned the once handsome rooms into barracks, but were
prevented from committing as extensive depredations as their
predecessors had done, simply because, aside from the six-legged
piano on which they pounded Dixie vigorously, and the ma8<

(11 ;

MAGNOLIA PARK.

345

sive bedsteads and chairs and tables, there was little or nothing
to steal. Warned by the lesson learned from their fiist visi-
tors, Sim and Judy had dug a deep hole at the side of their
cabin, and lining it with blankets had tilled it with the remain-
ing valuables of the house ; then, covering them with another
heavy blanket, they heaped dirt and sand upon them, and built
over the spot a rude hen-house, where several motherly hens
brooded over their young chickens. After this, Sim and Judy
lived in comparative ease until the war was over and peace and
quiet reigned once more in Florida. Then the premises were
let to a young Kentuckian, who soon grew tired of his bargain,
and gave it up, and the house was empty again.

When Mr. Beresford first took charge of the Hetherton estfite,
he wrote to Frederick, asking why he did not sell the Florida
lands, which yielded him nothing. But this Frederick would
not do, Magnolia Park had been his mother's home, and a place
where, as a boy, he had been very happy ; and, as he could af-
ford to keep it, he w/ote to that effect to Mr. Beresford, telling
him to let it if he could, and if not, to let it alone. So Mr.
Beresford let it alone, except when some one wished to rent a
few acres of the land, which was the case when Keinette deci-
ded to go there. Then he wrote to the man- whose plantation
adjoined Magnolia Park, telling him that a daughter of the late
Mr. Hetherton was about to visit Florida, and asking him to
see that a few of the rooms were made comfortable for her.
Unfortunately this letter was miscarried or lost, so that Kei-
nette's arrival was wholly unexpected, and produced the utmost
consternation in the whitewashed cabin, where Uncle Sim and
Judy were taking their evening meal, and feeding the four dogs
hanging around them.

Keinettehad travelledday and night until she reached Thom.is-
ville, Ga., where her strength gave out, and she was obliged to
rest a day or two. Her striking face and foreign air, together
with her singular escorts, Pierre and Axie, attracted much at-
tention from the guests at the hotel, who were very curious to
know something of her. But Axie, whose parting injunction
from her mistress had been * to keep her mouth shut, and not
to go*blabbin' about Rennet,' was wholly uncommunicative, ex-
cept to say that the young lady was a Miss Hetherton, of Meri-
vale, who was going to visit her father's plantation in Florida ;

I (

346

QUEENIE HETEERTON,

;»'■

ii' 'Si

I •4-

while Pierre took refuge in his native tongue, and never spoke
a word of English to any one. To question him, therefore, was
impossible ; so nothing definite was learned with regard to the
beautiful stranger, whose manner repelled anything like fami-
liar advances, and who, the second morning after her arrival at
the hotel, started for Magnolia Park. Every other day the
mail was brought from Tallahassee to Thowiasville in an open
vehicle, which was neither large nor comfortable, and this was
the only overland communication between the two towns.
Fortunately, however, for Queenie, a gentleman and his wife,
who were returning to their home in the North, had come from
Tallahassee in a hired carriage, which was both covered and
roomy, and of this she availed hersfilf on its return.

It was a long ride of more than thirty miles, but Queenie en-
joyed it thoroughly, the country was so different from anything
she had ever seen. When she left Merrivale the snow was on all
the hills, and winter was everywhere : but here in southern
Georgia and middltj Florida the warm spring sunshine lay on
everything, ana the day was like early June, with its clear blue
sky and balmy air, filled with the perfume of the yellow jasmine,
just in its glory. Thousandsof Cherokee roses were climbing over
the fences and showing their white faces on the tops of the
shrubs and vines, which seemed to embrace them lovingly,
while here and there a tall magnolia grew with its wax like
leaves of dark green.

To Queenie, who loved nature in a.l its aspects, every turn
in the road, or change of scenery, brought fresh delight, and
in her enthusiasm she forgot for a time her trouble, and was
much like her former self, flashing and sparkling with all her
old brightness and talking continually to the driver, a very in-
telligent young mulatto, who rejoiced in the dignified name of
Boston. It did not take Queenie long to get his whole history,
for his boyish heart was completely won by her beautiful face,
her animated gestures, and the w^ay she had of looking at him
with her bright restless eyes. He was born two years before
the breaking out of the w;«/t, he said, and his father and mother
lived near Tallahassee, on the very spot whar they was raised,
and he boasted that of all the hundred blacks on * de ole planta-
tion' his father was the only one who didn't * cut an' run when
de Yankees comed an' sot 'em free.'

MAGNOLIA PARK.

347

* Spec's, though, he wanted to go mightily,' he said, * so to
see wliat sort of ting dat freedom was dey was all gwine to see ;
but he wouldn't leave his ole mistis who was sick in bed, so he
staid behime with me and mother, and has staid thar ever since,
gettin* very far wages, and layin' up a little something every
year.'

His mother, he said, came of another line, and belonged to
the ' ole Marsall estate, which was now run out an' gone to
ruin.*

* What estate did you say 1 ' Queenie asked. * Do you mean
the Marshall property — Magnolia Park ? '

' Why, yes, miss,' and Boston turned quickly toward her,
while something like a smile of scorn curled his lips ; * they
calls it Magnoly Park sometimes, but it's more like a swamp
dan a park, with all de weeds and truck grown thar higher dan
yer head. Mighty big house, though, with heaps of rooms, but
looks like old stable now — all de winders broke, an' de do'os
off de hinges. My gran'pa, an' gran'ma, lives dar, an' has lived
dar always since dey's born. Dey's drefful proud of de ole hut,
too, an' shot three or four dem Federals who's tryin' to carry
off de pianner.'

Boston had given a rather exaggerated account of Aunt
Judy's encounter with the purloiner of the silver candlesticks,
But Queenie paid no attention to that, so intent was she upon
other matters.

* I am going to Magnolia Park,' she said. * I am Miss Heth-
erton, and granddaughter of the Miss Lucy Marshall, who mar-
ried a Mr. Hetherton from the North a great many years ago.'

* You don't say so, shu' 'nuff,' Boston exclaimed, showing all
his white teeth. * Does 'em know you're comin' — gran'pa and
gran'ma 1 I's over dar day befo' yesterday, an' they didn't say
nothing about it. Spects they'll be mighty overaot.'

* I don't know whom you mean by your grandfather and
grandmother,' Queenie said. ' Who are they 1 And do they
live at Magnolia Park ? '

* Yes, miss. Dey was raised dar,' Boston replied ; • bred and
born many years ago when old Mas'r Marsall lived thar, an'
they's stuck by through the wah and every ting.'

* And are there no neighbours — no people near V Queenie
asked, beginning to feel a sense of loneliness at the prospect of

348

QVEENIE HETHEUTOK.

It-'

S -11,

r.-i|

■-!-'-r

iityfci

a park like a swamp, and a house like a stabk, with O} '7 two
old negroes for companions.

* Neighbours,' Boston replied. * Yes, miss, neifi(hbou>^ , 'naff,
an* all of dem de quality. Thar's Micis Strong, de ole )vern-
or's daughter, what cried when dey pulled de striped fl:» dow .1
— de governor cried I mean, not Miss Strong. She's le very
fustest quality, wid a head full of brains ; ^v; Lot- j for every papp"
h' de er^ nt/v, I ref;kon. She's awful nice ; and her daughter,
t' rf; K< > r i:ia, with eyes a heap like yourn, an' de same way
of ^vH sio' her head like a bird, an' lookin' at yer till you feel
so ' c.i, ii^p'cSj mebby, she's yer kin ; she favours you, might-
ily.'

And Boston looked admiringly at Queenie, who, had bewil-
dered and intoxicated him as she did every one who came
within her sphere. But Queenie know nothing of Mrs. Strong,
or her daughter Nina. She had no relations in Florida, she
said, and the resemblance between herself and Nina Strong, if
there ./ere any, was merely accidental.

The day was drawing to a close by this time, and the sun
was just setting when they at last turned off from the highway
into the road wb' ;h wound through the fields for a quarter of
a mile or more up to Magnolia Park.

* Dat's 'em ; dat's the place,' Boston said, pointing to a huge
wooden building standing upon a little rise of ground, and sur-
rounded by tall magnolias.

Once it must have been a little paradise, but now it was
stripped of all its glory, and stood there desolate and dreary,
with the paint all washed from its walls, and the lights broken
from the lower windows, while here and there a door was gone,
and the shutters hung by one hinge, or swung loosely in the
wind.

Involuntarily Queenie held out her hand to Axie, who took
it in her strong palm, and said, encouragingly :

* It may be better inside. Anyway, I can soon fix it up, and
the situation is lovely.'

Attracted by the sound of whe^^sls, the four dogs now came
rushing down the road, barking so furiously that Queenie turned
pale with fright, and clung closer to Axie. But when the
noisy pack saw Boston, their barking changed into whines of
recognition, which brought Uncle Sim and Aunt Judy round

MAGNOLIA PARK.

349

1 her

'1, wl

i.he corner of the house, where the latter stopped, and w
bands on her fat hips, eyed the strangers curiously.

* Somebo'^y gwine to visit Miss Strong most likely, k
did Bostc i fetch 'em here,' she thought.

But when Queenie alighted, and going up to her told her that
she was Miss Hetherton, granddaughter of Miss Lucy Mar-
shall, who used fo live at Magnolia Park, and that she had
come to stay, her consternation knew no bounds, and while
^dropping a courtesy to Queenie, and saying to her: 'An' shoo'
you're welcome, miss,* she was thinking to herself. * For de
dea* Lord's sake, whatever 'II I do ^iJ gich quality as d's, and
whar '11 I put her ? Thar ain't a i ^ri- ' i de whole house fit for
a nigger or a cracker to sleep in A she's de real stuff dat
ladies is made of. Can't cheat r* * hiw.

* Honey,' she said at last to ^a ek e, who was looking rue-
fully around her. * I's no whav tc ax you to sit down jes dis
minute but in my cabin, whar dc^.e scoured de flo' dis bles-
sed day. If I had known you.c jomin' I'd done somethin'.*

Queenie explained that a letter had been sent to some one
announcing her expected visit, and added, with a little shiver.
' Let me go to your cabin. J am very tired and chilly.'

So Aunt Judy led the way to her quarters, which w«re as
neat and clean as soap and water and her strong hands) could
make them. A pine knot was blazing on the hearth, diffusing
a delightful degree of light and warmth through the room, and
Queenie felt better and less desolate than when standing out-
side in the chill twilight, which had succeeded the warm spring
day. Before entering the cabin, Axie accompanied by Sim and
Judy, made the tour of the house, deciding at once that to pass
the night in that damp, cheerless place, was utterly impossible.
Queenie might have gone to town and staid at a hotel until
something like decency and cleanliness wais restored to a few of
the rooms, but Boston had gone, and so there was no alternative
but to sleep in Judy's cabin. This however, Queenie did not
mind. Eeared as she had been in Fran.^e, she had none of t he
American prejudice against the African /ace, and ate her hot
corn-cake, which Aunt Judy baked for her, and drank her
coffee from Judy's cups with almost as keen \ relish as she ever
had dined at the St. Maurice. Once, indeed, as she remembered
Chateau des Fleurs and Hetherton Place, %nd then glanced

350

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

> t '

■! \

A +,1

A -si

at her humble surrounding, there came a great lump in her
throat, and her hands involuntarily struck the air as if to thrust
something from her. But she meant to be very brave, and
when at last she was lifted by Aunt Judy into the clean, com-
fortable bed, which had been made for her upon the low kitchen
table, she fell aslt^ep almost immediately, and knew nothing
more until the morning sun was shining in at the open door,
and she heard Axie and Judy outside consulting together about
the propriety of waking her.

During the night, the old negress and her husband had been
busy in the great house, and in a small sunny apartment, which
had once been used as a breakfast-room when there were no
gmsts at Magnolia Park, had been cleared of its rubbish and
cobwebs, and swept and scrubbed until not a particle of dust
remained, either on floor, walls, or window-seals. As for glass,
there was none ; neither was it needed that bright morning
when the sunlight came in so soft and warm, bringing with it
the sweet perfume of the yellow jasmine and the white orange
blossoms. The wide-mouth fire-place was filled with clumps of
Cherokee roses and branches of the magnolia and pine, while
long sprays of the jasmine were festooned over the mantle, giv-
ing a very artistic effect to that side of the room. The pit under
the hen-house where the valuables had been hidden when the
soldiers made their raid upon Magnolia Park, had been opened
and some of its contents adorned the room, while upon the
little round table, placed between the windows, a small silver
coffee urn was standing, with bits of rare old china which would
have driven a lover of bric-a brae crazy. Aunt Judy's chintz-
covered easy-chair, in which Queenie had sat the night before,
had been brought into the room, and a soft, white blanket,
with a border of blue, spread upon the floor for a carpet. This
blanket which Aunt Judy had bought with the proceeds of her
poultry yard, was the pride of her heart, and had never been
used ; but she brought it willingly for Queenie, whose grand-
mother. Miss Lucy Marshall she remembered with so much
pride as the belle of Tallahassee. Cooking the breakfast fell to
Axie's lot, as she was supposed to understand the Northern
taste and know what the young lady liked, but it was Judy
who made the hot corn-cakes which smoked upon the table
when at last Queenie was ready for her breakfast.

MAGNOLIA PARK.

351

* Oh, this is lovely ! ' she exclaimed, as she entered the room
where so much had been done.

Florida was not so bad, after all, and Magnolia Park was
charming ; but a close inspection of the premises after break-
fast convinced her that, for the present at least, she must seek
quarters elsewhere. Rooms there were in abundance, and fur-
niture, but eveiy thing had gone to decay ; everything was
mouldy and worm-eaten, and smelled of rats, and must, and
foul air. And still, as Axie said, there were great capabilities
in the place, and with a little time and money, and a great deal
of hard work, a portion of the house could be made not only
habitable, but very comfortable and attractive. Meantime,
Queenie must go away, for it was impossible for her to stay
there while the renovating process was going on. But where
to go was a question which troubled Queenie not a little, until
Aunt Judy suggested an idea to her by saying, * Thar's Jack
sonville on de river. Why not go thar a spell \ Heaps of de
gentry from the Noff is thar, and a sight of mighty fine dresses
at dem grand hotels. Jacksonville is a mighty big city —
bigger than New York, I reckon.*

Queenie had heard of Jacksonville, for a family from Merri-
vale were passing the winter there, and she at once seized up-
on Judy's suggestion as something practicable. She would go
to that winter Saratoga of the South and see what it was like.'
Possibly she might be amused with what she saw, and so the
pain at her heart be lessened a little. She would go that very
day, she said, for she was full of a burning restlessness and do-
sire for change. But Judy, who, through Boston, knew some-
thing of the running of the trains, told her it was then u.u
late ; she must wait until the next day, and pass another niglit
upon the kitchen table, unless they could clean up some of the
massive bedsteads, which had been so long unoccupied. From
this, however, Queenie was saved, for, while they were speak-
ing, they caught the sound of wheels, and, shading her eyes
with her hands. Aunt Judy saw entering the Park the carriage
ef Mrs. Strong. The young man, Boston, had stopped at the
Homestead the previous night to leave a parcel brought for Miss
Nina from Thomasville, and had told of the young lady — Miss
Hetherton — whom he had brought to Magnolia Pa. -c. Mrs.
Strong remembered well the tall, handsome boy, Frederick

■I

352

QUEENIE IIETHEKTON,

Hetherton, who, when she was a child, had passed a winter at
the Park, which was then one of the finest places in the State.
She remember, too, the stately lady, his mother, who had more
than once dined at the Homestead, and she had no doubt that
the young girl of whom Boston told her was the granddaughter
of that lady, and daughter of the boy Frederick. But why
had she come to Magnolia Park so late in the season, and how
was she to exist even for a day, in that deiapidated, forsaken
spot 1

* I will go to see her at once and brinj* her home with me,'
was Mrs. Strong's first thought, upon which she acted immedi-
ately.

Introducing herself to Queenie, who advanced to meet her
as she descended from her carriage, she said :

*If I mistake not, you are the daughter of Frederick Heth-
erton, whom I knew when I was a little girl. Though several
years older than myself, he was very kind to me, and I have
spent hours with him under the shadow of these trees and those
in the grounds of my own home.*

The mention of her father by one who had seen and known
him brought the hot tears at once to Queenie's eyes, but she
dashed them aside, and explaining that Frederick Hetherton
was her father, she led Mrs. Strong into the room which had
been temporarily fitted up for her, and sitting down beside her,
answered as well as she could the questions which her visitor
put to her concerning her home in Paris and her father's sad
death on shipboard.

* I had heard something of this before,' Mrs. Strong said to
her, * for the lawyer who has charge of your father's affairs at
the North wrote to a friend of mine who is supposed to look
after the old Marshall estate, that it now belonged to a young
lady, the only direct heir of the Hethertons. It is rather a
sorry place for a young girl to come to, but I suppose you do
not intend remaining here long.'

* Yes ; always — always. I have no other home,' Queenie re-
plied, and her voice was choked with tears which she fought
bravely back.

Mrs. Strong was a kind-hearted, far-seeing woman', and as
she studied this girl, scarcely older than her own daughter, and,
as Boston had said, somewhat like her in appearance, she felt

MAGNOLIA PARK.

353

winter at
be State,
bad more
3ubt that
daughter
But why
and how
forsaken

with me,'
immedi-

meet her

ck Heth
h several
id I have
Eind those

d known
, but she
etherton
hich had
side her ,
r visitor
ler's sad

said to
iffairs at

to look
a young
rather a

you do

jenie re-
fought

and as
er, and,
she felt

strangely drawn toward her, and felt, too, that over her young
life some terrible storm had swept.

'I will not ask her what it is,' she thought, 'but I'll be a
friend to her, as I should wish some woman to befriend my
Nina were she here alone with those strange attendants.'

Then she said :

' I think I heard that Mr. Hetherton's wife died in Rome,
years ago. It must have been at your birth.'

For a moment Queenie sat as rigid as if turned into stone,
her fists clenched, and her eyes staring at Mrs. Strong, who
looked at her wonderingly. Then a tremor ran through her
frame, and she shook from head to foot.

' Oh, I can't bear it ! I can't bear it ! * she cried at last.

* My head will burst if I keep it. I must tell you the truth ;
you seem so good and kind, and I want a friend so much.
Mother did not die in Rome — that was Margery's mother;
mine is still alive, and I had no right to be born.'

Then, amid bursts of tears and broken sobs, Queenie told her
story from beginning to end — from Chateau des Fleurs down
to Magnolia Park, where she had come to hide from all who had
ever known her. Had Queenie tried, she could not have found
a more sympathizing listener to her recital, and when it was
finished, Mrs. Strong's tears flowed almost as freely as her own,
as she took the young girl in her arms, and kissed her lovingly,
tried to comfort and reassure her, while at the same time she
administered a little reproof.

* I think you should have staid with Margery,' she said ;

• but since you are here, we will do the best we can for you.
And now you must go home with me and stay until some of
these rooms are made comfortable for you.*

But to this Queenie objected. She had a great desire to see
Jacksonville, she said, and was going there for two weeks or
more.

* Jacksonville, and alone,' Mrs. Strong repeated, and Queenie
replied that Axie was going with her to see h'?r setlied, and then
leave her with Pierre, while she returned to the Park to super-
intend the renovating process.

* There can be no harm in that, can tiifre 1 ' she ai^k'.d, and
Mrs. Strong replied :

>! '!

354

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

* Oh, no, it is not an unheard of thing for ladies to be at the
hotel alone, but I think they usually have some acquaintances
there, and you have none. If, however, you insist upon going,
I shall write to the proprietor of the St. James' to have a care
over you, and also to some friends of mine, residents in town,
whose attentions and friendship will be of great service to you,
and shield you from the curious, gossiping ones who are to be
found everywhere, p,nd especially at large hotels. Cats, I call
them, for they partake largely of the nature of that treacherous
animal, smooth and purring if you stroke them the riglit way,
but biting and scratching if you do not. There are plenty of
them at the St. James' I dare say, but I think I can keep you
from their claws, if you will go. Possibly the change may do
you good. It will amuse you, at all events. But you must
spend to-day and to-night with me, as you cannot stay here,
and to-morrow, if you still insist, you can take the train for
Jacksonville.'

To this plan Queenie assented, and spent the day and night
at Mrs. Strong's, and the next morning started with Pierre and
Axie for the St. James' Hotel.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

AT THE ST. JAMBS.

32*

ife'

|T was tco late in the season for guests to be coming from
the North, but the increasing heat of the warm spring
days was driving the people from the points up the river
— from Sanford, and Palatka, and Green Cove Springs, so that
Jacksonville was full of visitors, and the St James,' especially,
was crowded v/hen Reinette arrived there in the train from
Tallahassee.

' A small room will suit me ; I do not care for a very expen-
sive one,' she said, timidly, as she stood before the clerk's desk,
with Pierre and Axie on either side of her.

AT THE ST. JAMES.

355

e at the
intances
a going,
e a care
n town,

to you,
re to be
ts, I call
icherous
;lit way,
)lenty of
[eep you

may do
ou must
:ay here,
train for

nd night
ierre

and

ing from
u spring
he river
so that
pecially,
lin from

y expen-
k's desk,

But the only vacant room in the house was one on the third
floor front, and of this Queenie took possession, glad to escape
for a time at least from the many curious eyes which she felt
were turned upon her. In all large hotels where the guests
mingle freely together at table d'hote and in a common parlour,
there is necessarily a good deal of gossip, and talk, and specu-
lation with regard to strangers, especially if the latter chance
to be at all out of the common order. And to this rule the St.
James* was not an exception. As Mrs. Strong had said, it had
its cats as what hotel had not ; idle, listless cats, who lead an
aimless life, with nothing to do but scratch and tear each other,
sometimes with claws unsheathed, but oftener with velvet paws
and purring notes, which of all styles of warfare is the most
dangerous, inasmuch as it cannot be met and combated openly.
Cliques, too, there were, the members of which, after criticising
and talking each other up, turned their attention to any new-
comers unfortunate enough to differ from the ordinary type of
women, and Qiieenie was one of these. Everybody was inter-
ested in her. Everybody turned to look after her as she walked
through the hall, or entered or left the dining-room, and many
sought the books for information. But * Miss Hetherton, Mer-
rivf le, Mass.,' told them nothing definite of the dark-faced little
girl in black, who sat apart from them all, with a strange look
in the brilliant eyes, which swept the rooms so often and so rap-
idly, and which had in them a far-off look of weariness and
pain rather than any particular interest in what was passing
around her. Then one of the ladies tried Pierre. But at the
first alarm the old man conveniently forgot every word of Eng-
lish he had ever known, and jabbered in his native tongue so
rapidly that his interlocutor was turned away from him in dis-
may and opened her batteries upon Axio, whom she encoun-
tered in the hall. But Axie, too, was non-committal, or mostly
so. Miss Hetherton was French and had always lived in Paris
until quite recently, when she came to Merrivale, the ( d home
of her father, who died upon the voyage, leaving her alone.
Magnolia Park, near Tallahassee, belonged to the Hetherton es-
tates, and thither the young lady had come for a change of air
and scene, but finding that the place was a good deal run down
and needed some repairs, she had decided to spend a little time
at the St. James' while they were I -ing made.

! ■

356

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

This was Axie's explanation, which was wholly satisfactory,
and as it was repeated with sundry additions, all in Queenie's
favour, she was indorsed at once, and had she chosen, she might
have been a belle and headed every clique in the house. But
Queenie was far too sad and her heart was too full of pain to
care for flattery, while a burning sense of shame was ever pre-
sent with her, casting a shadow over everything which other-
wise might have made her happy.

• If they only knew who and what I am,' was the thought
always in her mind, and which made her shrink from the ad-
vances made to her by those whose friendship would have been
of real service to her.

She felt that in a way she was an impostor, and did not wish
to make acquaintances lest they might find her out and feel
that they had been deceived, and yet in a way she was interest-
ed and amused with what she saw of life at the St. James' and
liked to sit alone by herself in a quiet corner of the great par-
lour and watch the people^ around her — the devotees of whist,
who night after night sat at the same table, with the same peo-
ple, and usually with the same result ; the dancers, who occa-
sionally varied the monotony with a quadrille or a waltz ; and
the knots of lookers-on gathered here and there in groups, and
whispering their confidences to each other. It was all very new
and very strange to Queenie, who had never seen anything like
it, and she was beginning to forget in part her great sorrow in
the scenes around her, when an unexpected arrival brought the
past back to her in all its bitterness, and made her shrink more
thau ever from intercourse with strangers. This arrival was
none other ihan that of Mistress Anna Rossiter, nie Anna Fer-
guson, who had been three weeks a bride, and after donig Wash-
ington, as she expressed it, had resolved to see a little of Florida
life before the season was fairly over and the Northerners gone
home.

Miss Anna's wedding had been a very quiet one, owing to
poor PhiL's recent death, and only a few of the villagers had
been honoured with an invitation ; but those 30 honoured had
been among the first in town — the Gra.igers, and Markhams,
and Marshalls, and others of the same class against whom Anna
had once rebelled so hotly because of fancied slights and indig-
nities. It was now her turn to hold up her head, she thought ;

AT THE ST, JAMES.

357

actory,
leenie's
5 might
I. But
pain to
rer pre-
i other-

ihought
the ad-
ve been

lot wish
lud feel
nterest-
aes' and
eat par-
f whist,
ime peo-
o occa-
and
ips, and
|ery new
ing like
krow in
^ght the
ik more
Ival was
Ina Fer-
Wash-
iFlorida
|r3 gone

ring to

lers had

]*ed had

[khams,

Anna

indig-

[ought ;

she was to be Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter, with a house in New
York, and another on the Hudson if she liked. She was to
have a maid, and diamonds, and her carriage, and servants in
livery, for she liked those long coats and yellow boots, she said,
and she meant to have her women servants wear caps, as she
was told they did abroad.

Anna was very happy. The old days of dress-making and
drudgery were over. No more pricked red fingers for her, no
more bundles to be carried home to those who bade her ring
at the side instead of the front door. All that was past and
gone. The sign which had once so annoyed her was split and
burned. It was hers now to snub, instead of being snubbed,
and so she began by slighting the very ones who had been kind
to her, but whom she did not consider worthy of her notice in
the days of her prosperity. She should begin her new life as
she could hold out, and she would not have Tom, Dick, and
Harry hanging to her skirts, she said, and she put aside the
friends with whom she had been in the habit of associating in-
timately, and invited only those with whom it could scarcely be
said she had ever been recognised as an equal. Margery was,
of course, one of the guests, for she was now Miss Hetherton,
of Hetherton Place, and it was an honour to claim her as a re-
lation.

Mrs. La Rue was wholly ignored. A woman of her reputa-
tion, and whose life had been a lie, had no right to expect civi-
lities from the people she had deceived. Anna argued, and so
Mrs. La Rue's name was omitted from the list.

But the intended slight failed to touch the sad, remorseful
woman, who now lived quite alone at the cottage, having re-
sisted all Margery's entreaties that she should make her home
at Hetherton Place. Since her confession, and especially since
Queenie's departure for the South, she had fallen into a strange-
ly sad and silent mood, shrinking from every one, and prefer-
ring to live entirely alone, as solitude was best suited to such
as she. And so she scarcely gave a thought to the wedding
which took place one afternoon in the best room of Tom Fer-
guson's house, with only the elite of Merrivale looking on and
commenting upon the airs of the bride, and the childish de-
light of the bridegroom, who, perfectly infatuated with his doll-
faced wife, did not attempt to conceal his joy, but rubbed his
W

•A

IV'f

358

QUE EN IE IIETIIERTON,

hands in the exuberance of his joy, and kissed her many times
the moment she was pronounced his wife

There was a short trip to New York, and a long one to
Washington, where Anna created a great sensation with Ijer
satins, and velvets, and diamonds, which she wore on all occa-
sions. She had sold her youth and beauty for gold, and she
meant to reap the full price of her charms. Every day she
blossomed out in a new costume, with jewellery to match, and
as she was really pretty, and could be very gracious when she
tried, Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter became the rage in the fash-
ionable world of Washington, and was flattered, and admired,
and complimented to her heart's content, and mentioned in the
papers as the most distinguee and lovely woman in Washington
— notices which she read with great satisfaction at the break-
fast-table every morning, and then passed to her husband, with
the remark :

'How perfectly absurd ! Did you ever read such nonsense?'

Anna was growing very fast, and taking her position as read-
ily as if she had always been Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter.
The sign-board and the dress-making were forgotten, or were
so far in the past that she seldom thought of them. Her edu-
cation was progressing rapidly, and v/hen told that a Senator's
wife, who was noted for her grace and dignity, had once taught
a common school in New England, and * boarded round,' she
exclaimed :

* Is it possible ! She does not show it in the least. 1 think
one's early surroundings usually stamp themselves upon a per-
son, but in Mrs. 's case you would suppose her to the manor

born.*

And so Anna became very aristocr9.tic, and talked of her re-
lations, the Rossiters, and the Hethertons, and enjoyed herself
immensely in her handsome suite of rooms at the Rigga House,
where she would have spent a longer time, but for a letter re-
ceived from Grandma Ferguson, which threw her into a wild
state of alarm and apprehension. The good old lady had long
wished to visit Washington and see the doin's, she wrote, and
* she couldn't have a better time than when Anna was there to
go round with her and show her the elephant. So, she'd about
made up her mind to pick up and start, as her clothes were all
nice an I new, and Anna might expect her any day, and had

AT THE ST. JAMES.

