“Yes, I think so,” Queenie answered, “just for my own curiosity. I shall make no bad use of it. I shall not harm you.”
“No, no; you must not seek to know,” Margery exclaimed, with energy. “There was something, Queenie. I have wrung it from her. She did right to keep silent. She ought not to have spoken. And Queenie, if you love me, promise me you will never try to find it out—never write to anyone in France. Promise, or I shall certainly die.”
She had disengaged herself from Queenie’s embrace, but was sitting upright in bed, with a look upon her face like one who is really losing her senses. It startled Reinette, who answered unhesitatingly:
“I promise. I will not write to any one in France, but may be you will tell me some time. Will you, Margery?”
“Never—never, so help me Heaven!” was the emphatic reply, as Margery fell back among her pillows wholly exhausted.
For a moment Reinette stood looking curiously at her; then seating herself upon the side of the bed, and taking Margery’s hand, she said:
“You make me half repent my promise made without stopping to consider, for my curiosity is very great. But I shall keep it, do not fear; only tell me this—was it anything very dreadful which your mother did?”
“Yes,” Margery replied, “it was very dreadful—it would make you hate her and me, too, if you knew. Don’t talk to me or any one about it. Don’t mention it again.”
“But tell me one thing more,” Queenie persisted; “I have a right to know. Was my father involved in it?”
She held her breath for the answer, and looked earnestly at Margery, whose eyes grew larger and brighter, and whose face was scarlet as she answered at last: