CHRISTINE.
It was more than a toothache and swollen face which had ailed Mrs. La
Rue, and sent her to her room on that night when Mr. Beresford called
upon Margery. She had a toothache, it is true, and was suffering from
the effects of a severe cold, under cover of which she hid the terrible
pain which was making her sick with nervous apprehension lest, at last,
she was to be confronted by the girl whom she feared and shrank from
more than from all the world beside, unless it was Margery, her dearly
loved, beautiful child, who had brought her the letter which affected
her so strangely. It had been forwarded from Oak Bluffs, and postmarked
originally at Mentone, and it read as follows:
“MADAME LA RUE.—Inclosed find a note from Miss Hetherton, who has
written asking your whereabouts and that this might be forwarded to
you. In my absence, my clerk, Louis Arnaud, took charge of my business
letters, and, it seems, answered the young lady, telling her your
address. Had I been home this would not have occurred, but it cannot
now be helped. Hoping no great harm will come of it, I am
“Your ob’t servant,
“M. ALBRECH.”
This letter Margery had taken from the office, and wondered in a vague
kind of way what it contained, and why M. Albrech had written to her
mother again, when she had supposed her business relations with him
finished. Since the time when Margery first learned to write, it had
been a distinctly understood thing that both she and her mother were to
respect each other’s correspondence, and Margery would as soon have
broken the seal of a letter directed to a stranger as to her mother,
consequently she had never known just what was in the letters which had
passed between Mrs. La Rue and M. Albrech, of Mentone. She had always
known since her father’s death that her mother had at stated times
received a certain amount of money from some source unknown to her; and
she knew, too, that latterly the annuity had ceased, because, as her
mother said, the person who paid it was dead. That the sum was very
small she had been made to believe, and her mother had told her once,
when she asked what became of it, that it was safely invested in stocks
and bonds in Paris, and was to be kept for her as a dowry when she was
married, or to be used before if absolutely necessary.
“But who gives it to you?” Margery had once inquired, and her mother had
replied:
“A gentleman in Paris, whose wife was very fond of me. I was her maid
first, and after she died took care of her child.”
And Margery, wholly unsuspicious, accepted this explanation as all there
was to tell, and received the impression somehow that the gentleman’s
name was Polignie, and never dreamed of the guilt, and sin, and terrible
remorse which haunted her mother so continually, and had made her grow
old so fast. Margery could remember her when she was bright and pretty,
with a sparkle in her dark eyes and a bloom upon her cheeks, which now
were sunken and pale, while her long, black hair was streaked with gray,
and within the last few months had been rapidly growing white. She had
brought the Mentone letter, and given it to her mother without so much
as looking at her, and thus she failed to see how white she was as she
took the letter and went to her room to read it alone.
“Probably it has something to do with my money,” she thought, seeking to
reassure herself as she broke the seal and opened the envelope from
which Queenie’s note dropped into her lap.
Picking it up she read the address: “Christine Bodine, care of M.
Albrech,” and recognizing the handwriting, which she had often seen on
notes sent to her daughter by Reinette, she gave a low, gasping cry,
while for a moment everything around her grew black, and she could
neither see nor hear for the great fear overmastering her.
“Tracked at last,” she whispered, as she tried to read what M. Albrech
had written, and could not for the blur before her eyes.
For months Mrs. La Rue’s remedy for nervousness had been morphine, which
she took in constantly increasing doses, and she had resort to it now,
and, swallowing half a grain, grew calm at last, and read her agent’s
letter; and then picking up the dainty note with Reinette’s monogram
upon the seal, kissed it passionately, and cried over it as if it had
been some living creature instead of a bit of perfumed paper, on which
these lines were written:
“HETHERTON PLACE,
“MERRIVALE, Worcester Co., Mass., U. S. A.
“MY DEAR CHRISTINE:—Have you forgotten the little baby you used to
bear in your arms years ago, in Paris and at Chateau des Fleurs?
