“Had made a vow? Had sworn not to do it? Who made you swear? Who required that vow from you? Was it Mr. Hetherton?” Margery asked, and her mother replied:
“Yes, Mr. Hetherton; curse him in his grave! He has been my ruin. I was so happy and innocent until I knew him. He wrung the vow from me: he paid me money to keep it; he——”
She stopped here, appalled by the look on Margery’s face—a look which made her cower and tremble as she had never trembled and cowered before.
Wrenching her dress away from the hands which still held it, and drawing herself back, Margery demanded:
“Tell me what you mean? You have said strange things to me, mother. You have talked of ruin, and innocence, and money paid for silence, and as your daughter I have a right to know what you mean. And you must tell me, too, before I look on Queenie’s face again. What is it, mother? What was the secret between you and Mr. Hetherton? What have you done, which you would hide from me? Speak, and I will forgive you, even if it brings disgrace to me. If you do not tell, and suffer me to live on with these horrid suspicions torturing me to madness, I can never touch your hand again in love, or think of you as I have done.”
She had risen from her chair, and stood with folded arms looking down upon the wretched woman, who moaned:
“Do not, Margie, do not drive me to tell, for the telling will involve so much—so much! Some will be disgraced and others benefited; do not make me tell, please do not.”
She stretched her arms toward Margery, who stood immovable as a rock, and said, with a hard ring in her voice:
“Disgrace to me, I suppose. Well, I can bear that better than suspense and uncertainty.”
“No, Margie, not disgrace to you, thank Heaven! not disgrace to you in the way you think,” Mrs. La Rue cried.