“There is a great deal of good in her, and I must always be kind to her because of what she has done for Phil,” she thought, and she felt glad that all the old bitterness and resentment were gone, and that although she could not think of Christine as her mother, she could think of her quietly and calmly as of one who, if she had greatly sinned, had also greatly suffered for the sin and was trying to atone. “Phil and I will take care of her, though she cannot, of course, live with us. She will not expect that;” she thought, and her mind was busy with castles of the future, when Pierre looked in again just for an instant, and seeing Phil asleep, shut the door at once and went out again before she could ask him a question.
But in the glimpse she got of him, it seemed to her that there was an unusual look of concern upon his face, while through the open door she caught a faint sound of voices in the distance, and footsteps hurrying here and there. What was it? she asked herself, and felt tempted to go out and see, but Phil’s hand was clasping hers and she would not free herself from it lest she should awaken him. So she still sat on till the clock struck twelve and the hum of voices was occasionally borne to her ears by the opening of some door further up the hall. There was somebody in the other part of the house besides Pierre—somebody sick, too; judging from the sounds, and she grew so nervous at last and curious upon the subject, that she gradually withdrew her hand from Phil’s, and rising softly was about to leave the room, when Pierre looked in again, and this time she could not be mistaken with regard to the expression on his face, which was very pale and troubled as it looked wistfully at her.
“What is it, Pierre?” she asked in a whisper, going close to him and observing that he stood against the door as if to keep her from passing. “Whose voices do I hear, and is any one sick? I was just coming to ascertain. Let me pass, please.”
“No, no, mademoiselle. Don’t come. She said you were not to know. We are doing all we can for her.” Pierre cried, in great alarm, thus letting out the secret he had been told to keep.
“Do all you can for her? For whom? Who is it that is sick, and said I must not know?” Queenie asked, as she put the old man aside, and opening the door, drew him with her into the hall. “Now tell me the truth,” she continued. “Is some one sick whom I ought to see? Is it—Christine?”
“Yes,” he answered, “it is Madame Christine, and she is very bad. She will die, the doctor fears, but she said you must not know. You must not leave Mr. Rossiter for her and she sent me many times to see how he was.”
Pierre was right, for in a small room at the end of the hall Christine La Rue was dying. She who had braved so much and borne so much and passed through so many dangers unscathed, had at last succumbed to the terrible disease which she knew was creeping upon her, when she sent for Queenie to share her vigils by Phil’s bedside.
“I must not give up yet; I must endure and bear until he is out of danger. I must save him for her sake,” she thought, and fought down with a desperate courage and iron will the horrid sensations stealing over her so fast and making her sometimes almost beside herself with dizziness and languor.
But when the crisis was past and she felt sure Phil was safe, she could endure it no longer, and with one long, lingering look at Queenie, whom she felt she should never see again, she started for her own lodgings.
“I can die there alone and so trouble no one,” she thought, as she made her way to the staircase.