359

think
a per-

i long
and
ere to
about
3re all
d had

better engage a room at once. A small one on the top floor
would answer, as she did not mean to spend all her money on
rooms, and she could just as well take some of her meals at a
restaurant as not ! *

* Oh-h ! ' and Anna fairly gasped as she read this letter, which
she found lying by her plate one morning, when she came down
to breakfast alone after a brilliant party, of which she had been
the belle, so the paper said. * Oh-h I ' and the cold sweat oozed
from every pore as she thought of her grandmother swooping
down upon her, and with her brown silk, and purple gloves,
and pink ribbons, and dreadful grammar, demolish 'ng the fair
structure of blood, and family, and position, which she had so
easily secured for herself.

Knowing her grandmother as she did she felt certain that she
would come, if some decisive step was not taken to prevent it.
And Anna took the decisive step, and turning her back upon
the fresh fields of glory she had meant to win in Washington,
she telegraphed immediately to her grandmother that she should
leave the city that day, but said nothing of her destination.

• She would not mind following me to Europe, if she knew
I was going there — the vulgar old thing ! ' she thought, ^'ith
an indignant toss of fine ladyism. ' I will not have her spoil-
ing everything. I am done with the old, hateful life. I am
Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter and mistress of my own actions.'

So she sent the telegram and then souu:ht her hrf-ibr.nd, who
had breakfasted before her and v reading his i>aptrr in his
room.

' Dearest,' she said, laying he
head, * I am so tired of Washing"
things of me. Such a nonsensical
this morning about the younp
whose sweet, fresh face and cha _

and whose dress is a marvel of la^te and elegance. Why, they
even estimated the value of my diamonds. I am sick of it all ;
it makes one so common ; and th< n I know they would say the
same of the next new-comer, if hi-r dress was richer than mine.
These reports are insufferable. Let's go away — to-night ; go
to Florida for a week or two ; it '^> not too late, and 1 don't
mind hot weather in the least. We shall be more quiet there,

and caressii>gly upon his

!, where they say such silly

tide as there is in the paper

nd beautiful Mrs. Kossiter,

ig manners please every one.

I''

i n

360

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

Ili

\\ ' ■ -

and I shall see more of you. Now, with the driving, and dress-
ing, and crlling, I scarcely have a bit of your company.'

She was in his lap by this time and her fingers were lifting
deftly his scant hair and fixing it over his bald spot. What-
ever Anna might lack she knew how to manage her husband,
who, throwing down his paper and encircling her slender waist,
said to her : •

' Sick of it, are you, Pussy % Why, I thought you liked it
immensely ; women generally do ; but it shows your good
sense not to want to be stared at and written up by a lot of
snipper-snappers. But, for heaven's sake, don't go to Florida !
You will roast alive.'

The major had once been to St. Augustine in the days before
the war, and it made him tired to think of the long, wearisone
journey by land and the still worse trip by sea. But Anna's
lieart was set upon Florida. Her grandmother would hardly
follow her there, and she carried her point and left Washington
that night with her three trunks and maid, who had been found
in New York, and on whom Mrs. Anna called for the most tri-
vial service, even to the picking up of her handkerchief, which
it would seem she sometimes dropped on purpose, for the sake
of showing her authority. Anna was very proiid of her posi-
tion and proud of her name, so out of the common order of
names. Lord Stymour Bozsiter had a sound of nobility in it,
ard she persuaded her husband to leave off the Mr. when he
registered at hotels, ' just to try the effect,' she said. And so
* Lord Seymour Kossiter, lady, and maid ' was the record in the
book at the St. James' which the bridal pair reached one even-
ing about nine o'clock.

Of course such a r*^gistry attracted attention and comment,
and before ten o'clock half the people in the parlour knew that
a real live lord and lady had arrived, and great was the inter-
est in and the curiosity to see them.

And Anna bore herself like a grand duchess, and had all the
airs of twenty titled ladies, when next morning she stepped out
of the elevator into the broad hall, the train of her blue morn-
ing-dress sweeping far behind her, and a soft, fleecy white
shawl wrapped gracefully and negligently around her. She
knew the people were watching her, knew she was creating a
sensation, and her voice, never very low, was pitched a little

AT THE ST. JAMES.

361

even-

all the
ped out
morn-
white
She
ating a
a little

higher as she asked the clerk if he had no private parlours — no
sitting-rooms attached to the bedrooms. The clerk was very
sorry, but tKere were no suites of rooms, he said ; they were
seldom called for, as the guests generall}' preferred sitting in
the parlour, and hall, and upon the piazzas.

* Yes ; but / do not,' Anna replied, in her most supercilious
tone ; ' and I think it very strange that a hotel like this should
have no suites^ of rooms ; but possibly you can obviate that
difficulty by giving us an extra room. I should like the one
adjoining mine. It will not be much trouble to take out the
bed and convert it into a parlor.'

She spoke as if the thing were settled, and was moving away,
when the clerk stopped her by saying :

' But, madam, it is impossible to give you No. — , as it is al-
ready occupied by Miss Hetherton.'

' Miss Hetherton ! What Miss Hetherton, pray 1 ' and Anna's
voice lost the lady-like tone to which she had been trying to
bring in since her accessio i ; T dignity.

Quietly turning the pag^^ of the book back to a previous
date, the clerk pointed to the entry, 'Miss Hetherton, Merri-
vale, Mass.,' while Anna repeated, scornfully :

* ** Miss Hetherton, Merrivale, Mass. ! " Is she here, and
alone 1 * while the elevating of her eyebrows, and the significant
shrug of her shoulders expressed more than her words.

* You know the lady, then 1 ' 'the clerk ventured to say ; for,
in spite of Anna's diamonds and airs, there was sousething
about her which told him he could take more liberty witL her
than with many dinother guest of far less pretension.

' Know her 1 Yes ; or did know her once, but I did not ex-
pect to find her here,' Anna answered, and then swept on to-
ward the dining-room door, where her husband was waiting for
her.

Everybody looked up as she entered the room, and many
whispers and many glances were exchanged as she passed on to
her seat, which was quite at the end of the long hall ; and so
acute is the Yankee perception of the true and the false, the
washed metal and the real, that even before she had been set-
tled in her chair by her attentive husband, the verdict passed
upon her by those for whose opinion she would care tlie most,
was, * Not a a;enuine lady, whatever her rank may be.' There

' '

362

QUEENIE KETIIERTON.

was too much show and arrogance about her, and the diamonds
in her ears, and, more than all, the heavy cross and chain she
wore, were sadly out of place at the breakfast-table.

* Who was she, and where did she come from?' were the
questions which passed from one to another, eliciting at last the
reply that she was the Lady liossiter, who had arrived the night
before ; and this made her tenfold more an object of interest
and curiosity to those sitting next to her.

Meanwhile another guest had entered the * dining-room, a
graceful little figure, clad in deepest black, which was, however,
relieved by plain linen collar and cuffs, and a cream-coloured
rose at the throat, which wonderfully heightened the effect and
made Queenie an object to be looked after as she moved up the
hall, the colour deepening in her cheeks and her brilliant eyes
lifted occasionally and flashing a look of recognition upon those
she knew. Her seat was at the same table with Mistress Anna,
who was never so startled in her life as she was when a hand
was laid familiarly upon her shoulder and a voice she recog-
nised said to her :

'Oh, Anna, are you here? I am so glad to see you ! *

And Queenie was glad, for, though she had never liked Anna
Ferguson very much, simply because she could not, the unex-
pected meeting with her in far-off Florida, where all were stran-
gers, made her seem very near to the desolate, heart-sick girl,
who could have fallen upon her neck and kissed her for the
something in her face which brought the dead Phil., to mind.

But Anna's manner was not provocative of any such demon-
strations. She was not glad to see Queenie — was not giad to
find her where she had counted upon fresh conquests, and a
like adulation to that she had received in Washington. Like
all low, mean natures, she was ready to suspect others of what
she knew she would do . in like circumstances, and when she
learned that Queenie was in the hotel her first thought was
that now her antecedents, of which she was so much ashamed,
would be known, either from Queenie or Axie, neither of whom
had much cause to love her, and thus the castle she had built
for herself would be demolished.

And mis was the reason why her manner toward Queenie
was so c 'Id and constrained, and even haughty, that the young
girl felt xrpelled and wounded, and the hot blood mounted to

AT THE ST. JAMES

363

hor face and then left it deadly pale, as she took her seat at the
table directly opposite Anna, who scarcely spoke to her again,
except to ask some commonplace question or to remark upon
the weather.

This little scene, however, was noticed by those sitting near,
and the conclusion reached that the new-comer meant to slight
Miss Hetherton ; but it did not harm her one whit, for her sad,
sweet face and quiet di^jnity of manner had won upon the
guests, while, owing to Mrs. 'Strong's influence, some of the
best and first people in town had called upon her, so that her
standing was assured, and Anna's coldness could not matter ;
but it hurt her cruelly to be thus treated, when she was long-
ing so much for sympathy, and she could scarcely restrain her
tears until breakfast was over, and in the privacy of her room
she could indulge her grief, with no ohe to see her but Axie,
who learned at last the cause of her grief.

Axie was not a girl of many words ; but there was a look in
her black eyes which boded no good to Mrs, Anna, and, before
the day was over, every one in the hotel at all interested in the
matter knew exactly who Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter was and
where she came from, and that at home, to use Axie's words,
* she was no, kind o' count side of Miss Hetherton.'

So Anna's star began to wane almost before it had risen, or
would have done so but for her perseverance and push, which
oftentimes compelled attention where it might not otherwise
have been given. She was pretty, and fast, and rich, and thus
ga,ined her favour with a certain class, and especially with the
young men, with whom she was vf ry popular. Night after
night, while her husband played at whist or euchre in the
gentlemen's room, she danced and flirted in the parlours, and
wore her handsome dresses and diamonds, and furnished the
cats with no end of gossip, and flattered herself that at last she
was happ3^ With a woman's ready wit she soon discovered
that she had made a mistake with regard to Queenie, and so
she changed her tactics and tried to be very gracious to her,
and even hinted that nothing could please her better than to
see Tallahassee and Magnolia Park. But Queenie was im-
;^ervious to all hints. Magnolia Park was no place for Anna,
even had she wished to have her there, which she did not.
Axie had returned ti the Park soon after Anna's arrival, and

364

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

wrote her mifitress at last that the house was ready for her, as
nearly as it could be. The departures had commenced befor^
this, though a few invalids still lingered there, as well as a few
pleasure-seekers, but the great hotel was nearly empty when at
last Queenie left it with Pierre and went to begin a new life
in a home as unlike everything she had ever known as it well
could be.

CHAPTER XLIX.

'' Vfl

THE YELLOW FEVER.

Jf[ T was very hot in Florida that summer, but it suited
jjf Queenie, who, like some tropical plant, seemed to thrive
^*" under the burning sun which aJBfected even the negroes,
accustomed to it as they we'.e. Physically she had never been
better than she was at Magnolia Park, or prettier either, for
the bright colour had crept back to her cheeks and her eyes
had in them a look of softnoss and humility, while th« expres-
sion of her face was ineffably sweet and gentle like the faces of
some of the Madonnas. She had suffered terribly, and the
fierce storm through which she had passed had left its marks
upon her so that she vnould ne\er again be quite the same,
dashing impetuous girl she once had been. Margery wrote to
her often, long letters full of tendeiness and affection, and en-
treaties for her to return to the hon e which was not the same
without her.

* We could be so hapyjy here together,' Margery said, ' if you
would only come, and why will you noi ? Why not throw all
your pride to the winds and ccrae to the sister who loves you
^80 much, and to the home which is as much yours as mine.
Yes, and more, top ; for I coristantij feel myself an intruder
here, an ursuper of your rights. I can i:ot r.sFume the fine lady
as readily as Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter has, and I often wake
in the morning fancying that 1 have a dress to fit or a garment
to finish for some impatient and unreasonable customer. I

THE YELLOW FEVER.

305

really believe T was happier as Margery La Rue, earning my
bread with my hands, than I am here alone in this great house
with nothing to do but to amuse myself. Were you here, how-
ever, all would be so changed, for you would be to the plac«
like the sunshine to the flowers. Come, then, Queenie, won't
you ; or, if you will not, I shall go to you next winter and share
your Florida home, whether you are willing or not.'

Such were Margery's letters, over which Queenie always cried
herself sick, but which did not move her one whit in the direc-
tion of home. She could never go back there, she thought, so
long as she felt as she did toward the poor, half crazed woman,
still living her lonely life in the cottage. That woman was her
mother, and with all her heart and soul she rebelled against it,
and could not feel one particle of affection for her, or even pity,
so great was her horror of her sin, and so fearfully had she
been humiliated. She knew she was wicked and wrong, but
made no effort to be better in that direction.

' I cannot go back where she is,' she would say to herself,
amid her tears — ' cannot go where 1 must sometimes see her.
If she were poor or suffering, I could work for her so willingly,
and would Jo it gladly as a kind of atonement for my feelings
toward her, but I never wish to see her, and so I cannot go.'

From Grace and Ethel Rossitcr she also heard frequently,
and their letters touched her closely as they always addressed
her as their cousin, ignoring altogether the terrible thing which
had separated her from them. Once in speaking of Margery
they said : * She is very lonely at Hetherton Place, though we
go there often, and Mr. Beresford, we hear, is there every day.'

This was underscored, and conveyed to Queenie's mind just
the meaning Ethel meant it to convey. Mr. Beresford was
daily growing more and more interested in Margery, and
Queenie rejoiced that it was so. She was so glad for Margery
ft) be happyin a good man's love, though her own sun had set
in the deepest gloom, and there was a ceaseless moan in her
heart for poor Phil, dead in the far-off" Indian seas, while the
load of shame and humiliation whicL had come so suddenly up-
on her seemed sometimes greater than she could bear.

* If I only had something to do which would make me forget
myself a little I should be happier,' she thought, as morning

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366

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

after morning she awoke to the same monotonous round of
duties, or rather, occupations ot trying to kill the time.

She had no real duties, for everything pertaining to house-
hold arrangements was managed by the old negress, Aunt
Judy, who petted her young mistress as if she had been a quee:i,
while both Pierre and Axie, who still remained at the park,
watched vigilantly to anticipate every want before it was framed
in words. To feed her poultry, and pet her horse, and talk to
the dogs, and fondle the cat, and water her flowers seemed to
constitute her daily tasks, except when she wrote to Margery,
or Ethel, or paid a formal visit to the people in the neighbour-
hood, who had been very polite to her.

Mrs. Strong was absent on her plantation near Lake Jack-
son, and thus Queenie was left almost entirely alone and free to
let her morbid fancies feed upon themselves. She did need
something to do, and at last the something came, though in a
very different form from what she would have chosen had it
been hers to choose.

