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.