“But I can learn,” she said; “and I will 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 very pretty and plain in her dress, and looked so good and trusty that her heart warmed toward her. References were nothing to her, and turning to her husband she said, in a low tone:
“Oh, Frederick, I like her so much. I am sure she will suit. Let us take her.”
But Frederick demurred, urging that she had no style, no appearance of a maid.
“But she is good, I am sure, and I want her,” the young wife pleaded, and Christine was retained, and entered upon her duties the next day.
How peaceful, and happy, and innocent those first few months spent in Mrs. 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 familiarity with a maid. It showed at once a low-born taste, he said, and he wished his wife to conquer all such feelings, and, forgetting 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 dear ones at home, the plain, old-fashioned mother, whose ways she knew were homespun in the extreme, 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 anticipated every wish of Margaret, waiting upon her as if she had been a duchess, and teaching her the French language as well as the German, of which she had some knowledge. Margaret in turn taught her a little English, and during the many weeks when she was alone and her husband away with his friends, she gave her lessons in 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 mistress with her rapid improvement. Even Mr. Hetherton began to notice her at last and marvel at the change in her, and when he was home he often found himself lingering longer in his wife’s apartments when Christine was there, with her saucy smile, her bright eyes, and her pretty way of saying things. Without any motive except that she wished to please him because he was madame’s husband she made herself necessary to him, and, carefully 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, who trusted and clung to the girl with a love which made the poor woman shiver with remorseful pain, as she remembered it now, when the sins of the past were confronting her so fearfully, and making her almost shriek aloud, as she recalled those days in Rome, when the husband was seeking his own pleasure, while the wife grew paler and thinner each day, and yet strove so hard to keep up, by talking of the great happiness in store for her, and surprise for him, if all went well with her, and she lived through the trial awaiting 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 questioningly, 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, 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, too, and Frederick—where is he, Christine? He ought to be here, and I so sick and lonely.”