Little Queenie they called me, though my real name was Reinette, and I
am the daughter of Mrs. Frederick Hetherton, who died in Rome, and to
whom you were so kind. I have it in mother’s letter written to father,
in which she tells him how good and true you were to her and bade him
always be kind to you for her sake. And I think he tried to be, for I
have ascertained that he set apart a certain amount of money for you,
which was all very well, though I should have shown my gratitude in an
altogether different way. I might have given you money if you needed
it, but I should also have made you come home to us, and should have
loved and petted you because you knew my mother, and were so good to
her. And that is what I wish to do now.
“Papa is dead, as you perhaps know. He died on the ship before we
reached New York, and I am living alone at Hetherton Place, his old
home, which is almost as lovely as Chateau des Fleurs, with a much
finer view. Christine, did you know my mother was an American? She
was, and her home was here in Merrivale, where my father found her and
where I have a host of relatives on her side. But still I am very,
very lonely, and I want you to come and live with me in America. I
will try and make you so happy, and you will seem to bring me nearer
to my mother, for you will tell me of her; what she did and what she
said of me the few days she had me before she died. I am sure to love
you because she did, and in her first letters to her mother and sister
after she reached Paris she spoke of her good Christine, who was so
much to her.
“You see I am writing on the assumption that you have no other ties. I
always think of you as my dear old nurse, Christine, whom I sometimes
fancy I can remember. Did you not come to me once in the Bois when
another nurse had charge of me, and kiss, and cry over me, and give me
a quantity of bon-bons? Some such scene comes up to me from the misty
past, and you had such bright black eyes and so much color in your
cheeks, and looked so pretty. Was that you, and why did you not stay
with me always? Write immediately and answer all these questions, and
tell me you will come to your loving
“REINETTE.”
Oh, how the wretched woman writhed as she read this letter, with thuds
of pain beating in her heart, and her eyes dim with burning tears. It
was so kind, so affectionate in its tone, and so familiar too; so unlike
what Reinette’s manner toward her had been.
“Queenie, my darling, would you write to me thus if you knew?” she
moaned, as she rocked to and fro in her anguish, while at her work below
Margery sat singing a little song she had learned in the Tabernacle at
Oak Bluffs:
“There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you.”
“Rest for the weary,” Mrs. La Rue repeated, as the clear, sweet tones
floated up to her. “And I am weary, oh! so weary; but there is no rest
for me, except in death, which some say is a long dreamless rest, and
that I can have so soon, for my friend is always near me,” and she
glanced toward the shelf where stood a vial of laudanum to which she had
resort when morphine did not avail to quiet her and bring forgetfulness.
“But I must see Margery once more,” she thought. “I must kiss her again,
and hear her call me mother.”
It was nearly time now for the evening meal, and summoning all her
strength and calmness, Mrs. La Rue went down stairs, and under cover of
the fast-increasing darkness, managed so well that Margery suspected
nothing, and attributed her mother’s pallor and weakness to the
neuralgia from which she was suffering.
“I am going to bed early to-night,” Mrs. La Rue said, when supper was
over, and the table cleared away. “I am feeling quite ill.”
Then Margery looked at her closely, and asked if it was anything more
than neuralgia which ailed her. Was there bad news in the letter?
“No—yes; but nothing I can now explain,” Mrs. La Rue replied; then going
up to her daughter, she kissed her twice, and said: “Good-night, my
darling. Do not speak to me when you come up to bed; I may be asleep.”
Margery kissed her back, with no thought of what was in the mind of the
miserable woman as she slowly climbed the stairs, and, going to her
room, shut the door, and taking down her _friend_, poured out what was
to give her forgetfulness and rest. Drop by drop the dark liquid fell
into the glass, until there were forty drops in all, and she held it to
the light, and looked at it, and smiled as she thought of the morrow,
when she would be deaf to Margery’s call, and deaf to Queenie’s
reproaches, if she should come, as she might do now at any time.
“But I shall be gone from it forever, and Margery will think it an
overdose taken accidentally to ease the pain. Yes, this is better than
the river; and yet I am so hot and feverish that the cold water would be
grateful to me, and this is just the night for such a deed, only Margery
then would know I meant it, and I must not lose her respect. I must
carry that with me at least. No, to sleep and never waken is the best.
So, Margery, darling, and Queenie, too, good-by!”
