LETTERS FROM MENTONE.
Whether we are sorry or glad, time never stops for us, but the days
and nights go on and on, until at last we wonder that so long a period
has elapsed since the joy or sorrow came which marked a
never-to-be-forgotten point in our lives.
And so it was with Queenie; she could not be as wretched and
disconsolate always as she was during the first days of Phil’s absence.
She was of too light and buoyant a temperament for that, and after a
little she woke to the fact that life had still much happiness in store
for her, even though Phil could not share it with her. She had received
a few words from him written just before the steamer sailed—words which
made her cry as if her heart would break, but which were very precious
to her because of their assurance that whatever might befall the writer
she would always be his queen, his love, whose image was engraven on his
heart forever.
And Queenie had answered the note, for it was nothing more, and filled
four sheets with her passionate longings for the _naughty boy_, as she
called him, who was not satisfied to be her cousin, but must needs seek
to be her lover, and so had made her life miserable.
This letter was sent to Rome, for Phil was to take the overland route to
India and visit the Imperial City on the way. He had promised to write
from every point where he stopped, and so he did not seem so very far
away, and Queenie grew brighter and gayer, and consented to see Mr.
Beresford, whom she had persistently ignored, and after rating him
soundly for the part he had had in sending Phil away, she became very
gracious to him, for Phil had forgiven him, and she must do so, too, and
she rode with him one day after his fast horse, and was so bright, and
coquettish, and bewitching, that Mr. Beresford forgot himself, and in
lifting her from the carriage held her hand tighter in his than was at
all necessary. But Queenie withdrew it quickly, and with her usual
frankness, said:
“You are not to squeeze my hand that way, Mr. Beresford, or think
because I rode with you, that you are on _probation_, as you call it,
for you are not. I am not trying to reconsider, and never shall.”
This state of things was not very hopeful for Mr. Beresford, who,
nevertheless, drove away more in love than ever with the little lady of
Hetherton, who, after he was gone, went to her room, where she found on
her dressing-table a letter which Pierre had brought from the office
during her absence. It was a foreign letter, postmarked at Mentone,
France. Reinette’s first exclamation was:
“From the agent. Now I shall hear from Christine.”
This was the thing of all others which she had greatly desired, but now
that it seemed to be within her grasp, she waited and loitered a little,
and took off her hat, and shawl, and gloves, and laid them carefully
away, and picked a few dead leaves from a pot of geraniums in the
window, before breaking the seal. And even then she hesitated with a
strangely nervous feeling, as if from fear that the letter might contain
something she would be happier not to know—something her father would
have withheld from her, had he been there with her.
“But no,” she said at last, “how foolish I am. Christine was faithful to
my mother, and father pensioned her for it, as he ought to do, and those
vile, evil-minded Polignies thought there was harm in it. They did not
know my father, or what stuff the Hethertons are made of. So saying, she
opened the letter and read:
“MENTONE, France, Oct. 18, 18—.
“_To Miss Hetherton, of Merrivale_,
_Worcester Co., Mass., U. S. A._
“My employer, M. Albrech, is gone away for a few days, and told me to
open his letters, and, if necessary, answer them for him. So when
yours and Monsieur’s came, I opened and read; that is, read yours, but
Monsieur’s was in English, and it took a long time for me to make out
that it meant the same as yours, and asked information of one
Christine Bodine, pensioner of M. Hetherton, deceased.”
“That was Mr. Beresford who sent him an English letter. What business
has _he_ to pry into my affairs?” Reinette exclaimed, and her cheeks
were scarlet, and her breath came hurriedly, and then seemed to cease
altogether, as she read on:
“I could not remember any one by that name, but there is a certain
_Madame Henri La Rue_, to whom, by reference to M. Albrech’s books, I
find that moneys were paid regularly by Messrs. Polignie & Co., Paris,
for a M. Hetherton, until last summer, when the entire principal was
sent to Madame La Rue, at ‘Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard, Mass, U. S.
A.,’ where it seems she is living, though whether she is the person
you are wishing to find I do not know. Your billet to Christine Bodine
I will keep until M. Albrech returns, and if he knows the woman he
will forward it.
“Hoping my letter is satisfactory, I am
“Your obedient servant,
“LOUIS ARNAUD.”
“Madame Henri La Rue, Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard, Mass. U. S. A.,”
Reinette kept repeating to herself, while a feeling of terror took
possession of her, and made her for a moment powerless to move or reason
clearly. “Who is this Madame La Rue, and where have I seen her?” she
asked herself in a bewildered kind of way, and then at last it came to
her who Mrs. La Rue was, and where she had seen her.
“Margery’s mother! Christine Bodine! impossible!” she cried, reading
Louis Arnaud’s letter again and again, while her thoughts went backward,
and with lightning rapidity gathered up every incident connected with
Mrs. La Rue which had seemed strange to her, and made her dislike the
woman for her unwarrantable familiarity.
