For a moment Margery regarded her intently, then kneeling before her again and taking the hot, quivering hands in hers said to her: “Queenie, do you think I have forgotten the day when you came to me, a little, lonely girl, clad in garments so coarse that just to have worn them a moment would have roughened the delicate skin of one who, like you, had known only the scarlet, and ermine, and purple of life. And yet you did not shrink from me. You looked into my eyes with a look I have never forgotten. You touched my soiled hands with your soft, white, dimpled fingers, and the touch lingers there yet. You took the scarlet and ermine from your shoulders and put them upon me, and brought down heaven to me as nearly as it can be brought to us here upon earth. And now, when this great sorrow has come upon you, when it may be that I stand in the place you have held so long, when the scarlet and ermine are mine, will you not let me give it back to you as you once gave it to me, or at least share it with me—that is, supposing mother’s statement is proved to be true?”
“Proved to be true!” Queenie said. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this,” Margery replied, “The world will not accept the story as readily as you have done. There will have to be proof, I think, that I was born at Rome and that Margaret Ferguson was my mother.”
“Do you doubt it, Margie?” Queenie asked, fixing her eyes searchingly upon her sister, who at last slowly answered, “No.”
“Neither do I,” was Queenie’s quick rejoinder. “I know it is true—know I am Christine’s daughter by the resemblance I bear to her, just as I know you are a Ferguson by the blue in your eyes and the golden hue of your hair, so like them all, so like to Phil. Oh, Phil! if I could go to him and tell him of my pain.”
There was silence a few moments between the two girls, and it was Queenie who spoke first again.
“Go away now, Margie. My head is not quite straight. Go, and leave me awhile to myself.”
Margery obeyed, thinking that Queenie wished to rest, but such was not her intention, and no sooner was she alone than she arose, and, bolting her door, went to her writing-desk, and taking out several sheets of paper began to write the story which Christine had told her. This done, she took the three letters which she had found among her father’s papers, signed “Tina,” and inclosing the whole in an envelope, directed it to Mr. Beresford. Then, ringing her bell, she asked that Pierre should be sent to her. The old man obeyed the summons at once, for he was very anxious about his young mistress and the sickness which had come so suddenly upon her. Stepping into the room, he made his bow, and then stood before her in his usual attitude of deference and respect, his head bent forward and his hands clasped, awaiting her orders.
“Sit down, Pierre,” Queenie said. “You need not stand before me now. I have something to tell you, and the sooner I tell it, the better. A dreadful thing has come to light—a dreadful wrong been done to Margery. She is not Miss La Rue. She is that baby born at Rome. She is Margaret Ferguson’s daughter, and I am—am—nobody! My father was Frederick Hetherton, and my mother is Christine Bodine, and they were never legally married. Do you understand me, Pierre?”
He did understand her, and the shock made him reel forward and grasp the back of a chair, to which he held, while he stood staring at his mistress as if to assure himself of her sanity.