As the summer advanced, it grew hotter and hotter, until
the nights were like the day, and there came no breath of air
to relieve the dreadful heat. There were rumours of sunstroke
here and there, and talk of the sickness which must ensue if
the state of things continued. And still in middle Florida it
was comparatively healthy, and the air was free from malaria,
but farther to the north, where a city spread itself over miles
of territory, an ominous cloud wasgi?thering. Once before the
town had been scourged as with the plague, and the terror-
stricken inhabitants had fled to the country for refuge from the
pestilence, which oftentimes overtook them on the road and
claimed them for its victims. And now it was coming again —
was lurking in the corners of the lanes and alleys, where poverty
and filth held high carnival — was breathed in the poisonous
air which brooded over the doomed city like % pall, until«at
last it was there, and men spoke the awful word to eacii other
in whispers, while their voices shook with fear and their hearts
sank as they remembered the past and the thought of the pos-
sible future. The yellow fever was in their midst, and though
as yet confined to the poorer classes and the unfrequented parts
of the city, where malaria and diseases of all kinds rioted and
fattened on their natural soil, the people knew too well that.

THE YELLOW FEVER.

3G7

like fire applied to cotton, it would spread until there was no
house however grand, or spot however exclusive, which its
shadows would not reach, its horrid presence threaten. The
city was doomed, and as the days went by, and the disease and
danger grew, and the death-roll increased, and men who walked
the streets to-day were dead to-morrow, a panic seized upoa
the terror-stricken inhabitants, who tted before the horror as
those who live on a frontier in time of warfare from the rapidly
advancing enemy. Then it was, when the city was almost
deserted, that the city went up for help — help for the sick and
the dying, ay, and the strong, too, for there was gnawing hiin-
ger in smitten Memphis, as well as disease and death. And
the North heard that cry as well as the South, and as she had
once sent down her hordes of soldiery when a different danger
threatened, a different cloud hung on the horizon, so now she
poured out from her treasures with a most liberal hand, and
* help for Memphis/ was the watchword everywhere. Physi-
cians, too, were wanted, with nurses for the sick and deserted
ones, and thi«i demand it was which tried to the very quick the
courage of those on whom it was made.

It was an easy matter to give one's substance to the needy,
to drop the money into the boxes placed everywhere for that
purpose, but to take one's life in his hands and go into the
very jaws of death, where the air was full of infection and the
very flowers seemed to exhale a d<'adly poison, this was a
different thing. But there were those who did it ; hundreds
of brave men and women who, from the New England hills,
and the prairies of the West, and the pine glades of the South,
went to the rescue, and by their noble heroism proved them-
selves more Christ-like than human. In her far-off Florida
home, Queenie heard the cry for help, and to herself she said :

*Her(» is something for me to do. Here is my chance, and
I'll take it.'

Had she known just what yellow fever was she might have
hesitated ere she made her decision, or, having made it, might
have drawn back from it at the frantic entreaties of Pierre,
who, when she communicated her intention to him, fell upon
his knees and with blanched face and chattering teeth begged
her not to go where there was certain death for them both, for
his place was with her ; if she went, he must go also. Axie,

368

QUEENIE BETHERTON.

too, tried to dissuade her from her purpose, but Queenie would
not listen.

' I am not afraid,' she said. ' I shall not take the fever. I
never catch things as some people do. I sat three hours once
with a servant who had the small pox, .>nd who died two hours
after, and I did not take it. Somebody must go, and I have
nobody to care much if I should die. Nobody but Margery,
and she would say I was doing right. So pack my trunk, like
a good, brave girl, for I must be oflF to-morrow.'

Occasionally, during her stay in Jacksonville, Queenie
had walked slowly past the Convent of St. Joseph, specu-
lating upon its inmates and wondering if, within its walls,
there was not perfect rest for a heart as sad as hers, and
with as little love left in it for any living thing or
human interest. Once, too, while there, she had been present
at a ceremonial where three nuns took the black vail and
pledged themselves to a life of self-denial and sacrifice. This
scene had greatly impressed her, especially as one of the girls
was very young and pretty, too, and the sister of the presiding
bishop, and for weeks she remembered the sweet face and clear
musical voice which, in perfectly steady tones, had renounced
the world and all its vanities, preferring to live for God and
and the good of all mankind. In his remarks to the trio thus
giving up everything which women hold most dear, the bishop
liad dwelt at length upon the happiness and purity of a clois-
tered life, free from all temptation, and had spoken of that
lowly home in Nazareth as the first convent, where Mary lived
her holy life, with only her baby and the saintly Joseph for
companions. And just here Queenie roused from her reverie,
and, with a great heart-throb for her lost Phil, said to herself :

" That was different. Mary might well be happy with her
baby and her Joseph ; but these girls will have neither. No,
I am not good enough to be a nun. I am not good enough for
anything."

But now her opportunity had come, and though she did not
wear the sisters' garb, she could follow the example of those
heroic women who, she knew, went so fearlessly to Fernandina
when the scourge was there, and who were busy now in Mem-
phis, whence a second cry had come.

THE YELLOIV FEVER.

369

* Yes, I must go/ she said to Axie ; ' something which I
cannot resist is calling me to Memphis. What it is I cannot
tell ; but I must go.'

And so the next night the northern train for Savannah took
in it Pierre and Queeuie, bound for the fever-smitten city where
the people were dying so fast and help was sorely needed. By
some strange coincidence, while Queenie was making up her
mind to go to Memphis, Christine La Rue was already there.
She, too, had heard the cry for help, and it roused her from
the state bordering on insanity, into which she was falling.

' I am going,' she said to Margery ; ' for I feel that I can
do some good. I am not a bad nurse ; and if I can save one
life, or ease one dying pillow, may be it will atone to God for
some of my misdeeds. 1 am not afraid of the fever ; and if I
should take it and die, better so than end my own life, as I am
often tempted to do.'

Her mind was made up, and Margery did not oppose her, but
promised her plenty of money in case it should be needed. And
so the mother and daughter were bound for the same work —
the one to have something to do, the other to atone. It was a
fancy of Mrs. La Rue to assume the gray dress of a lay sister,
as she felt freeer and safer in this garb, and could go where
she pleased. It was not her wish to be hampered by any
restrictions ; and when the physicians saw how efficient and
fearless she was, they let her take her own course and do as
she liked.

Sister Christina was the name by which she was known ; and
many a poor dying wretch blessed her with his last breath, and
commended to her care some loved one— wife, husband, or
child, struggling in the next room, perhaps, with the dread de-
stroyer. Money Christine had in plenty, for Margery kept her
supplied ; and it was spent like water where it was of any avail,
so that Christine became a power in the desolated city, and
was known in every street and- alley of the town. Queenie had
written to Margery of her intention, and, with a cry of horror
on her lips, Margery read the letter, and then telegraphed to
Christine :

* Queenie is or will be there. Find her at once and send her
away. Queene must not die.'

370

QUEEN IE HETIIERTOK

There was a faint smile about Christine's lips as she read the
dispatch, and then whispered to herself, ' No, Queenie must not
die \ * while her pulse quickened a little, as she thought what
happiness it would be to nurse the fever-tossed girl, should she
be stricken down, and bring her back to life and health.

• rU find her, if she is here, and keep a watch over her,' she
said ; and two days after they met together high up in a tene-
ment-house, where, in a dark, close room, two negro children
lay dead, and the mother was dying.

Queenie was doing her work bravely and well, seeking out the
worst cases, and by her sweetness and tenderness almost bring-
ing back the life after it had gone out. Always attended by
Pierre, who carried with him every disinfectant of which he
had ever heard, she went fearlessly from place to place where
she was needed most, but found frequently that Sister Christine
had been there before her. Naturally she felt some curiosity
with regard to this mysterious person, whose praises were on
every lip, and also a great desire to see her.

* If she could impart to me some of her skill, I might do
more good and save more lives,' she said to Pierre, and there
was a thought of the woman in her heart as she bent over the
dying negress, wiping the black vomit from her lips and the
sweat-drops from her brow. ' She might have saved her, per-
haps,' she said, just as the door opened and the grey sister
came in.

Far gone as was the poor coloured woman, she still had
enough of sight and sense, to recognise the new-comer, and
something like a cry of joy escaped her as she managed to say :

* Sister Christine ! *

In an instant, Queenie sprang to her feet, and mother and
daughter stood confronting each other for a moment, neither
speaking, but each looking into the other's eyes with an eager
questioning look. In Christine's there was love, and tender-
ness, and anxiety, and fear, all blended together, while in
Queenie's there was great surprise, and something like gladness,
too, but with it the same old look of pride and repulsion which
Christiae knew so well. Queenie, however, was the first to
speak.

• Christine,' she said, * Sister Christine they call you, though
I never dreamed it was you, how came you here, aud when 1 '

THE YELLOW FEVER.

371

Christine told her how and when, and then repeated Mar-
gery's message — to find her and send her away.

* She saysQueenie must not die, and I say so, too. Will you
go, before it is too late li' she asked, and Queenie answered her :

* No, my place is here, and I am glad you are here, too. It
makes me feel more kindly toward you.'

' Oh, Queenie, Queenie, God bless you for saying even so
much,' and the woman who had stood undaunted by many a
death-bed trembled like a leaf as she snatched Queenie's hand
to her lips, and then went swiftly from the room, where her
services were no longer needed, for while she was speaking the
negress was dead.

That night a telegram went to Margery : ' She will not go
away, and she shall not die.*

So there was nothing for Margery to do but pray earnestly
and unceasingly for the young girl who seemed to bear a
charmed life, so fearlessly did she meet every peril and over-
come every difficulty. Almost as popular as Sister Christine,
she was hailed with delight everywhere, and more than one
owed his recovery to her timely aid. At last, however, she
began to flag a little, and was not quite as strong to endure as
she had been. There were about her no symptoms of the fever ;
she was only tired and worn, she said to Pierre, as she sat in
her room one evening. The day had been damp and sultry,
and the night had closed in with rain and fog, and a darkness
which could almost be felt, while the air was heavy as if laden
with noxious vapours. Queenie had thrown off her street dress
and put on a comfortable wrapper, when there came a quick,
sharp ring, and Pierre brought her a note, or rather a bit of
paper torn from a pocket tablet, and on which was written in
French ;

' Come immediately to No. 40
there.

street. You are needed
' Christine.'

The handwriting was very uneven,- as if penned in great
excitement, and as Queenie l)oked wonderingly at it there
swept over her an undefinable apprehension of something, she
could not tell what — a feeling that this call from Christine on
such a night was no ordinary Qall, and the need no ordinary

one.

372

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

' I believe I am growing nervous myself, and that will never
do/ she thought, as she felt a faintness stealing over her and a
kind of chill creeping through her veins, communicated, she be-
lieved, by the message she had received.

Never before had Christine sent for her, but, on the contrary,
always tried to shield and spare her as much as possible from
fatigue, or exposure, but this ' Come, you are needed,' was im-
perative, and, with trembling hands and a strange sinking
from what she was to do, she donned her usual every-day attire,
and, with Pierre, started for No. 40. It was a kind of private
hotel, which had remained free from infection until within a
day or two when the fever had suddenly broken out in its
most malignant form. Two of the inmates had already died,
one the wife of the proprietor, who, with his guests, had fled in
dismay, leaving behind a young man who had come to the city
the previous day, and who was now lying senseless in an upper
chamber, where Christine had found him, burning with fever
and raving with delirium. It was a very bad case, aggravated
by nervous excitement and fatigue, but she had done for him
what she could, and then had sent for Queenie, whom she met
on the landing outside the sick-room, and to whom she explained
why she had sent for her.

' He is very sick,' she said, ' and needs the closest watching,
and I know of no one who would be as faithful as you, for
I must be elsewhere to-night. This kind of weather has in-
creased the danger tenfold, and there is no telling where it
will end.'

Then she gave some minute directions with regard to the
treatment of the patient who, she said, was sleeping, and must
be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She seemed greatly
excited as she talked, and there was a strange glitter in her
eyes, and occasionally an incoherency in her manner of express-
ing herself, especially with regard to the sick man, which made
Queenie look curiously at her, wondering if she were alto-
gether in her right mind. When all had been said which was
necessary to say, Christine still stood irresolute, as it were, look-
ing fixedly at Queenie ; then, with a sudden, upward movement
of her arms, she wound them around the young girl's neck,
and kissing her forehead, said :

THE YELLOW FEVER.

373

I the
must
reatly
her
Ipress-
Imade
alto-
was
look-
iment
I neck,

' God bless you, my child, and keep you, and all those whom
you love, from harm.'

There were bright red spots upon her cheeks, but the lips
which touched Queenie were cold as ice, as was the hand which
accidentally brushed Queenie's cheek. Ordinarily Queenie
would have resented this liberty, but she did not now. She
was too much excited to resent any thing, and she was so glad
afterward that it was so— glad that she had some thought and
care for Christine to whom she said, as she felt her lips and
hand :

' How cold you are, and why do you tremble so 1 You
surely must be ill Don't get out tonight ; there must be
plenty of vacant rooms here. Stay and rest yourself. We can-
not let you die.'

She had one of Christine's cold hands in her own, chafing
and rubbing it as she spoke, but when she said, so kindly,
' We cannot let you die,' the woman drew it away suddenly,
and bursting into a paroxysm of tears, exclaimed :

' Better so j better so ; better for me to die -, but for you,
oh, Queenie, you must live — you and — Oh, my child, sum-
mon all your strength and courage ; you will need it all. There
is hard work ahead for you. Do you think you can meet it 1 '

Queenie did not know what the woman meant, but she was
greatly moved and agitated, and shook from head to foot with
a nameless terror.

' You, too,' are cold and trembling, and that will never do.
Drink — drink this.' Christine said, pouring from a flask which
she always carried with her a quantity of brandy, and offering
it to Queenie, who swallowed it in one draught.

The brandy steadied her nerves, and after standing a mo-
ment watching Christine as she slowly went down the stairs,
holding to the banisters, like one suffering from great physi-
cal weakness, she turned toward the door of the sick-room,
and ooftning it softly, went in.

374

QUEEN IE IIETIIEHTON.

CHAPTER L.

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.

|T was a large, handsome room — one of the best, it would
seem, in the hotel — but it seemed gloomy and cheerless
now, with only a night-lamp brrning on the table, cast-
ing weird shadows here and there, and only partially revealing
the form upon the bed — the form of a tall young man, who lay »
with his face turned from the light and half buried in the pil-
low. Outside the counterpane one arm and hand was lying,
and Queenie noticed that the latter was white and shapely as
a woman's, and noticed too, the mass of light brown, slightly
curling hair, which clustered around the sick man's head and
sent an indescribable thrill through her veins, as if something
familiar — something seen before. The man was young, she
knew, though she had not seen his face and dared not see it
lest she should disturb him.