As distinctly as if it were but yesterday she recalled their first
meeting in Paris in Margery’s receiving-room, when Mrs. La Rue had
stared at her so, and seemed so strange and queer; and since then she
had so often offended with what appeared like over-gratitude for
kindness shown to Margery.
“And all the time when I was talking of my nurse and my desire to find
her, she knew she was Christine and made no sign,” Queenie said; “and
once she bade me stop searching for her, as finding her might bring more
pain than pleasure. What does she mean, and why does she not wish me to
know who she is? Was there anything wrong about her—No, no, no!” and
Reinette almost shrieked as she said the emphatic “no’s.” “Mother
trusted her; mother loved her. I have it in her own words written to
papa. ‘Christine is faithful and tender as if she were my mother,
instead of my maid; and if I should die, you must always be kind to her
for what she has been to me,’ she wrote, and that’s why he sent her the
money. But why has she never told me? What has she done? What is she?
Yes, she was right. It is more pain than pleasure to find her; but if
she had only told me who she was, it would have been such joy to know
she was Margery’s mother—my Margery still, thank God, for she has had no
part in this concealment. She has no suspicion that Christine Bodine and
her mother are one and the same.”
This mention of Margery helped Reinette, and the pain in her heart was
not quite so heavy, or her resentment toward Mrs. La Rue so great. She
was Margery’s mother, and whatever happened, Reinette would stand by the
girl whom she loved so much.
* * * * *
“Please, mademoiselle, have you heard the bell; it has rung three times,
and dinner is growing cold,” Pierre said, putting his head in at the
door; and then Reinette roused herself to find that it was getting dark,
for the November twilight was fast creeping into the room.
“Yes, Pierre, I know; I am not coming—I am not hungry. Tell them to
clear the table,” she said, abstractedly; and then, as Pierre looked
inquiringly at her she continued: “Pierre, come here, and shut the door,
and come close to me, so no one can hear. Pierre, I’ve found Christine
Bodine!”
“You have found her? Where?” Pierre said, looking wonderingly at his
young mistress, whose white face and excited manner puzzled and alarmed
him.
“Here, Pierre, in Merrivale. While I was searching for her across the
water she was here, not a mile away, and never told me. Pierre, Mrs. La
Rue is or was Christine Bodine!”
“_Mon Dieu_,” Pierre ejaculated, with a shrug of his shoulders and a
rapid movement of his hands, “Madame La Rue Christine Bodine! I am very
much, yes, I suppose I am very much astonished!”
But he was not. He had never shared Reinette’s implicit faith in
Christine, and he put things together rapidly, and to himself he
thought:
“Yes, madame is Christine. I am not surprised;” but to Reinette he said,
“Who told you? There must be some mistake, madame surely would never
have kept silent so long.”
“There _is_ no mistake. I can trust you, Pierre, and I begin to feel as
if you were the only one I can trust. Everything and everybody is
slipping away from me. This is the letter from the agent in Mentone, who
paid her the money for Messrs. Polignie in Paris. You know you were in
their office once with father and saw him give his check for twelve
hundred and fifty francs to be sent to her. Read the letter, Pierre, and
you will know all I do.”
She handed it to him, and striking a light he read it through, while
Reinette watched him narrowly to see what effect it had upon him. But
aside from frequent ejaculations of surprise he made no comment, and
just then the dinner-bell rang again, this time long and loud as if the
ringer were growing impatient.
“Oh, that dreadful bell,” Reinette exclaimed, putting her hands to her
ears to shut out the sound. “Will they never stop ringing it, or
understand that I am not coming? Go, Pierre, and tell them to clear the
table away; tell them I am sick and tired, and wish to be let alone;
tell them anything to keep them away from me. No body must come to-night
but you. Go quick, before they ring again, or Mrs. Jerry comes herself.
She must not know what we do.”
Thus entreated Pierre departed with the message to Mrs. Jerry, and then
went back to Reinette who sat with her hands clasped tightly together
and a look on her white face which puzzled him, for he did not know that
she was bravely fighting down a suspicion to harbor which would be to
dishonor her father in his grave.
“Pierre,” she said, lifting her dry, heavy eyes appealingly to him, and
speaking like a sick child which wants to be petted; “Pierre, I am
strangely shaken by this news, because I do not understand why Christine
should wish to hide her identity from me, when she knew how I wanted to
find her. It looks as if there was something which she wished to keep
from me—something wrong in her life after she left us—and was married to
M. La Rue. I had so much faith in and love for her, and now—oh, Pierre,
it makes me cold, and sick, and faint. Forget that I am a woman; try and
fancy me a little girl again, as I was when you first came to Chateau
des Fleurs, and take me up and carry me to the couch. I could not walk
there to save my life, for the strength has all gone from my body.”
Pierre had carried her in his arms many a time in the years gone by, and
now he took her up gently, and laying her upon the couch, brought a
pillow for her, and fixed it under her head, and covered her with her
shawl, and put fresh coal on the grate, for the November night was cold
and chill, and outside the first snow of the season was beginning to
fall.