She raised the glass to her lips just as the door-bell rang a loud,
clanging peal, which made her start so violently that the glass dropped
from her trembling hand, and the poison was spilled on the floor.
It was Mr. Beresford who rang, and Christine heard him speaking to
Margery in the hall. The sound of their voices quieted her and for the
time turned her from her terrible resolve. “I will not die to-night; I
will wait,” she said as she cleared away all traces of the broken glass,
and then, undressing herself, went to bed, but not to sleep, for her
thoughts were busy with the past, when she was young and innocent, and
first entered the service of Margaret Hetherton. She could not remember
her father who died when she was two years old. Her mother had kept a
cheap French _pension_ in the suburbs of Paris, and Christine had often
assisted in waiting upon the guests who frequented the house. As she was
very pretty and bright and piquant she naturally attracted a good deal
of attention, and sometimes words were said to her which she knew were
insults, and which she repelled with scorn for she was then honest and
pure as a child, and would have shrunk with horror from the future had
it been shown to her. At the age of eighteen her mother died and she was
left alone without money or employment. It was then that she saw an
advertisement in the morning paper to the effect that a waiting-maid was
wanted by a young American lady, who could be seen at the Hotel Meurice
every day for a week between the hours of twelve and two. As the terms
offered were unusually liberal she resolved to apply for the situation,
notwithstanding that she had had no experience.
At the appointed hour she presented herself to Margaret, who was
reclining upon a white satin couch, while partly behind her Mr.
Hetherton stood with folded arms, and a critical look upon his face.
Accustomed as he was to the world, he saw at a glance that Christine
Bodine knew nothing of the habits of a fine lady, such as he meant his
wife to be, now that she was removed from the Fergusons, a thought of
whom made him shudder. Indeed, the girl, when questioned for references,
and the address of her last employer, acknowledged freely that she had
no references, and had never served as maid.
“But I can learn,” she said; “and I will serve madame so faithfully. I
should so like you to try me,” and she looked imploringly at Margaret,
who saw something in the girl which pleased her.
She was so young, and very pretty and plain in her dress, and looked so
good and trusty that her heart warmed toward her. References were
nothing to her, and turning to her husband she said, in a low tone:
“Oh, Frederick, I like her so much. I am sure she will suit. Let us take
her.”
But Frederick demurred, urging that she had no style, no appearance of a
maid.
“But she is good, I am sure, and I want her,” the young wife pleaded,
and Christine was retained, and entered upon her duties the next day.
How peaceful, and happy, and innocent those first few months spent in
Mrs. Hetherton’s service seemed to Christine now as she looked back upon
them, and how sweet, and kind, and patient her mistress had always been
with her, treating her more as an equal and a friend than as a servant,
and thereby frequently calling down upon herself sharp reproofs from her
husband, who did not approve of her familiarity with a maid. It showed
at once a low-born taste, he said, and he wished his wife to conquer all
such feelings, and, forgetting the past, remember that she was now Mrs.
Frederick Hetherton, of Paris. But Margaret could not forget the past,
or cease to pine for the dear ones at home, the plain, old-fashioned
mother, whose ways she knew were homespun in the extreme, and not at all
like the elegant manners of her proud husband, but who, nevertheless,
was her mother, for whom she cried every day of her life. Laying her
head on the lap of her faithful Christine she would sob out her
homesickness, and talk by the hour of Merrivale and its people, until
Christine knew every rock and crag, and winding brook in the pleasant
New England town, and knew pretty well what the Fergusons were, and how
they stood in Merrivale.
They were of mutual benefit to each other—this mistress and maid, for
while Christine anticipated every wish of Margaret, waiting upon her as
if she had been a duchess, and teaching her the French language as well
as the German, of which she had some knowledge. Margaret in turn taught
her a little English, and during the many weeks when she was alone and
her husband away with his friends, she gave her lessons in history, and
geography, and arithmetic, so that Christine, who was apt and bright,
became a much better scholar than was common to persons of her class,
and astonished her mistress with her rapid improvement. Even Mr.