' Let him sleep ; it will do him good and keep back the
dreadful vomit,' Christine had said, and not for worlds would
Queenie disobey her. She held a human life in her keeping,
and with her finger on her lip to Pierre, ^ho crouched almost
at her feet, she seated herseif in an arm-chair where she could
see the outline of the figure upon the bed, and there for hours
she sat and watched that figure, and listened to the irregular
breathing, while everj'^ kind of wild fancy danced through her
brain, and her limbs began at last to feel prickly and numb,
and a sense of cold and faintness to steal over her.

The air in the room was hot and oppressive, though the
windows were opened wide. Outside the rain was falling
heavily, and the sky as black as ink ; there was no sound to
break t!ie awful stillness, except the occasional tread of some
physicii.n or nurse on duty, or the crash of distant wheels,
whose meaning Queenie understood full well, shuddering as
she thought of the rapid burials which the peril made neces-
sary, and remembering what she had read of the great plague

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.

375

|gas
3ces-

in London, where the death-cart rolled nightly through the
street, while the dreadful cry was heard :

* Bring out your dead ; bring out your dead.'

The words kept repeating themselves over and over in
Queenie's mind until her brain became confused ; the present
faded away into the far-off past, and she was one of those
weary watchers in London, listening to I he cry :

* Bring out your dead.'

And she was carrying hers — was carrying the young man
whose long limbs dragged upon the floor, and whose head
drooped upon her shoulder, while his dead face, not yet cold,
touched hers with a caressing motion which brought with it a
thought of poor Phil., lying ben tath the Indian waters.

It was a horrid nightmare, and Queenie struggled with it a
moment, and then awoke with a cry of Phil, upon her lips — a
cry so loud that the sleeper upon the bed started a little, and
moaned, and said something indistinctly, and moved uneasily,
then settled again into slumber, and all was quiet as ever.

But Queenie stood erect upon her feet, rigid as a piece of
marble, and almost as white, while her eyes, which seemed to
Pierre to shoot out gleams of fire, were turned wildly toward
the form lying so motionless across the room, with the white,
shapely hand still outside the counterpane, and the light brown
wavy hair upon the pillow. He had spoken — had called a
name, which the excited girl had recognised as her own. She
could not be mistaken. In answer to her cry for Phil, the fever
patient had aroused a little and responded :

* Queenie.'

She was sure of it. He might not have meant her, it is true.
There were other Queenies in the world, no doubt, but he had
called her name — this man, who in her dream she was carry-
ing to the death-cart, and who might, perhaps, go there when
the morning dawned.

There was a clock upon the mantel, and Queenie saw that
it was half-past two. "The early summer morning would soon
break, and then she would see the face of this stranger who had
called for Queenie, and whose head and hair were so like her
lost Phil's., that, as she looked, with straining, eager eyes, and
whirling brain, it seemed to her at last that it was Phil. him-
self—Phil., drowned and dead, perhaps, but still Phil., come

376

QUEENIE BETaEttTON,

back to her in some incomprehensible manner, just to mock
her a moment, and then to be snatched away again forever.
But she would see him first distinctly, would know if it were
a phantom or a reality lying there upon the bed within her
reach, for she had advanced a few steps forward, and could
have touched the head upon the pillow.

* Pierre,' she said, at last, when she could endure the sus-
pense no longer — * Pierre,* and her voice sounded to herself like
the echo of something a thousand miles away, ' am I going
mad, or is that — is that ' and she pointed to the tall figure on
the bed.

Not comprehending her in the least, Pierre stared at her
wonderingly, with a great fear that her mind was really un-
settled by all the terrible scenes through which she had passed.

' Is it what % * he asked, coming to her side, and she replied :

* Bring the light. I must see the face of this young min. I
cannot wait till the morning.'

' But, mademoiselle,' Pierro remonstrated, ' think of the
harm, the danger to him. Christine's orders were to let him
sleep ; he was not to be disturbed.'

* Nor shall I disturb him ; but I shall see him. Bring the
light ! ' Queenie said, peremptorily, as she moved to the other
side of the bed, towards which the sick man's face was turned.

Carefully pushing down the pillow, so to bring the features
more distinctly to view, Queenie stood for one brief instant
gazing upon them ; then, turning to Pierre, she whispered :

' Nearer, Pierre ; hold the lamp a little nearer, please.'

He obeyed her, and as the full rays of the light fell upon the
white, pinched face of the sleeper, Queenie threw her arms
high in the air, and, in a voice Pierre would never have re-
cognised as hers, cried out :

' Oh, Pierre, Pierre ! it is — it is — my Phil, — come back, to me
again ! Christine I Christine ! come and help ! '

It was a loud, wailing cry, that call for Christine, and the
next moment Queenie lay across the foot of the bed, where she
had fallen in a death-like swoon, while over her bent Christine.
She had not left the house at all, but had sat below^ waiting
for some such denouement when the truth should become
known to Queenie

N-

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.

377

Christine had found the young man late tho previous after-
noon, and recognised him at once, experiencing such a shock
as had set every nerve to quivering, and made her feel that at
last her own strength was giving way. To save him for Queenie
was her great desire ; and, with a prayer on her lips, and a
prayer in her heart, she worked, as she had never worked be-
fore, to allay the burning fever and quiet hit^ disordered
mind.

Once, during a lucid interval, he looked into her face, and
knew her.

'Christine,' he said, faintly, * where is Queenie? I came to
find her. Don't let me die till I have seen her.'

* Queenie is here. I will send for her at once. Do not be
afraid ; I will not let you die. Your case is not very bad,'
Christine replied, speaking thus emphatically and against her
own convictions ; because she saw how frightened he was him-
self, and knew Jhat this would only augment the disease and
lessen his chances for recovery.

She saw that he was very sick, but would not let him know
it ; and by her hopeful, reassuring manner did as much toward
saving his life as her skilful nursing.

' Keep very quiet, and I'll soon have you well,' she said, and
Phil, did whatever she bade him do, though his mind began to
wander again, and he talked constantly of Queenie, whom he
had come to find.

At last, however, he fell away to sleep, and then it was that
Christine sent for Queenie ; and establishing her in the room,
went out in the adjoining chamber and waited, knowing that
sooner or later she would be needed. All through the weary
hours which preceded Queenie's cry for help she sat alone in
the darkness, alternately shaking with cold and burning with
fever, while in her heart was a feeling amounting to certainty
that her work was done ; that the deadly faintness stealing over
her at intervals, and making her so sick and weak, was a pre-
cursor of the end. But she must live long enough to save Philip
Kossiter, and give him back to Queenie, who might feel some
little gratitude toward her, and think more kindly of her when
she was gone. So she fought back her symptoms bravely, and
rubbed her cold, damp face when it was at its coldest, and then

378

QUEENiE HETUERTON.

leaned far out of the open window into the falling rain when it
was at its hottest.

And thus the time passed, on until her quick ear caught tlie
sound of voices and footsteps in the sick room ; and she heard
Queenie's wild cry for her, as if in that hour of peril, she was
the one person in all the world of whom tliere was need.
Queenie had turned to her at last as the child turns to its
mother in peril, and, with swift feet, Christine went to the res-
cue, and, almost before Pierre knew she was there, she had the
unconscious girl in her arms and was bearing her into the room,
where for hours she had waited so patiently. Fixing her in a
safe and upright position upon a cushion, she ran back to Phil.,
who, she knew, must be her first and principal care.

When Queenie's shriek echoed through the room so near to
him, he had roused from his sleep, and was moaning and talk-
ing to himself without apparently any real cotsciousness as to
where he was. But Christine's soothing hands, and the mede-
cine she administered, quieted him at once, and leaving him in
Pierre's care, she went back to Queenie, who was recovering
from her swoon.

* Tell me,' she gasped, when she was able to speak. ' Was it
a dream, or was it Phil, whom I thought dead beneath the sea?
Tell me, Christine, is it Phil., and will he die 1 '

* It is Phil.,* Christine replied, ' saved from the sea, I know
not how ; only that he is here, that he came seeking for you,
and I found him with the fever, late yesterday afternoon, and
did for him what I could. Then I sent for you, and the rest
you know. Only be quiet now. I do not think he will die.'

* Oh ! save him, save him, and you shall have my gratitude
forever. I have been cold and proud, but I will be so no
longer, if you give me back my Phil.,' Queenie said, with chok-
ing sobs, as she knelt at Christine's feet, and clasped the hem
of her dress.

* I will do'^hat I can,' Christine replied ; while agfiin through
every nerve throbbed the old sick feeling which she could not
put aside, even in her exquisite joy that Queenie might at last
be won.

* Too late ; it has come too late,' she thought to herself, while
to Queenie she said : * I must go to him now, for what I do

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.

379

reat

)iigh
nob
last

rhile
do

must be done quickly. A fev^ hours longer and it will be too
late.'

So they went together to the sick-room, where Phil, lay with
his face turned more fully to the light and showing distinctly
how pinched and pallid it was. Had Queenie's own life de-
pended upon it, she could not have forborne going swiftly up
to him and softly kissing his pale forehead ; then she knelt
down beside him, and so close to him that her dark hair touched
the curls of light brown as she buried her face in her hands ;
and Christine knew that she was praying earnestly that he
might be spared to her. At last, just as the dawn was break-
ing and the first gray of the morning was stealing into the
room, he moved as if about to waken, and with a quick, im-
petative movement of her hand, Christine put Queenie behind
her, saying as she did so : ' He must not see you yet. Keep
out of his sight till I tell you to come.'

Fearful lest she should attract his attention if she left the
room, Queenie crouched upon the floor, close beside tlie bed,
and waited with a throbbing heart for the moment when siie
might speak and claim her love. Phil, was better ; the long
sleep had done him g^od ; but there was a drowsiness over him
still, and he only opened his eyes a moment, and, seeing Chris-
tine bending over him, smiled gratefully upon her, and said :

' You are so good to me.'

Then he took the draught she gave him and slept again, this
time quietly and sweetly as a child ; while Queenie sat upon the
floor, fearing to move or stir lest she should disturb him.
Slo\7ly the minutes dragged on, until at last it was quite light
in the room. The heavy rain had ceased ; the dense fog had
lifted, and the air which came in at the window was cool and
pure, and seemed to have in it something of life and invigora-
tion.

* The weather has changed, thank God/ Christine murmured ;
while Queenie, too, whispered, * Thank God ! thank God ! '

Phil, must have felt the revivifying influence of the change,
for he breathed more naturally and there came a faint colour to
his lips, and at last, just as a ray of sunlight stole into tim room
and danced upon the wall above his head, he woke to perfect
consciousness, and, stretching his hand toward Chiistino, s.iid :

380

QUE EN IE HETHERTON.

* You have saved my life and I thank you ; but for you I
should have died when the dreadfi>l sickness came. How long
have I been here ; and where is Queenie ? I dreamed she was
here.'

As the tones of the voice she had never expected to hear
again fell upon her ear, Queenie could no longer restrain her-
self, but, springing up, she bent over Phil, and said :

*I am here — herCj Phil., my love^ wy darling ^ and nothing
shall part us again. I am not your consiu, and I can love you
now.'

She was kneeling beside him, with one arm under his neck,
while with the other hand she caressed his face, and, kissing
him passionately, continued :

* Oh, Phil., I thought you were dead, and it broke my heart ;
for I did love you all the time, and I found it out when it was
too late and you were gone, and I mourned for you so much,
and all the brightness went ont from my life ; but it will come
back again with you, my darling ! my darling ! '

Her tears were falling like rain upon his face, and her voice
was choked with sobs, as she made this avowal of her love,
without a shadow of shame or feeling th«k she was doing any-
thing unmaidenly. Phil, was hers. Nothing could change that,
or his love for her She was as sure of him as she was that
she breathed, and she had no hesitancy in pouring out the full
measure of affection for him. Both Christine and Pierre had .
stolen from the room, leaving the lovers alone in that first

m
blissful moment of their reunion. For a time Phil, lay per-
fectly still and took her caresses and kisses in silence. Then
summoning all his strength, he wound his arms around the
little girl, and hugging her close to him whispered :

* Heaven can scarcely be better than this. Oh, Queenie ! my
darling ! my pet ! '

He was very weak, and Queenie saw it, and drawing herself
from him, said :

' You must not talk any more now. Yon must get well, and
then I can hear it all — where you have been and why you are
not dead. Oh, Phil, it was so horrible — everything which has
happened to me since you went away. I am nobody — nobody ,
Phil. ; no name, no right to be born, and I was once so proud,
Did they tell you, Phil. ? Do you know who I am T ♦

THE OCCUPANT OF NO. 40.

381

* Yes, they told me ; I know, poor little Queenie,' Phil, re-
plied, with a tighter clasp of the band which lay in his.

- She did not ask him if it would make any difference with his
love. She know it would not. She had always felt sure of
Phil. ; he was hers for ever, and the old joy began to come back,
and the old light sparkled in her eyes, whicli shone like stars,
as she went on :

' It was so dreadful when I found it out, and I wanted to
die, because you, too, were dead, or I thought you were, and I
used to whisper to you in the dark nights, when I could not
sleep and I thought maybe you would come and let me to
know in some way that you were sorry for me. Where
were you, Phil., when I was wanting you so much ? *

* Very, very far away, but I cannot tell you now,' said Phil.,
knowing himself that he must not talk longer then ; but he
would not let her leave him ; he wanted her there -beside him,
where he could touch her hands, and look into her face and
beaming eyes, which dazzled and bewildered him with their
brightness.

So Queenie sat by him all that morning, seldom speaking to
him, but often bending over him to kiss his forehead or hands,
and occasionally murmuring :

' Dear Phil, and I am so glad — so happy. Nothing will
ever trouble me again.*

' Not even the Fergusons 1 ' Phil, answered her once, with
his old, teasing smile, which made him so like the Phil, of other
days that Queeuie laughed aloud, and, shaking her head gayly
said :

* No, not even grandma's purple gloves can ever? worry me
again. Oh, Phil., I have repented so bitterly of all my pride,
and I shall never, never be «o any more — shall never be angry
with you, or any one, or indulge in one of my moods 1 I wish
I could make you understand how changed I am, for I see you
do not quite believe me.*

Nor did he, though he smiled lovingly upon her, and lifting
his head feebly, smoothed her fair round cheek, where her
blushes were burning so brightly. He knew that Queenie
could not change her nature any more than the leopard could
change his spots — knew that at times she would be the littlo
wilful, imperious girl she had always been, defying his autho-

382

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

rity and* setting at naught his wishas. And he would not have
her otherwise if he could ; he should not know her, if the claws
were always sheathed and she was gentle and sweet as she was
now. Loving and true she would always be, and so repentant
when her moods were over that it would be well to have
worth his while to bear with them occasionally, as he was sure
to do. Bufc he did not tell her so ; he did not tell her
anything, for he Was too weak to talk, so he only looked his
love and happiness through his eyes, which rested constantly
upon her face, until at last even that became to him as some-
thing seen through a mist, not altogether real, and he again
fell into a quiet sleep, with his hand resting in Queen ie's.

CHAPTER LI.