“Now sit down by me, Pierre,” she continued “and rub my hands, they are
so numb and lifeless, and let me talk to you of the olden time, when we
lived in the country and were so very happy.”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” Pierre said sitting down beside her and rubbing and
chafing the limp white fingers which seemed to have no vitality in them.
“Pierre,” she began, “we were so happy when papa was alive; he was so
good. He was always kind to you, was he not?”
“Yes, always.”
“And he was good to everybody, Pierre?”
“Yes everybody.”
“And—and—you were with him in places where he would be under less
restraint than when with me, and you think he had as few faults as most
men, I am sure?”
“He had not a single fault,” Pierre said, emphatically, lying easily and
unhesitatingly, thinking the end justified the means.
He knew now that Reinette was wishing to be reassured of her father’s
truth and honor, and though he had but little faith that his late master
had possessed either of those virtues to an overwhelming degree, he
could not say so to the daughter; he would sooner tell her a hundred
lies, and take his chance of being forgiven by and by.
“Thank you, Pierre,” she said. “You make me so happy. I like to think of
father as a good, true, honest man; and I believe Christine was good.”
“Did the servants at Chateau des Fleurs ever mention her as other than a
nice woman?”
“They never mentioned her at all. I never heard her name except from you
and monsieur, and from him only twice—once in the office of Messrs.
Polignie, and once in Liverpool.”
“Yes, Pierre,” Reinette said, with a quick, gasping breath, “I am sure
Christine is a good woman. My mother trusted her and bade father be kind
to her always. I have it in a letter written before she died, and when
Christine was with her. Mrs. La Rue is a good woman.”
She kept asserting this as if she feared Pierre might doubt the fact,
but if he did, he gave no sign, and merely replied:
“She must be good to be the mother of Miss Margery.”
“Yes, Pierre,” and Reinette roused herself up, and pushing her heavy
hair back from her face, said, joyfully: “I see it now; I understand why
she has not told me. She did not wish Margery or me to know that she
once served in the capacity of my nurse, lest she should feel
humiliated, and I, with my abominable pride, might think less of her;
that is it, I am sure.”
“Unquestionably,” Pierre said, ready to assent to anything his young
mistress might suggest, no matter how absurd.
“And, Pierre,” she continued, “I shall, of course, tell Mrs. La Rue that
I know who she is, but it is not necessary that all the world should
know. We need tell no one else.”
“No, mademoiselle; but what of Monsieur Beresford? He wrote to M.
Albrech, too; he will get an answer; he will know.”
“Of course,” Queenie said, impatiently. “But I can trust him. I shall
tell him to keep silent; and now leave me, and do not let Mrs. Jerry, or
any one, come near me. I am tired, and shall soon retire.”
So Pierre left her alone with her thoughts, which kept her awake the
most of the night, and the next morning found her suffering with one of
her head-aches, and unable to leave her bed. It was a stormy November
day, and the wind blew in gusts over the hill, and drove before it
clouds of snow, which was drifting down from the gray sky in great white
feathery masses, but bad as was the day, it did not prevent Mr.
Beresford from riding over to Hetherton Place, where he was met by
Pierre with the message that Miss Hetherton had the headache, and could
not see him. Mr. Beresford seemed disappointed, and was about turning
away from the door, when he said, as if it had just occurred to him:
“By the way, do you know if Miss Hetherton received any letters from
France yesterday?”
“She did receive one,” Pierre said, looking straight at the lawyer, and
feeling sure that he, too, had heard from Mentone, and knew the secret
of Christine Bodine.
And he was right, for the same mail which brought the letter to Reinette
had also in it one for Mr. Beresford from Mentone. It was a curious
compound of English and French, which took Mr. Beresford nearly two
hours to decipher. But he managed it at last with the help of grammar
and dictionary, and had a tolerably accurate knowledge of its contents,
which surprised and confounded him almost as much as Queenie’s letter
had confounded her. But in his letter were a few words, or rather
insinuations, which were omitted in Queenie’s and which affected him
more than all the rest, and threw a flood of light upon Mrs. La Rue’s
reason for keeping her identity with Christine Bodine a secret from
Reinette. Did Queenie know what he knew or suspected, Mr. Beresford
wondered, and if so, how did she take it? What would she do? A burning,
intense desire seized the usually calm, sober lawyer to have these
questions answered. He must see Reinette and judge from her face how
much she knew, and so he went to Hetherton Place. But Queenie would not
see him. She was sick, and she had received a letter from France. So
much he learned, and he rode back to his office, where, for the
remainder of the day, he seemed in a most abstracted frame of mind,
paying but little attention to his clients, who had never seen him so
absent-minded and grave before, and wondered of what he was thinking.
Not of them and their business, but of Reinette and the change her
coming to Merrivale had made in his hitherto quiet life. How she had
turned everything upside down. It was like a romance whose pages he was
reading, and now a fresh leaf had been turned which he wished to
decipher, and since he could not see Reinette he must seek help in
another quarter, and he, who had always been noted for minding his own
business better than any man in Merrivale, waited impatiently for
evening, when he meant to begin the new chapter.