REINETTE’s INTERVIEW WITH CHRISTINE.
When Reinette went up the stairs to Mrs. La Rue’s room, she had no
definite plan of action; indeed, she had no plan at all, except to
confront and confound the woman who had deceived her so long, and whom
she found sitting up in bed with so terrified a look on her face, that
she stood an instant on the threshold gazing at her ere she plunged
impetuously into the business which had brought her there. Secure in
Margery’s promise that no one should disturb her, Mrs. La Rue had grown
comparatively quiet, and was just falling off to sleep when she was
roused by the sound of carriage wheels stopping at the gate, and a
moment after she heard Reinette’s voice speaking earnestly to Margery,
and felt that the hour she had dreaded so long had come at last.
Reinette had heard from Mentone and had come for an explanation.
“Fool, that I did not end it all last night, when I had the nerve to do
it,” she said, as, starting up in bed, she listened until footsteps came
up the stairs, and Reinette Hetherton stood looking at her.
But not long; the girl was in too great haste to wait, and advancing to
the bedside she began: “Christine, you see I know you; I have found you
at last; traced you through Messrs. Polignie to your agent in Mentone,
whose clerk put me on your track; so, there can be no mistake. You are
Christine Bodine, my old nurse, whom I have so wished to find; and you
knew I wished it all the time, and did not tell me who you were. Why did
you treat me so, Christine? What is your excuse? You have one, of
course.”
She spoke so rapidly, pouring out question after question, that for a
minute Mrs. La Rue was stunned and answered nothing, but sat staring
blankly at her, like one in a dream. At last, however, her lips moved,
and she said, faintly: “Yes, I am Christine, and I don’t know why I
didn’t tell you.”
“You don’t know why you didn’t tell me? That is very strange,” Reinette
replied. “If there is nothing to conceal, if all your dealings with my
parents were honorable and upright, I see no reason for hiding from me
the fact that you were once my nurse. Christine, I did not come to
quarrel with you,” and Reinette’s voice softened a little. “I have loved
you too much for that, but I have come to hear about my mother. You were
with her when she died. You nursed me when I was a baby. You know what
mother said to me and of me. She loved you, Christine, and trusted you.
I have it in a letter written to my father before she died, when he was
away in Russia or Austria. And that is why he paid you money, was it
not, Christine?”
She was looking fixedly at the woman on whose white face blood-red spots
were beginning to show, and who answered falteringly:
“Yes, that is why he gave me the money. Oh, Reinette, leave me; go away;
don’t try to unearth the past. There are things you should not
know—things I cannot tell. God help me. I wish I had died before I ever
saw your face.”
She looked so pale and death-like that Reinette bent anxiously over her,
and bringing the camphor bathed her forehead, and held it to her
nostrils until she was better, and raising herself from the pillows upon
which she had fallen, she said:
“I cannot lie here. I feel that I am smothering. I must get up, while I
talk to you, but oh, you’ll be so sorry. You’ll wish you had never come.
Bring me my wrapper there on the chair, and my woolen shawl, for I am
shivering with cold.”
Her teeth were chattering, and her lips were blue and pinched as Queenie
brought the wrapper and helped her put it on, kneeling on the floor to
button it herself, and occasionally speaking soothingly to her, though
her own heart was beating rapidly with a dread of what she might hear.
Then it was that Margery appeared on the scene, and by suggesting that
no one but themselves need know what had so long been hidden, changed
Mrs. La Rue’s intentions altogether. For a few brief moments there had
been in her mind a resolve to make a clean breast of it, and to tell the
truth, and then when that was done, she would kill herself, and so
escape the storm sure to follow her revelations.
“Better die,” she thought, “than live to be questioned and suspected by
the Rossiters, and Fergusons, and everybody, as I should be if they knew
I was Christine.”
But when the idea was suggested that only Margery and Reinette need
know, she changed her mind, and in what she would now tell the latter,
there was to be a deep, dark gulf bridged over in silence.
“Help me to my chair. I am very, very weak,” she said to Reinette, when
Margery had gone.
Reinette complied with her request, and leading her to a chair placed
her gently in it, and drew the shawl closer around her. At this little
act of attention Christine broke down entirely, and throwing her arms
around Reinette, sobbed out:
“Oh, my darling, my baby whom I nursed. I have so longed to hold you in
my arms as I held you years ago. Reinette, Reinette, kiss
me—because—because—I am—Christine.”