SISTER CHRISTINE.

absorbed had Queenie been with Phil, that she had
failed to notice anything which was passing around her,
or to think of anything except herjgreat happiness. She
knew that sometime during the morning Pierre had brought
her coffee and rolls, which he had managed to find somewhere
near, he said, and which he made her eat. He had also given
her some orders with regard to Phil's medicines, saying that
Madame La Kue bade him do so, and to say that Miss H ether-
ton must be very particular not to forgot. And Queenie had
not forgotten that; though all else was a blank to her until Phil,
went to sleep, and she|^sat watching him, and wondering by
what strange chance the sea had given up its dead and restored
him to her. Then, as she heard a city clock stfike eleven, she
began to think how fast the hours had sped, and to wonder a
little at Christine's prolonged absence from the room. And
still that did not surprise her much, for she naturally sup-
posed she had gone to some other sick-bed, where she was
needed more than there with Phil.

SISTER CHRISTINE.

383

red
she

ip-

ras

* There is a great deal of good in her, and I must always be
kind to her because of what she has done for Phil.,' she thought,
and her mind was busy with castles of the future, when Pierre
looked in again just for an instant, and seeing Phil, asleep, shut
the door at once and went out again before she could ask him
a question.

But in the glimpse she got of him, it seemed to her that
there was an unusual look of concern in his face, while through
the open door she caught a faint sound of voices in the distance
and footsteps hurrying here and there. What was it] she
asked herself, and felt tempted to go out and see for herself,
but Phil.'s hand was clasping her's, and she would not free
herself from it lest she should awaken him. So she sat on till
the clock struck twelve, and the hum of voices was occasionally
borne to her ears by the opening of some door further up the
hall. There was somebody in the other part of the house be-
sides Pierre— somebody sick, too ; judging from the sounds,
and she grew so nervous at last and curious upon he subject,
that she gradually withdrew her hand from Phil.'s, and rising
softly was about to leave the room, when Pierre looked in again,
and this time she could not be mistaken with regard to the ex-
pression on his face, which was very pale and troubled as it
looked wistfully at her.

' What is it Pierre ! * she asked in a whisper, going close to
him, and observing that he stood against the door as if to keep
her from passing. * Whose voice do I hear, and is any one
sick ? I was just coming to ascertain. Let me pass, please.*

' No, no, mademoiselle. Don't come. She said you were
not to know. We are doin«r all we can for her,' Pierre cried,
in great alarm, thus letting ouu uhe secret he had been told to
keep.

* Do all you can for her ? For whom 1 Who is it that is
sick, and said I must not know 1 ' Queenie asked impetuously,
as she put the trembling old man aside and, opening the door,
drew him with her into the hall. ' Now tell me the truth,' 9fee
continued. * Is some one sick whom I ought to see 1 Is it —
is it — Christine ] '

* Yes,' he answered, * it is Madame Christine, and she is very
bad. She will die, the doctor fears, but she said you must not

384

QUEEN IE HETHERTON.

know. You must not leave Mr. Hossiter for her, and she sent
me many times to see how he was.'

Pierre was right, for in a small room at the end of the hall
Christine La Rue was dying. She who had braved so much
and borne so much, and passed through so many dangers un-
scathed, had at last succumbed to the terrible disease which
she knew was creeping upon her, when she sent for Queenie to
share her vigils by Phil.'s bedside.

' I must not give up yet ; I must endure and bear until he is
out of danger. I must save him for her sake,' she thought, and
fought down with a desperate courage and iron will the horrid
sensations stealing over her so fast and making her sometimes
almost beside herself with dizziness and languor.

But when the crisis was past, and she felt sure Phil, was
safe^he could endure it no longer, and with one long, linger-
ing look at Queenie, whom she felt she should never see again,
she started for her own lodgings.

' I can die there alone and so trouble no one,' she thought,
as she made her way to the staircase.

But on the first landing her strength failed her and she fell
upon the floor, where she lay, or rather sat in a half upright
position, leaning against the wall with her face in her hands,
until a voice roused her, and she looked up to see a man stand-
ing before her, and asking who she was and why she was there.
It was the proprietor of the house, who, ashamed of his coward-
ice, had returned and going first through the rooms below
where everything was as he had left it, he started to ascend
to the chambers above, when he came upon Christine, whom
he had often seen on her errands of mercy ; but whom he did
not recognise until she looked up and spoke to him. Then he
knew her and exclaimed :

* Sister Christine ! What are you doing here, and what is
the matter with you ? '

* I am sick — I have the fever,' she replied ; * and if you are
affaid leave mo at once.'

He was mortally afraid ; but he was not so unmanly as to
leave a woman like Christine to die uncared for at the head of
his own staircase, and helping her to the nearest room where
there was a bed, he started for a physician. Meeting in the
low^r hall with Pierre, who had been out for Queenie's coffee.

SlSTtlR CHRISTINE.

586

and who explained to him that his house held another patient,
he told him of Christine and where she was ; bidding him look
after her until help came from some other quarter.

But Christine was past all human aid. The disease had
attacked her in its worst form, and she knew she should not
live to see another sun setting. She was very calm, however,
and only anxious for Queenie and Phil.

*They must not be disturbed— they must not know,* she
said to Pierre, to whom she gave some orders concerning Phil. 's
medicines, which Pierre took to his mistress.

' Don't tell her I am sick ; don't let her know until I am
dead. Then tell her I was so glad to die and leave her free,
and that I loved her so much, and am so sorry for the past,'
she said to Pierre, who, half distracted with all he was passing
through, wrung his hands nervously, and promised all she
required.

But when Queenie began to suspect, and insisted upon know-
ing the truth, he told it to her, adding, as he saw her about to
dart away from him towards Christine's room :

' You better not go there ; she does not need you. One of
the sisters is with her, and she said you must stay with mon-
sieur. All her anxiety is for him and you — none for herself.
She seems so glad to die ! '

He might as well have talked to the wind for all the heed
Queenie gave him. Bidding him sit by Phil, until he awoke,
and then come for her if she was needed, she went swiftly to
the room where Christine lay, with death stamped on every
lineament of her face, but with a calm, peaceful expression
upon it, which told that she was glad for the end so fast ap-
proaching.

When Queenie entered, her eyes were closed ; but they opened
quickly, and a smile of joy and surprise broke over her face,
when Queenie exclaimed :

* Oh, Christine, you are sick, and you did not let me know
it, or I should have come before 1 *

For an instant Christine's lips quivered in a pitiful kind of
way ; then the great tears rolled down her cheeks, as she whis-
pered faintly :

* I am sick — I am dying ; but I did not want you to knowj
J wished to spare you and him. How is he now 1 '

386

QUEENIE IIETIIERTON.

Queenie explained that he was sleeping quietly, and that she
believed all danger passed. Then sitting down by the bedside,
she took the hot, burning hands in hers, and rubbed and bathed
them as carefully and gently as if they had been Phil.'s instead
of this woman towards whom she had felt so bitter and resent-
ful. All that was gone now, and she was conscious of a strange
feeling stirring within her as she sat and met the dying eyes
fixed upon her with so much yearning tenderness and love.
This woman was her mother. Nothing could change that ; and
whatever her faults had been, she was a good woman now,
Queenie believed ; at last, as the dim eyes met hers so con-
stantly and appealingly, she bent close to the pillow, and said :

* Mother, I am sorry I was so unforgiving and bad. It came
so suddenly, and was so hard to bear. Forgive me if you can.'

A low, pitiful cry was Christine's only answer for a moment,
and then she said :

' I have nothing to forgive ; the wrong was all my own, and
I deserved your scorn. . But oh, Queenie, my child, you can
never know how I was tempted — was led on, step by step, to
my downfall ; and after I had kept Margery's birth a secret, I
must go on concealing. There was no other way. He would
have murdered me, or left me to starve with you. Oh, Mar-
gery, Margery, my other child I and, Queenie, you wi41 not
mind if I say my dearest child, for she has been all the world
to me, and I loved her so much. Tell her so, Queenie ; tell
her I blessed her with my last breath, and loved her with all
my strength, and soul, and might. Margery, Margery ! She
is so sweet, so good, so true ! God bless her, and make her
perfectly happy ! '

During this conversation, which was carried on in French,
the sister whom the physician had sent to attend Christine,
stood looking on wonderingly, and never dreaming of the re-
lationship between the two. She was, however, anxious lest
80 much talking and excitement should be injurious to her pa-
tient, and she said so to Queenie, who replied :

* Yes, you are right. I should try to quiet her now. If you
will be kind enough to look after the young man in No. iO, I
will stay with Sister Christine. She wishes it to be so. She
was my nurse in France. I knew her — her — '

Queenie hesitated a moment, and then added :

* Knew her daughter. She was talking of her to me.'

SISTER CHRISTINE.

287

fou

This satisfied the woman, who, bowing assent, went from the
room, leaving the two alone.

For a time Christine lay perfectly still, with her eyes closed,
but her lips were constantly moving, and Queenie knew that
she was praying, for she caught the wo»-d^ :

* Forgive for Christ's sake, who forgave the tliief at the very
last hour ! '

And all the while Queenie held the hot hands in hers, and
occasionally s oothed the gray hair back from the pale brow
where the sweat of death was gathering so fast. At last Chris-
tine opened her eyes and looked fixedly at Queenie, who said
to her very gently :

* What is it 1 Do you wish to tell me something ? '

* Yes,* the dying woman answered, faintly. * I hope I am
forgiven, and that 1 shall find rest beyond the grave. I used
to pray so much in the cottage when I was alone — pray some-
times all night with my face on the cold floor. But the peace
I asked for would not come. There was always a horror of
blackness before me until since I came here, when the darkness
has been clearing, and now there is peace and joy, for I feel
that God forgives all my sin, and you, you, my chihl, have for-
given me too, and called me mother, and Phil, is alive and safe.
I've nothing more to live for, and I am so glad to die.'

She talked but little after that, and when she did speak her
mind was wandering in the past, now at Chateau des Fleurs,
when she was a young girl and good, she said, now in Rome,
where she watched by her mistress' bedside, but mostly in
Marseilles, where her baby was born, * her darling little girl
baby,* whom she bade Queenie be kind to when she was gone.
Then she talked of Margery and Paris, and the apartments in
the Rue St. Honors, until her voice was only a whisper, and
Queenie could not distinguish a word. Slie was dying very
fast, and just at the last, before her life went out forever,
Queenie bent over her, and, kissing her softly, whispered :

^ Mother^ do you know that I am here — Queenie — your little
girl 1 '

* Yes, yes,' she gasped, and a look of unutterable love and
satisfaction shone in the eyes which looked up at Queenie. ' /
know — I know you are Queenie — the baby born at Marseilles —
my own — and you kiss me and call me mother. God bless you,

388

QUEENIE BETHERTOK.

my child, and make you very happy. I am glad for your sake
that I am going away. Good-by, my darling, good*by ! '

She never spoke again, though it was an hour or more before
Queenie loosed her hold of the hand which clung so tightly to
hers, and closing the eyes which looked at her to the last,
smoothed the bed-clothes decently, and then going out to Pierre
who was waiting in the hall, told him that all was over.

Sister Christine was dead, and there was mourning for her
in the city where she was so well known, and where her kind-
ness and gentleness and courage had won her so many friends,
some of whom followed her remains to their last resting-place,
and wept for her as one long known and well-beloved. Every
respect which it was possible under the circumstances to pay
her was paid to her. Many gathered about the grave where
they buried her, just after the sun-setting on the same day of
her death. It was Queenie who prepared her for the coffin,
suffering no other hands to touch her but her own.

* She nursed me when I was a baby, and I must care for her
now,' she said to Sister Agatha, when she remonstrated with
her and offered to take the task from her hands.

And to Queenie it was a mournful pleasure thus to care for
the woman who had been her mother, and who, she felt, was
truly good and repentant at the last.

* I am glad I teel so kindly toward her — glad I called her
mother,' she thought, and was conscious of a keen pain in her
heart as she looked upon the white dead face on which suffering
and remorse had left their marks.

Notwithstanding the hour and her own fatigue, Queenie was
among the number who stood by the open grave where all that
was mortal of Christine was buried, and she would not leave
until the grave was filled and all the work was done. Then,
taking Pierre's arm, she went back to the hotel, and, going to
Phil.'s room, laid her tired head upon the hands he stretched
toward her, and cried bitterly, while Phil, soothed and caressed
her until she grew quiet, and could tell him all the particulars
of Christine's death.

' There was much that was noble and good in her,' she said,
' and I am glad I feel as I do. Had she lived I would have

PHIL'S STORY.

389^

tried so hard to do right, and with you to help and encourage
me I might have succeeded.'

* Yes,* Phil, answered her, * I am sure you would have tried ;
but it is better as it is — better for her to be at rest.'

And Phil, was right ; it was far better, for, had she lived,,
■ha could only have been a source of unhappiness to Queenie^
who, with the best of intentions, could not always have con-
cealed her humiliation and pain, and could never fully have
received her as a mother. God knew best, and took to him-
self the weary woman, who had been more sinned against than
sinning, and whose memory was held in the hearts of those
whose lives she had been instrumental in saving, as the memory
of a saint

CHAPTER LII.

said,
have

PHIL. S STORY.

eE did not tell it until two days after Christine's burial,
for Queenie would not listen to him until she felt that
he was able to tell it, and past all possible danger of a
relapse. Then, nestling close to his side, with her head lean-
ing upon his arm and his hand clasped in hers, she heard how
he had escaped from death on that night when the boat was
capsized and he found himself struggling for life in the angry
waters.

♦ My friend wrote you,' he said, * how the accident occurred,
and how for hours we clung to the boat, which was being drawn
rapidly out to sea. For a time I kept up bravely, though for
myself I cared but little to live, life was so dark and hopeless
to me then. But I remembered ray mother, who would mourn
for me, and made every possible exertion to hold on. When
we were capsized I struck my head just over the temple upon
some iron surface of the boat, and 1 know now that the blow
was of itself almost sufficienl to cause my death. As it was I
felt stunned and bewildered, and my strength was fast failing
Y

300

QUEENIE HETUEIITON.i

me when niv friend bade nie try and reach him, as he thought
he could help me. I remember making the effort — remember
reaching out one hand toward him, while I tried to change my

f)08ition, but my foot was caught in something which, when I
ost my hold and floated away from the boat, was also detached
and floated with me. It was the grating from the bottom oi'
the boat, and it proved my salvation, for, as I came to the sur-
face after sinking once beneath the waters. I caught at it and
clung to it desperately, while the waves carried me far away
from my companion, who, seeing me go down, naturally sup-

fosed I must be drowned. Indeed, I do not myself know how
was saved, or had the strength to endure the horrors of that
night and hold my frail support as I did.