Hetherton began to notice her at last and marvel at the change in her,
and when he was home he often found himself lingering longer in his
wife’s apartments when Christine was there, with her saucy smile, her
bright eyes, and her pretty way of saying things. Without any motive
except that she wished to please him because he was madame’s husband she
made herself necessary to him, and, carefully studying his wishes,
ministered to him with the alacrity of a slave, and when he offered her
money for extra services she refused to take it, and said that what she
did was done for love of him and madame, who trusted and clung to the
girl with a love which made the poor woman shiver with remorseful pain,
as she remembered it now, when the sins of the past were confronting her
so fearfully, and making her almost shriek aloud, as she recalled those
days in Rome, when the husband was seeking his own pleasure, while the
wife grew paler and thinner each day, and yet strove so hard to keep up,
by talking of the great happiness in store for her, and surprise for
him, if all went well with her, and she lived through the trial awaiting
her.
“Frederick is so fond of children, and he will be so happy and surprised
when he hears of it. I am glad I did not tell him,” she said, when at
last the waiting and suspense were over, and a little girl baby was
pillowed on her arm.
Christine could see that baby now, and feel the touch of its soft hands,
and see the white, worn face upon the pillow, and the great blue eyes
which followed her so wistfully and questioningly, and at last had in
them a look of terror and dread, as the days went by and no strength
came to the feeble limbs, or vitality to the nerves. She was dying, and
she knew it at last, and throwing herself into Christine’s arms, she
sobbed like a little child.
“It is hard to die,” she said, “when I am so young and have so much to
live for, now baby is born. And home is so far away, and mother, too,
and Frederick—where is he, Christine? He ought to be here, and I so sick
and lonely.”
Christine knew that very well, and her tears fell like rain upon the
golden head resting upon her bosom, while she tried to comfort the young
mother, who was so surely passing away.
“Monsieur must come soon,” she said; “and then madame will be better,
and we shall go back to Chateau des Fleurs and be so happy there.”
But Margaret knew better. She would never go to Chateau des Fleurs—never
see her husband again, and that grieved her the most, for all his
neglect and coldness had not killed her love, and she longed for him now
so much when she lay dying in Rome, with only her baby and Christine
with her—Christine, to whom she said “God bless you, and reward you
according to your kindness and faithfulness to me!”
Margaret had meant it for a blessing, but it was really a curse, and it
had followed Christine ever since, until now, when her sin was finding
her out, and making her writhe with anguish and fear.
“And yet I was kind to her,” she whispered; “and she died in my arms,
with her head upon my breast, and she kissed me twice upon my lips; one
was for me, she said, and one for the baby when she was old enough to
know. Ah, me, those kisses! how they burn like fire! and I am burning,
too—burning! Is there a hell, I wonder, and is it worse than the torment
I am enduring?”
Her mind was disordered, and she raved incoherently of Rome, and Chateau
des Fleurs; and Paris, and Margaret, and Reinette, until she was utterly
exhausted, and growing quiet, at last fell into a sleep so deep that she
did not hear Margery when she let Mr. Beresford out and came up to her
room.
“Poor mother, she is resting sweetly, and I hope will be better
to-morrow,” Margery said, as she bent over the sleeping woman, whose
face looked so white, and worn, and pinched.
The next morning, however, Mrs. La Rue did not attempt to get up. She
was too weak and sick, she said, and should keep her bed all day. “And
Margery,” she added, with quivering lip and a pleading tone, “don’t let
any one in here, will you, if they come asking for me? Not any one;
promise, Margery.”
“No, mother, no one shall disturb you,” Margery said, soothingly, “and
fortunately I have not much work on hand to-day, and can stay with you a
great deal. I must finish Miss Ferguson’s sacque, and that is all. Now
try to sleep again. I can’t have such a woeful-looking, pale-faced
little mother on my hands. I shall have to send her off and get another
one.”
She spoke playfully, but every word was a stab to the miserable woman,
who said again:
“Remember, Margery, nobody is to come up here.”
“No, mother, nobody. You are safer than the old bishop in his castle on
the Rhine, for the rats did reach him there, and not so much as a mouse
shall harm you here, so _au revoir_,” and with a kiss—the last—the very
last, she would ever give as she gave that, she ran down stairs just as
a carriage stopped at the gate and Reinette came rapidly up the walk.