“And my nurse,” Queenie rejoined. “She was with my mother when I was born and when she died. I shall not wrong her; do not fear me,” and Queenie’s lips touched Margery’s in token that through her no harm should come to the poor woman who, in the chamber above, sat in a low chair rocking to and fro, with a sickening dread of the moment when she must stand face to face with Margery and meet the glance of those clear, blue eyes which might read the story she had not told Reinette.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
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.”