* At last daylight broke over the waters, and a small vessel,
bound for the southern coast of Africa, passed near me as I
floated. I had then no power to signal them, my arms were so
cramped and numb, but one of the sailors spied me, and a boat
was at once lowered and sent to my rescue. How they got me
on board I do not know ; for all sense forsook me from the mo-
ment I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder as the boat came up
to me, and when next I awoke to a consciousness of anything,
I was lying in a close berth and a dark face was bending over
me, speaking iu a language I coqld not comprehend. But the
voice was kind, and the face a good-natured one, and. I remem-
ber thinking that I should be cared for until I reached some
point where I could make myself understood. My head was
paining me dreadfully, and was probably the cause of the weeks
and months of partial insanity which followed. I had taken a
frightful cold, a burning fever set in, and for days I raved like
a madman, they told me afterward, and made several attempts
to throw myself into the sea. It was useless for them to ask
me anything, as their language was gibberish to me, as mine
was to them. But one word they learned perfectly — it was on
my lips so constantly — and that was your name. No matter
what they said to me, I always answered Queenie until every
ofiicer and common sailor in the boat had the name upon their
lips, and could say it as well as I, though they little dreamed
who the Queenie was, I talked about so constantly.'

* Oh, Phil. ! ' Queenie cried, with streaming eyes ; * and /
was mourning for you, and thinking you were dead, and was so

PHIL'S STORY.

391

I every
Q their
'earned

sorry for having sent you away. Can you ever forgive me,
Phil., for all I have made you suffer 1 '

His answer, not given in words, was quite satisfactory, and
then he went on :

' They thought at last it must he my own name, and called
me Queenie whenever tlu y addressed me or spoke of me to-
gether. The voyage was rather long, owing to the adverse
winds and the bad conciition of the ship, but they reached their
destination at last, and gave me at once into the charge of some
English who were living there. But these could get no satis-
faction fro'a! me with regard to my home, or friends, or name.
I had faller. into a weak, half-imbecile frame of mind, and was
very tacituru and reserved, refusing sometimes to talk at all,
though alwa) s, when I did speak, begging them to carry me
home. At intervals 1 suffered greatly in my head, and even
DOW at times, if I touch the spot upon my temple where I re-
ceived the blo;v, I experien«;e a sensation like an electric shock,
showing that the injury I received was a most serious one.

' And so the time wore on, and, as I was perfectly harmless,
I was allowed to do as I pleased, and gradually, as 1 grew
stronger in health, my mind regained its balance, and I was
able to recall the past, or rather to remember up to the time
when I was in the water holding to the grating of the boat.
Everything was a blank, and is so to me now. I have no recol-
lection whatever of the voyage to Zanguibar, or of the months
which followed my arrival there, and it was some little time be-
fore I could comprehend my position, or realiie how long it
was since I was at Madras and started with my friend on the
excursion which ended so disastrously. My first act was to write
my father, who, I naturally supposed, must think me dead, but
the letter was probably miscarried or lost, for it never reached
him.

* At last there was a chance for me to leave the coast, and I
availed myself of it. An English sailing vessel, bound for
Liverpool, took me on board, but, as if I were a second Jonah,
we encountered heavy seas and violent storms, so that we were
double the usual length of time in reaching Liverpool, from
where I took a steamer for New York, where I landed just a
week before you found me here. Not wishing to shock my
family, as I knew they would be shocked if they had never re-

392

QUEENIE HE2HERT0N.

ceived my letter, I telegraphed to Mr. Beresford that I should
be home on the next train from New York. The news took
him as much by surprise as if one of the dead bodies in the
graveyard had walked in upon him, and I have been told that
all Merrivale was wild with excitement, and that Uncle Tom^
usually so quiet and undemonstrative, went himself and rang
the fire-bell, to call the people out so as to tell them the news.
I really believe the entire town was at the station to meet me
when the train came in, and had I permitted it some of the men
would have carried me in their arms up the hill to my very door
where Ethel and Grace and grandma were waiting to receive me.
Mother was in bed, going from one fainting fit to another, and
father was with her trying to quiet her. Poor old father, I used
to think he cared more for his ferns and his flowers than for hi»
children ; but I have changed my mind, and never shall forget
the expression of his face when he met me at the door, and,
leading me to my mother, said to her, so tenderly and like a
woman :

* " Here he is, Mary — here is our boy. Now please don't faint
again. Praised be God."

' That was what he said to her, but to me he never spoke »
word for full five minutes, but sat smoothing and patting my
hands, and rubbing with his handkerchief a speck of dirt from
my coat sleeve, while he looked at me so lovingly, with the
great tears in his eyes and his lips quivering with his emotions.
He has grown old so fast within the last few months. His^
hair is quite gray, and he stoops when he walks, though I do>
believe he was stia ghter when I came away, and younger, too^
in looks. I did not know my friends were so fond of a good-
for-nothing like me. It was almost worth my while to go and^
be drowned for the sake of all the petting I had at home the?
few days I remained there. But one thing was wanting. Yow
did not come to meet me, and I wondered at it, for I think I
had half expected to see your face among the very first to wel-
come me, and felt disappointed and a little hurt at its absence.
I did not know but you were Mr. Beresford's wife, and though
the thought that it might be so hurt me so cruelly, I had made
up my mind to hide the hurt and make the best of the inevi-
table. It would be some comfort to see you, even if you be-
longed to another, and all the time I was receiving the welcome

1^1

PHIL'S STORY.

39!

gmy
from
hthe
lions.
Hi&
I do.
V tooy
ood-
and^
le the;

YoVr

ink I
wel-
i>ence.
lough
Imade
inevi-
W be-
Lcoxne

and congratulations of my friends, I was thinking of, and
watching for, you. But you did not appear, and no one men-
tioned your name until late in the evening, when Ethel asked
me to go with her for a walk in the garden before retiring, and
then she told me the strangest story I ever heard of you and
Margery, who, it seems, is my cousin, while you '

He paused a moment, while Queenie turned very white, and
with a long, gasping breath, said, faintly :

* Yes, Phil., I know what I am. Don't remind me, please.'
. * Queenie,' and Phil, drew the trembling girl closer to him,
and stroking her bowed head continued : ' Do you for a moment
suppose that I have ever given the accident of your birth a
thought, except to be glad, with a gladness I cannot express,
that you are not my cousin 1 And when Ethel told me of your
grief at my supposed death, and the love you were not then
ashamed to confess for me, I felt that I must fly to you at once,
and only my mother's weak condition, and her entreaties for
me to wait a little, kept me from doing so. She and my sisters
thought you were in Florida, for Margery had kept your secret,
as you wished, and had no; told them of your rash plan of
coming here into this atmosphere of infection and death. But
she told me when I went next day to see her, and told me, too,
of all the remorse, and pain, and bitter humiliation you had en-
dured, and, better than all the rest, of the perfect trust and
faith you had in me — that were I living, a hundred Christines
could make no difference with me, and she was right. I would
have called that woman mother for your sake had she lived, and
treated her with a» much respect as if she had been Margaret
Ferguson once, instead of Christine Bodine. My cmsin Mar-
gery I adopted at once. She is a noble woman, and so true to
you. By the way, I fancy that Mr. Beresford visits Hetherton
Place quite as often as he used to do in the days when I was so
horridly jealous of him and you played with us both as the cat
plays with the mouse it has captured. And I am glad, for the
match is every way suitable. Beresford is a noble fellow — a
little too proud, perhaps, in some respects, and a trifle peculiar,
too, but Margery will cure all that, and I'd rather see him mas-
ter of Hetherton Place than any one I know, if Margery must
be its mistress. She wishes you so much to return anc^ live
with her, but of that by and by. When she told me where you

:/ ■•■'■■

39-i

QUEENIE UETUERTON.

were, my heart gave a great throb of terror for you, and I re-
solved to start at once and take you away, if I should find you
alive. I had a mortal fear of the fever, and this, I think, added
to my mental excitement, and the low state of my health made
me more liable to take it, as I did almost immediately, for I was
sick and unable to leave my bed the very first morning after my
arrival here, and before I had time to inquire for you. You
know how Christine found me and saved my life, for but for her
I should most surely have died.

'And now, Queenie, I have been talking with the physician,
who says I must leave the city at once if I would recover my
strength, and he advises a stay of a few weeks in some quiet,
cool spot among the mountains of Tennessee, where I shall grow
strong and lazy again. You know that is my strong point —
laziness.'

He looked a little quizzically at her, but she paid no atten-
tion. She only said :

*• I think that would be so nice. Have you decided upon the
place % '

He told her of a little spot which the physician had recom-
mended, where the air was pure and the water good, and then
continued :

* But I cannot go alone ; it would be so poky and forlorn,
with nobody I know. I must have a nurse to look after me
and keep me straight. Will you go with me, Queenie 1 ' he said,
looking earnestly into the eyes which met his so innocently, as,
without a blush, Queenie answered :

* Of course I'll go with you, Phil. Do yeu think I'd let you
go alone ) '

She was so guileless and unsuspecting of evil that it seemed
almost a pity to open her eyes and show her that the world is
not always charitable in its construction of acts, however inno-
cent in themselves — that Mrs. Grundy is a great stickler for
the proprieties, and that for a young girl to go alone to a hotel
or boarding-house as nurse to a young man in no way related to
her would make every hair of that venerable lady's head stand
upright with horror. But Phil, must do it, both for her sake,
and by way of accomplishing the end he had in view. So he
said to her :

piiil:h story.

395

* I knew you would go with me ; knew you would not hesi-
tate a moment, but, Queenie, do you know that for Queenie
Jletherton to go to the mountains as nurse to a great long-legged,
rather fast-looking fellow like Phil. Rossiter, would be to com-
promise herself sadly in the estimation of some people.*

I doubt if Queenie quite comprehended him, for she looked
at him wonderingly, and said :

* I don't know what you mean by my being compromised.
I think it is an ugly word, and not at all one you should use
with reference to myself, as if I should not always behave like
a lady whether I was taking care of you among the mountains,
or here in Memphis, as I am doing now.'

She was getting a little excited, and her eyes shone with the
gleam Phil, remembered so well and rather liked to provoke.

* Yes, I know,' he said, * but don't you remember what you
told me of the cats at the St. James, who used to spy upon the
young people and make remarks about them 1 Well, there are
cats everywhere, and they would find us out in the mountains,
and however quiet and modest you might be, they would set
up a dreadful caterwauling: because you were with me, and
were neither "my uncle, nor my cousin, nor my aunt." They
would tear you in pieces, till you had not a shred of a reputa-
tion left. Do you understand now that as Queenie Hetherton
you cannot go with me 1 *

*No, I don't understand at all,' she answered, wrathfully,
* and I think it mean in you to ask me first if I will go, and
then, when I say yes, to talk to me about catSy and compromise
and reputation, as if I were bad, and immodest, and every sort of
a thing. No, Phil., I didn't expei t this from you ; I must say I
did not, and I don't like it, and I don't like you either — there !
and I won't stay here any longer to hear such dreadful talk ! *

For one who had pledged herself never to lose her temper
again under any circumstances, Queenie was a good deal ex-
cited, as she wrenched her hand from Phil.'s and flounced from
the room, leaving him to chuckle over her anger, which he had
anticipated, and which he felt sure would result in her doing
just as he wished her to do. And he was right in his calcula-
tions, for after the lapse of an hour or two, during which Pierre
had brought him his lunch, the little lady appeared in a most

396

• QUEENIE HEinERTON.

repentant frame of mind, and standing by him, with her hands
on his shoulder, said :

* I am sorry, Phil., I was so angry with you. I did not think
I ever should be again, but you did rouse me so with your cats,
and compromising, and all that, after you had asked me to go.
But I see you were right. It would not be proper at all, and
people would be sure to talk. But you must take Pierre. I
should feel safer about you, and can do very well without him.
I know the way to Florida, and shall start to-morrow, for if it
is improper for me to take care of you in the mountains, it is
improper here, now you are so much better, so I am going back
to Magnolia Park, where there ain't any world. But Phil.,'
and Queenie's voice began to tremble, ' you'll come there next
winter, won't you ? You, and Ethel, and Grace, and Margery ?
That will make it quite proper and conventional, and it is so
lonely there.'

She was crying by this time, and Phil., who, as she was talk-
ing, had stolen his arm around her, drew her down upon his
knee, and, brushing away her tears, said :

* Yes, darling, if you are in Florida next winter, or next
week, I shall be there, too ; for, in the words of Naomi,
"Where thou goest, I shall go," whether to the mountains or
to the moon, and, as the mountains suit me better just now,
what say you to going there at once % '

* But I thought you said I wasn't to go — that it would be
very disreputable, or some other dreadful word like that ? 1
don't understand you at all,' Queenie said, a little hotly, and
Phil, replied :

' You are an innocent chick, that's a fact, and cannot see
through a millstone. I said that as Queenie Hetherton you
must not go scurriping round the world with a yellow-haired
chap of the period like me j but as Queenie Rossiter, my wife,
you will be a matron sans reprocJie. Comprenez vous ? '

' Your wife, Phil. ! ' Queenie exclaimed, starting suddenly
and trying to free herself from him. But he held her fast, and
answered :

* Yes, my wife, and why not 1 You are bound to be that
some time, and why wait any longer % We can be married here
tonight or to-morrow, if you please, with Pierre and our land-

. lord for witnesses, and we shall be as firmly tied as if all Mer-

phil:s story.

397

see

Ihat
lere
[nd-
[er-

rivale were present at the ceremony. You do not care for
bridesmaids, and flowers, and flummery. I am sure Anna ex-
hausted all that. And to me you are sweeter and fairer in this
black dress, which was put on for me, than you would be in all
the white satin robes and laces in the world. Shall it be so,
love 1 Will you marry me to morrow, and start at once for
Tennessee ? '

Queenie did not care for satins or laces, or bridal favours,
but to be married so suddenly, and in sucli an informal man-
ner, shocked her at first, and Phil, had some little difficulty in
getting her consent. But it was won at last A desire to be
with him, to go where he went, and have him to herself, pre-
vailed over every other feeling, and early the next mornirg,
with Pierre, and their landlord, an<l the sister who had c cd
for poor Christine, as witnesses, Queenie and Phil, were mar-
ried, their wedding a great contrast to what Queenie had
thought her wedding would be. But she was very, very happy,
and Pierre thought he had never seen his young mistress one-
half so beautiful as she was in her simple black dress, with
bands of white linen at her throat and wrists, and the bright-
ness of a great happiness in her face and in her brilliant eyes.
She was Phil's at last. The joy she had thought never could
be hers had come to her, greater far than she had ever dreamed,
and in her happiness all the sad past was forgotten, and she
could think of Christine without a pang.

* Next fall we will come here again, and place a tablet at
mother's grave,' she said to Phil., and by the name she gave
the dead, he knew that the old bitterness was gone, and that
Queenie was content.

They took the first train for Brierstone, a quiet, lovely spot
among the mountains of Tennessee, where, in the cool, bracing
air, Phil, felt himseU growing stronger every hour, and where
the bright colour came back to Qneenie's cheeks, and the old
sparkle to the eyes which had shed so many bitter tears since
the day when the "news first came to her of the lover drowned ,
in the Indian waters.

