Queenie Hetherton

by Mary Jane Holmes

Reinette’s breath came 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?”

“If beautiful dresses and jewelry, 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 were 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? 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 beauty, and in his way fond of her, but I do not think it was in Monsieur Hetherton’s nature to love any one long. Her habits did not suit him; his did not suit her; she breakfasted at nine; 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 diamonds and pearls, while she would have liked plain muslin gowns and a quiet home in the country, with hens, and chickens, and pets. She was very happy at Chateau des Fleurs, and would have been happier if monsieur had staid more with 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 very 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 Fleurs 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 had neither water nor sunshine.”

“Oh, this is very dreadful,” Queenie said, with a choking sob. “I am glad grandma will never know what you have told me. But go on and tell me the rest. I insist upon knowing the whole.”

So Mrs. La Rue told of the weeks and weeks which her mistress passed alone at Chateau des Fleurs, while Mr. Hetherton was seeking his pleasure elsewhere; of his great desire for a son to bear his name; of Mrs. Hetherton’s failing health 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 young wife died, with her little girl clasped to her bosom 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 Reinette, 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 conspicuous part.