It was not in Reinette’s nature to resist such an appeal, and she kissed
the poor trembling woman twice, and then drawing a chair to her side
spoke very softly to her, and said:
“Now tell me.”
“Tell you what, child? What do you wish most to know?” Christine asked,
and Reinette replied:
“About my mother. You are the first I have ever seen who knew her after
she was Mrs. Hetherton. I have heard what she was when a girl—the
sweetest, loveliest creature, they say, with eyes like the summer sky,
and a face so fair and pure, and I wish to hear from beginning to end
all you know about her, and when you saw her first, and where, and about
her death in Rome, when I was born, and only you there to care for
either of us.”
“Would you mind holding my hand while I tell you of my first days with
Mrs. Hetherton?” Christine said, and Reinette took the cold, clammy hand
between both of hers and rubbed and chafed it as tenderly as Margery
herself would have done.
She was beginning to feel very kindly toward this woman who had known
her mother; the insinuations in Messrs. Polignie’s letter were forgotten
for the time, and she saw before her only one who had cared for her when
an infant and had seen her mother die.
“Begin,” she said, “I am impatient to hear.”
And so Christine began, and told her of the advertisement for a waiting
maid, which she had answered in person; told her of the handsome rooms
at the Hotel Meurice, and of the beautiful young lady who was so kind to
her, and made her more a companion than a maid, notwithstanding that her
proud husband frequently protested against it and talked of bad taste,
which sometimes made madame cry.
“And did she tell you of Merrivale and her old home? Did you know she
was an American?” Queenie asked, and Mrs. La Rue replied:
“Yes, she told me all about her home and Merrivale, and I was familiar
with every rock, and hill, and tree, I think, especially the elms upon
the common, and the poplars near her home. She was so fond of Merrivale
and her friends, and used often to cry for the mother so far away.”
“Was she very homesick?” Reinette asked, and Mrs. La Rue answered her:
“At times, yes, when monsieur was away with his associates, or staid out
so late nights, as he sometimes did.”
Reinette’s breath came quickly for a moment, and her voice shook as she
asked, very low, as if afraid some one might hear:
“Was not father kind to her always?”
“If beautiful dresses and jewelry, and horses and carriages, and plenty
of money means kindness, then he was kind, for she had all these in
profusion, but what she wanted most she did not have, and that was her
husband’s society,” Mrs. La Rue said, and then Reinette drew back a
little haughtily and answered:
“Christine, you did not like my father. I see that in all you say, but
he was very dear to me, and I loved him so much! You were prejudiced
against him, but I insist upon your going on just the same and telling
me everything. Why did she not have his society? Where and how did he
pass his time, if not with her? He loved her, I am sure. You know he
did. You know he loved my mother.”
She kept asserting this, for there was an expression on Mrs. La Rue’s
face which she could not understand and which did not quite please her.
“He was very proud of her beauty, and in his way fond of her, but I do
not think it was in Monsieur Hetherton’s nature to love any one long.
Her habits did not suit him; his did not suit her; she breakfasted at
nine; he breakfasted at eleven in his room, and frequently dined out,
returning generally to see her dressed for the opera or concert, and
dictating about her toilet until we were both at our wits’ end. Her
tastes were too simple for him. He wished her to wear velvet and satin,
and diamonds and pearls, while she would have liked plain muslin gowns
and a quiet home in the country, with hens, and chickens, and pets. She
was very happy at Chateau des Fleurs, and would have been happier if
monsieur had staid more with her, but he was much in Paris, and
Switzerland, and Nice, and so we were alone a great deal, and she taught
me many things and was very kind to me.”
“But why did not my father stay with her more?” Reinette asked, and Mrs.
La Rue replied: “He was fond of travel, and hunting, and racing, and had
many gentlemen friends there, whose influence was not good, and he
complained that Chateau des Fleurs was lonely. If he only had a child—a
son—he could bear it, he said; but as it was, the place was unendurable,
and so he staid away weeks at a time, while your mother pined and
drooped like some fair lily which had neither water nor sunshine.”
“Oh, this is very dreadful,” Queenie said, with a choking sob. “I am
glad grandma will never know what you have told me. But go on and tell
me the rest. I insist upon knowing the whole.”