398

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

CHAPTER LIII.

It'

CONCLUSION.

S soon as they were located in their new quarters at the
farm-house, which they had chosen in preference to the
hotel, Phil, sent the following telegram to his mother :

* Queenie and I were married two days ago, and are spend-
ing our honey-moon at Brierstone. Margery will explain.

* Phil.'

Margery's little phaeton, which she had bought for her own
use. was standing before the Knoll, where she was calling, while
Grandma Ferguson was spending the afternoon with her step-
daughter, when the telegram was received, and thus the parties
most interested had the news at the same time. And they were
not greatly surprised, except at the place from which the tele-
gram was sent. How came Phil, there in Tennessee, when they
supposed him to be in Florida ] It was Margery who explained
to them, then, what she had purposely withheld for the sake of
sparing them the anxiety they would have felt had they known
that not only was Queenie in the midst of the yellow fever at Mem-
phis, but that Phil, was going there, too. Queenie had written
her immediately after Christine's death, and had told her of
Phil's, illness, but added that he was past all danger, and there
was no cause for alarm. Margery had wept in silence over the
sad end of one who bad been uniformly kind to her, and whom
she had loved as a mother, even after she knew the true story
of her parentage. But like Phil., she felt that it was better so,
that, by dieing as she did, Christine had atoned for the past even
.to Queenie, who must necessarily be happier vnth her dead than
she could have been with her living. That Phil, should have
taken the fever so soon filled Margery with dismay lest he
might have a relapse, or Queenie be smitten down, and her
errand to the Knoll that afternoon was to tell her cousins, Ethel
and Grace, the truth, and with them devise some means of get-

CONCLUSION.

399

ting the two away from the plague-sraitten town. She had told
them all of Christine's death, but did not say how she received
her information, and with her characteristic bluntness, grandma
said :

* I won't deny but I've felt pesky hard toward her, and couhi
nigh about have killed her ; but I do b'lieve she'd met with a
change and got to be a good woman, and most likely has gone
to heaven, and, on Bennetts account, I ain't sorry an atom.'

Mrs. Rossiter and her daughter undoubtedly shared grand-
ma's opinion, but they did not express themselves in just that
way, and they were talking of Qiieenie and wondering why
they did not hear from Phil, who must have been some days
at Magnolia Park, when his telegram was brought in, and they
heard for the first time that Queenie, too, had been a nurse in
Memphis, and of her falling in with Phil, through Christine,
but for whom he would have died. For a few moments they
almost felt as if he were dead, or, as least in great danger still,
and Mra Kossiter's face was very white as she listened to
Queenie's letter, which Margery read, and in which were so
many assurances of his safety that her fears gradually subsided,
and she could at last speak calmly of his marriage, of which she
was very glad. It was sure to take place some time, she knew,
and as Queenie ought to be with him during his convalescence^
they could not have managed better than they did. But she
was not willing to have them remain away from her any
longer ; they must come home at once, and she wrote to that
effect to Phil, that very night, welcoming Queenie as a daugh-
ter whom she already loved, and insisting upon their immediate
return to Merrivale. This letter Phil, received in the heydey
of his first married days, when he was perfectly happy with
Queenie, who was as sweet and lovely, and gentle as a new
bride well could be.

* Only think, I haven't had a single tantrum yet, and we
have been married two whole weeks,' she said to Phil, on the
day when he received his mother's letter, to which she did not
take kindly. * Don't let's go,' she said, nestling close to him,
and laying her head on his arm. ' We are having such a
nice time here with you all to myself, where I can act just as
silly as I please, and kiss you a hundred times a minute if I
like.'

400

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

'And couldn't you do that in Merrivale, ma petite?' Phil,
asked, as he stooped to caress her shining hair.

* Of course I couldn't. It wouldn't be conventional or proper,'
and Queenie looked slyly up at him. * I should not mind your
father, for he would not notice, or your mother either, so very
much. She has been through it. She knows what it is to be
just married, though I doubt if she ever loved her husband as
I do you. I know she didn't, in fact ; but then she loved him
some, and would make an allowance, but Ethel and Grace ! oh,
my J what spooneys they would think us — they are so nice and
proper, and a bit prudish too — for you see they never either of
them had a beau in their lives, and don't know what love is.
I should shock them every minute. No, Phil., don't go home
just yet I shall not be half as good there as I am here. Only
think, I haven't had a single tantrum yet, and we have been
married two whole weeks.'

That settled it, and Phil, wrote his mother not to expect him
for a few weeks, as the mountain air was doing him a great
-deal of good, and he was growing stronger every day. The
same mail which took this letter to Mrs. Kossiter carried one to
Margery from Queenie, who wrote in raptures of her happiness
as Phil.'a wife, and begged Margery to come to Brierstone and
and see for herself.

* There is such a pleasant chamber right across the hall from
mine which you can have,' she wrote, • and 1 want you here so
much to see how happy we are, and how good I am getting to
he.'

And so one day early in September, Margery came to Brier-
Btone, and took possession of the large, pleusant chamber oppo-
site Queenie's, into whose happiness and plans she entered heart
and soul, and was not at all in the way of the newly married
•couple, whose love-passages she never seemed to see. And ten
days after her arrival Mr. Beresford came to escort Margery
home, and then Queenie shut her eyes, and was as oblivious to
what was passing as Margery had been. It was a settled thing
now, the marriage between Mr. Beresford and Margery, and
the four talked the matter over together and settled something
to which, without Mr. Beresford and Phil, Queenie would never
have consented. It was Margery's wish that Queenie should
' 49hare equally with her in their father's estate. And at^ihis

CONCLUSION.

401

ler-

iing
land
ling
jver
^uld

was also the wish of Mr. Beresford, while Phil, himself said he
saw no objection to it, and that it was probably what Mr.
Hetherton would wish could he speak to them, Queenie con-
sented, and found herself an heiress again, wiUi money enough
to support herself and Phil, even if he had no business — no
occupation. They talked that over, too, and Phil, asked Queenie
what she wished him to do.

* The only time I ever tried in earnest to do anything I
came near losing my life,' he said, ' and so now I'll let you de-
cide for me. Shall I turn lawyer, or preacher, or dressmaker 1
I have really more talent for the latter than for anything else.
I might, with a little practice, be a second Worth ; or I should
make a pretty good salesman of laces and silks in some dry-
goods store. So, which shall it be — preacher, dressmaker, or
clerk ? I am bound to earn my own living in some way.

• You'll do nothing of the sort,* Queenie answered, warmly,
' A dressmaker or clerk ! What nonsense ! You are too in-
dolent to be either ; for, as a clerk, you would want to sit down
most of the time, and dressmaking would give you a pain in
your side, while you couldn't stand. So you are going to be a
farmer — my head man at Magnolia Park, which wants some
one to bring it up. With money, and time, and care, it can be
made one of the finest places in Florida. Mr. Johnston, who
lives on the adjoining plantation, told me so, and there are
plenty of negroes to be hired ; only they must have a head, an
overseer, to direct them.*

' So I am to have no higher occupation than that of a negro
overseer ! Truly the mighty have fallen ! ' Phil, said, laugh-
ingly, but well pleased on the whole with the prospect before
him.

He liked nothing better than superintending out-door work,
and, with Queenie, believed that in a little time he could make
Magnolia Park a second Chateau des Fleurs, if indeed he did
not convert it into something like the famous Kew Gardens in
England. It was to be their happy homo proper, where all
their winters were to be passed ; but the summers were to be
spent at the North, sometimes at Hetherton Place, sometimes
at the Knoll, or wherever their fancy might lead them.

Thus they settled their future, with Mr. Beresford and Mar-
gery to approve ; and, when the former went back to Merrivale

sr '

402

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

the latter part of September, Phil, and Qiieenie went with them,
and were received with great rejoicings by the Kosaiters, and
by the people generally, for Phil, and Queenie both had been
very popular, and the whole town turned out to do them
honour ; while even Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter, who was
boarding for a few weeks at the hotel, drove down to the sta-
tion to meet them in her elegant new carriage, which, with its
thoroughbreds and its brass-buttoned driver, was making such
a sensation in Merrivale.

Anna was very happy in her prosperity, and very gracious
to Queenie, who could afford to forget the slights put upon her
at the St. James' when she was lonely and sad, and was ready
to accept all the good the gods provided for her.

Before returning to Florida, there was a grand reception
given at the Knoll for Phil, and Queenie, the latter of whom,
having laid aside her mourning, was resplendant in cream-
coloured satin, with diamonds in her ears and diamonds on her
neck and in her jet-black hair, the bridal gift of Margery, who,
at Queenie's earnest request, wore the beautiful pearls which
had belonged to her mother, and which Queenie had once
thought her own. It was Queenie who took them from the
box where she had kept them so carefully, and laying them on
Margery's lap, said, with a little sob :

* I know now why my father did not like to have me talk of
them, and would never let me wear them, but it does not apply
to you. They are yours by right, and I wish you to wear them
for my sake. Pearls are just suited to your style.'

So the pearls were sent to New York and reset in modern
fashion, and Margery wore them with a pale-blue satin, in
which she almost eclipsed the bride herself. The Pearl and the
Diamond Mr. Beresford had well designated the sisters in the
picture begun so long ago, and sadly neglected of late because
the original of the Pearl absorbed so much of his time.'

Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter was, of course, there, and out-
shone every one in the length of her train and the low cut of
her dress, which was a marvel of satin, and tulle, and lace, and
cost, it was said, over two hundred dollars, but that sum was a
trifle to Anna now, and she bore herself like a duchess and
patronized everybody, and roused her grandmother by telling
her that her dress was quite too short in front, and that she

CONCLUSION.

403

iiem

showed the tops of her boots every time she sat down. But
grandma was too happy that night to care for what Anna said,
and, gorgeous in her new black silk and pink ribbons, with a
gold chain around her neck, of wonderful size and length, her
good-humoured face shone with delight and pride as she con-
stantly followed Queenie with her eyes.

' She is really my grand darter now,' she said, ' and I b'lieve
I love the little critter better than the whole of *em.'

And the good old lady's affection was fully returned, for of all
her husband's relatives whom she once thought her own,Qeeenie
seemed to love Grandma Ferguson the best, and during the
few weeks she remained in Merrivale she spent a great deal of
her time at the house under the poplars, and if in grandma's
heart there had been the least remembrance of the wayward-
ness and pettishness which had once characterized Queenie's
manner toward her, it was all wiped out by the love and re-
spect paid to her now, and Rennet was her idol, of whom she
talked and thought continually.

It was late in November when Phil, and Queenie started at
last for their Florida home, where, during the holidays, they
were joined by Margery, and whore a little later Mr. Beresford
came to claim the hand of his bride, for Margery was to be
married at Magnolia Park, and the ceremony took place quietly
one January evening, when the air was as soft and mild as the air
of June at the north, and the young moon looked down upon the
newly wedded pair. There was a short visit to the St. James,'
where Margery and Queenie reigned triumphant as belles for
a 4ew weeks, and then won fresh laurels at St. Augustine and
Palatka. By this time Mr. Beresford's business necessitated
his return to the North, but as Phil, had no business except to
oversee the negroes, and as these did not need overseeing then,
he and Queenie tarried longer, and together explored the
Ocklowaha and the upper St. John's, and fired at alligators,
and camped out for two or three days on the Indian River,
and hunted and fished, and were almost as happy as were the
first pair in Eden before the serpent entered there.

All this was good for Phil, whose constitution had received a
great shock from his long illness in Africa, and who thus gained
strength and vigour for the new life before him, and that of im-
proving and bringing up Magnolia Park, which had so long run

404

QUEENIE HETHEMON.

to waste. And this to a great extent he has done, proving
himself a most efficient farmer and manager of the negroes,
who call him mas'r, anu worship him and his beautiful wife
as kind of divinities. Last winter was spent at Hetherton
Place, where a second Queenie Hetherton lay in its era*
die and opened its big blue eyes wonderingly at the
little lady who bent over it so rapturously, and called
herself its ' auntie.' Queenie has no children, but she seems
so much a child herself, and looks so small beside her tall hus-
band, who at any time could pick her up and sit her on his
shoulder, or, as he says, ' put her in his pocket,' that a baby
would look oddly in her arms. Bright, mirthful, and variable
as the April sunshine, she goes on her way happy in the love
which has crowned her so completely, and not a shadow crosses
her pathway, except when she remembers the past, which at
one time held so much bitterness for her. Then for a moment
her eyes grow darker, and with a sigh she says, ' The worst
part of all was losing faith in father.'

There is a tall monument to his memory in Merrivale, and
a smaller, less pretentious, one marks the grave of Christine
in Memphis, erected, it says upon it, * by her daughters.'
This was Margery's idea, * for,' she said to Queenie, * she
was to all intents and purposes my mother — the only one I
ever knew.*

And there among the dead, many of whom she soothed in
their last hour, she sleeps uhwH the resurrection morning, when
he who bade the guilty woman * Go and sin no more,' may say
to her as of the Mary of old, ' She hath done what she could.'

Mrs. Lord Seymour Kossiter has been in Europe more than
eighteen months, and has seen everything worth seeing, and
has gotten as far on her journey home as London, where she is
stopping at the Grand Hotel, and has a suite of rooms, and a
French maid, and a German nurse for the little Paul born a
year ago in Florence, and who is never to speak a word of Eng-
lish until he has mastered both German and French. Major
Kossiter is there, too, and plays whist, and smokes, and reads
the papers, and goes to his banker's, and talks to his valet
whom he employs, he scarcely knows why, except that Anna
wishes him to do so.

CONCTJmON,

405

ay say
|)uld.'
than
and
she is
land a
lorn a
|fEng.
lajor
reads
valet
I Anna

Anna is very stylish, and grand, and foreign, and is high
up in art, and castles, and ruins and would look with ineffable
scorn on any otie with the bad taste to prefer for their sleeping
room a * Wide Awake and Fast Asleep to the ' Last Commun-
ion of St Jerome* or one of the Rembrant's heads. She break-
fasts in bed, and lunches at two, is dressed by four, and drives
from five to six in Hyde Park, where her haughty face and
showy dress and elegant turn-out attracts almost as much at-
tention as does the Princess herself. Yesterflay afternoon I
paid my penny for a chair, and sitting down, watched the gay
pageant as it went by, and saw her in it, the gayest of them all,
with her red parasol and her white poodle dog in her lap. And
when I thought of her past, and of the two girls, Queenie and
Margery, whose lives had been so full of romance, I said to my-
self : * Truly there are events passing around us stranger far
than any recorded in fiction.'

And so, amid the clang of England's metropolis, with the
summer rain falling softly upon the flowers and shrubs beneath
my window, and the sun trying to break through the clouds
which hang so darkly over the great city, I finish this story of
Queenie.

London, July 28th, 1880.

THE END.

.'■^i