Meanwhile Margery was walking rapidly toward the cottage where she and her mother had rooms.
“Oh, mother,” she 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 Hetherton—is here!”
“Here! Reinette Hetherton here! and her father!” Mrs. La Rue exclaimed, springing to her feet as suddenly as if a bullet had pierced her.
But Margery’s back was toward her, and she did not see 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 Merrivale.”
“Mr. Hetherton dead!” Mrs. La Rue 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 Margery, who turned to look at her.
“Why, mother, what is it? Are you sick?” she cried, crossing swiftly to her and passing her arm around her as she leaned back heavily in the chair.
“I have been very dizzy-like all the morning. It is 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.