So Mrs. La Rue told of the weeks and weeks which her mistress passed
alone at Chateau des Fleurs, while Mr. Hetherton was seeking his
pleasure elsewhere; of his great desire for a son to bear his name; of
Mrs. Hetherton’s failing health and removal at last to Southern France,
and then, as the season advanced, to Rome; of the great joy which came
to her so unexpectedly and which she purposely kept from her husband,
wishing to surprise him when he joined her in Rome, as he promised to
do; of the weary weeks of waiting, hoping against hope, for he was
always coming in a few days at the most and never came; and then of a
girl baby’s birth sooner than it was expected, and the scene which
followed, when the young wife died, with her little girl clasped to her
bosom and her own head pillowed on Christine’s arm.
Here Christine stopped suddenly and covering her face with her hands
sobbed hysterically as she recalled that scene, while Reinette, too,
cried as she had never cried before for the dying mother in Rome, who
had held her babe to the very last and prayed that God would bless it
and have it in his keeping and make it a comfort and a joy to the
husband and father, who was far away, joining in a midnight revel where
wine, and cards, and women, such as Margaret Ferguson never knew, formed
a conspicuous part.
“Her baby was a great comfort to her,” Mrs. La Rue said, when she could
speak, “and she would have it where she could feel its little hands upon
her face, even after blindness came upon her, and she could no longer
see. The English physician had been in, and told me she probably would
not last the night through, and that I must have some one with me. But
she said, ‘No; Christine and baby are all I want,’ and when he was gone
she made me sit by her, while she talked, as she had done many a time,
of her home over the sea, of her sister, and her mother, to whom she
sent messages. I remember her very words. ‘Tell them,’ she said, ‘that I
have never ceased to love them, and to long for them with such longing
as only homesick creatures know, and if I have seemed neglectful, and
have not written as I ought it was because—I couldn’t. I can’t explain,
only I love them so much; and now if I could lay my head on mother’s
lap, as I did when I was a little girl, and it ached as it is aching
now, I should die more willingly. Dear old mother! poor old father! with
his hard, brown hands, which have worked so hard for me—God bless them,
and comfort them, when they hear I am dead!’”
“Oh, Christine!” Reinette sobbed, “grandma ought to know this—she and
Aunt Mary, too. They have never heard one word of her last days, for
father only wrote that she was dead, and did not even tell them of my
birth. I ought to tell my grandmother; she will be so glad to know.”
“No, no! oh, no! better not. You said you would not!” Christine
exclaimed in terror. “It would lead to so much talk—so many questions
about your father, and—Reinette, forgive me—but his record was not the
fairest. Even you, his daughter, would not like to see its blackest
pages.”
Reinette’s face was crimson with shame and resentment, and in her eye
was that peculiar gleam which so bewildered and confounded those on whom
it fell. The fair structure she had built about her father’s memory was
tottering to atoms, but she would struggle bravely to keep it together
as long as possible, and she replied:
“If there were pages so black in father’s life, do not show them to me,
lest I should say you told me falsely. He was my father, and I loved him
so dearly. He was kind to me always—and I will stand by him forever. But
you have not finished. I want to know just how mother died.”
So Christine went on and told of the long hours when the dying woman lay
with her baby clasped to her bosom, and her head pillowed on the strong
arm of her maid, who held her thus until the darkness was passed and the
early dawn of the mild spring morning began to creep into the room, when
Margaret roused a little, and said:
“It is almost over, Christine. I am going home to Jesus, whose arms
are around me so that I am not afraid. Tell them at home I was so
happy, and death had no terror for me. Tell them I seem to hear the
children singing as they used to sing in the old church in Merrivale,
and the summer wind blows in and out, and brings the perfume of the
pond lilies with it, and the river flows on and on amid the green
meadows—away—away—just as I am floating so quietly out upon the sea of
eternity, where the lilies are fairer and sweeter than those which
lift their white heads to the sunshine in the ponds of Merrivale. And
now, Christine, place my baby so I can kiss her once more, for sight
and strength have failed me.”
The child’s face was lifted to the pale lips which kissed it tenderly,
and then, just as the warm Italian sunshine lighted up the distant dome
of St. Peter’s with a blaze of gold, and all over the great city, and
far out upon the Campagna the morning was warm and bright, the young
mother lay dead in the silent room, with only her servant and baby with
her.
