CHAPTER XXXI.THE INTERVIEW.
Reinette had thought and thought till her head seemed bursting with the effort to solve the mystery of her nurse’s silence. Had she done anything that she was ashamed to tell, and if so what was it, and did it concern any one but herself?
“No, I will not believe it,” she said more than once, with a striking out of her hand as if thrusting something aside. “I will not believe it. There is some good reason for her conduct which she can give me, and I am going to her to know the truth, but the world will not be as charitable as I and will say bad things of her, no doubt. So to the world she must remain Mrs. La Rue, and nobody will ever know that she is Christine, except Mr. Beresford, who, of course, knows it now, for Louis Arnaud has written to him, no doubt. But I can trust him, and I shall ask him to keep the knowledge to himself.”
After this decision Reinette grew calmer; the violent throbbing in her temples ceased, and she slept comparatively well that night. But though the morning found her stronger and better, she felt nervous and unstrung, and shrunk with a great dread from confronting Mrs. La Rue and wringing her secret from her, if secret there were to wring.
“I am so hurt and disappointed,” she thought, as she dressed herself for her calls. “I have loved Christine so much, and wanted so to find her, and now she is this woman whom, for some unaccountable reason, I never liked, though she is Margery’s mother and greatly superior to her class. There surely is something wrong and I am going to find it out.”
The waiting for Mr. Beresford seemed a long time to the excited girl, though in reality it was not more than ten minutes from the time she entered the office before she was closeted with the lawyer in his private room, where he received his clients who came to him on special business. And Reinette’s was very special, or at least very private, and when the door was closed she plunged into it at once, by saying:
“Mr. Beresford, you have written to Monsieur Albrech, in Mentone, and asked about Christine Bodine.”
She did not put it interrogatively, but as an assertion, and blushing guiltily, the lawyer replied:
“Yes, I did write to him, asking information of the woman’s whereabouts. You were so anxious to find her, you know.”
“Hush!” Queenie said, pouring the full scorn of her blazing eyes upon him. “Do not try to excuse yourself in that way. It was curiosity rather than a desire to serve me which prompted you to write, and you have had your reward. Louis Arnaud, Monsieur Albrech’s clerk, has answered your letter.”
“Yes, he has,” Mr. Beresford replied, and Reinette continued:
“I know it. I have one from him, too. Here it is, and I will read it to you.”
She drew the letter from her pocket, and read it through in a clear, steady voice, as if its contents were just what she had expected.
“You are not surprised, of course,” she said, when she had finished. “He told you that Christine was Mrs. La Rue. Where is the letter, and how did you make it out?”
“It was written partly in English and partly in French, so I did pretty well,” Mr. Beresford replied, and she continued:
“Did he write you anything more than he did me? I have a right to know if there is any reason why sheshould have kept herself from me in this manner. Show me the letter, Mr. Beresford.”
Mr. Beresford knew she would persist in her demand until something was done to quiet her, and, going into the adjoining room where a fire was burning in the grate, he took Louis Arnaud’s letter from his pocket and threw it into the fire; then, making a feint of hunting through pigeon-holes and on the table where piles of paper lay, he asked his clerk, so loud that Reinette could distinctly hear him, if he had seen a certain letter which he described. The clerk had not, but was finally driven to admitting that he might have torn it up that morning with other letters of no importance. He was reprimanded for his carelessness, and then Mr. Beresford returned to Reinette, feeling like a hypocrite, but thinking the end justified the means. But Queenie was not deceived, and with a smile which had much bitterness in it, she said to him before he could speak:
“Do not trouble yourself with more deception. Your clerk never destroyed that letter, for you are not the man to leave it lying round. It is safe somewhere, as you know, and you do not wish to show it to me. There was something in it which you will not tell me. But no matter; I am going to Christine, and she cannot keep from me why she has made no sign that she was my old nurse, when she knew how much I wished to find her.”
“Possibly she feared you might not think as much of Margery, if you knew she was your nurse’s daughter,” Mr. Beresford said, and Reinette replied:
“I have thought of that, but she should have known me better than to think anything could change my love for Margery. Perhaps she displeased papa after mother died, and he dismissed her for it, but paid her money all the same, because mother wished it. That would explain why father never was willing to talk tome about her, and always said he did not know where she was.”
“You used to question him of her, then?” Mr. Beresford said, and Reinette answered:
“Yes; and he would tell me nothing. Evidently he did not like her, but I knew how strong his prejudices were if once he took a dislike to one, and so I attached no importance to them.”
“How long did she live with you as your nurse after your mother’s death?” Mr. Beresford asked, and Reinette replied:
“I do not know; a year or so, I think, though all my knowledge of that part of my life seems to be a blank; and where was Margery then?”
She put this question more to herself than to Mr. Beresford, who, nevertheless, replied:
“Perhaps Christine was married unknown to your father, who, when he found it out, was angry, as it took a valuable nurse from his child.”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” Reinette, said, eagerly. “It was something of that nature, no doubt, and you lawyers are shrewd enough to see it, while I might have groped in the dark forever. I am glad you thought of that, and Mr. Beresford, you must tell no one what you heard from Louis Arnaud. There are many suspicious people in the world who would say hard things of Christine and—possibly—connect the trouble in some way with—with—father—and I will not have his name coupled with hers in any way. My father was a gentleman and a Hetherton.”
Mr. Beresford bowed an acquiescence to the fact that her father was a gentleman and a Hetherton. And if there was any merit in being the latter, she certainly was a very fair representative of it as she stood up so proud and calm, and uttered her protest against her father’s name being mixed with that of Christine Bodine.
“I am going there now,” she said, adjusting her shawl and drawing on her gloves, “and when I see you again I shall know everything there is to know of Christine Bodine.”
Mr. Beresford felt a little doubtful on that subject, but said nothing, and going with her to her carriage helped her in, and then in a very thoughtful mood returned to his office, wondering what would be the result of that call on Christine Bodine.