“At first he was, but for the last, the thing for which 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 Christine. Forgive me, Margery, do,” she continued, as she saw a strange look leap into her friend’s eyes, a look which she construed into one of resentment toward her for having harbored 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 so fast and so long that Queenie became alarmed, and tried to comfort and quiet her.
“Don’t, Margie, don’t,” she said; “it distresses me to see you so disturbed. If father was not to blame I do not care for the rest, but I could not bear to lose faith in him whom I have loved and honored so much.”
“You never shall, 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 and what had affected her so powerfully, taking away all her strength and seemingly all her vitality so that she did not rally or take the slightest interest in anything about her.
At last the physician said Margery must have a change and then Reinette insisted upon taking her to Hetherton Place.
“She will be so quiet there, with nothing to excite her, and I shall take care of her all alone. You, I suppose, will have to stay here and see to the cottage,” she said to Mrs. La Rue, who assented in silence, for she knew that her presence was a constant source of pain and excitement to Margery, who undoubtedly would improve more rapidly away from her.
But she doubted if Hetherton Place was the spot to take her, and Margery doubted, too, but Queenie 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’s, which were to have been Mr. Hetherton’s, were given to her, and all the rarest flowers in the greenhouse were brought to beautify them. And there the two girls took their meals, and sat and talked, or rather Queenie talked, while Margery listened, with her hands folded listlessly together, and her eyes oftentimes shut, while around her mouth there was a firm, set expression, as if she were constantly fighting something back, rather than listening to Reinette, who chatted gayly on, 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 better than the cottage, where it is work, work all the time, for people who are some of them small 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, and do and say things which shock my high-bred cousins, Ethel and Grace.”