There was a fresh burst of tears and sobs from Reinette as she listened
to the story, and when it was ended she threw her arms around her
nurse’s neck and nearly strangled her with kisses, as she said:
“I can forgive you everything now that I know how good and true you were
to my mother.”
With something like a moan Christine freed herself from the girl, and
went rapidly on:
“I did not know just where your father was, for he was never long in the
same place, and as we could not wait to hear from him, and I did not
know what to do, strangers took the matter in hand and buried her in the
Protestant grave-yard at Rome, where you father has never been since.”
“And I?” Reinette said. “You took me to him?”
“Yes, I took you to Chateau des Fleurs,” Christine replied, while her
face grew scarlet and then turned ashen pale, and Queenie never dreamed
of the chasm which she leaped in silence, or of the bitter remorse which
brought those livid spots to the face of Christine, who did not look at
her now, but shut her eyes and leaned wearily back in her chair.
“I am so weak, and talking all this tires me so,” she said; but Reinette
was not satisfied, and her next question was:
“What did father say when he first saw me?”
Christine did not reply to this, but sat with her hands locked together,
and a look upon her face as if she was living over some painful scene.
“Tell me; how did he act? What did he say?” Reinette repeated, and then,
with a smile full of irony and bitterness Christine answered:
“He _swore_ because you were not a boy!”
“Oh-h! this is terrible,” Reinette exclaimed, as her face grew very red.
But she was too proud to let her nurse see how she was pained, and she
continued:
“Yes, I can understand how a man like him would be disappointed if he
wanted a son very much; but he loved me afterward. I am sure of that.
How long did you stay with me at Chateau des Fleurs, and why did you
leave? Was it M. La Rue?”
“Yes, I was married to Monsieur La Rue and had to leave, but I saw you
sometimes when you were a little child, playing in the grounds of the
Chateau.”
“I remember it—a woman came one day when I was with my nurse and kissed
and cried over me, and gave me some bon-bons; and that was you,”
Reinette said and Mrs. La Rue assented, while Reinette continued:
“And you lived all the time in Paris, and never let me know or brought
Margery to see me; and, oh, Christine when I found her up in that room
that day and she told you of me, did you know then who I was?”
“Yes, I knew,” was the reply, and Reinette went on:
“You knew, and never tried to see me? That is very strange. And did
father know, when Margery was at school with me, and afterward at the
chateau? Did he know she was your daughter?” “No, it would have made him
very angry,” Christine replied, “and lest he should find it out I took
her to Southern France and tried to cut off all intercourse between you.
Her letters to you I did not post and yours to her I withheld. You
remember you did not hear from her for months.” “Yes, I remember,”
Reinette replied. “We talked about it and wondered where the letters
went, but we never suspected you, and I must say I think it was a very
mean thing for you to do. Father would not have been angry. Why should
he, Christine?” and Reinette grew more earnest in her manner. “You may
as well tell me the truth, for I am resolved to wring it from you, and I
will not tell Margery either. You had done something to displease my
father; now, what was it? I insist upon knowing.”
“Nothing, nothing,” Christine gasped. “He was very proud, and I knew he
would not like you to be too intimate with people like us; that is
all—everything.”
“And was that the reason why after he was dead and you met me here you
kept silent? Were you afraid I, too, was proud, and would think less of
Margery, if I knew.”
“Yes, yes; you have guessed it,” Mrs. La Rue said, quickly, as if
relieved that Reinette had put so good a reason into her mind.
She was very tired, and had borne so much that it seemed to her she
could bear no more, and clasping her hands to her head, she said,
imploringly:
“Leave me now, please; there is nothing more to tell, and I am so tired
and sick, and—and—there is Margery yet to see. Oh, Miss Hetherton, make
it easy as you can to Margery. Don’t let her think ill of me. I could
not bear that. I would rather have the bad opinion of the whole world
than hers. She is so good, so true, and hates deception so much. Go now,
and leave me to myself. I believe—I think—yes, I am sure I am going
mad.”
Reinette looked at her in surprise.
“There is something else,” she thought, “something behind, which she has
not told, and I mean to know what it is; but I will leave her now,” and
taking Christine’s hot hands in hers she said, very kindly, “Good-by,
Christine; I am going, but another time you will tell me more of my
mother.”
Then pressing her hand to her lips she ran down the stairs to Margery,
who was waiting anxiously for her, and who for the first time in her
life was glad when Reinette said good-by and left her alone to seek her
mother.