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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15181-h.zip b/15181-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..595ca46 --- /dev/null +++ b/15181-h.zip diff --git a/15181-h/15181-h.htm b/15181-h/15181-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89d26e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/15181-h/15181-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2936 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Mother's Rival, by Charlotte M. Braeme. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + } + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; left: 12%; text-align: left;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Mother's Rival, by Charlotte M. Braeme + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: My Mother's Rival + Everyday Life Library No. 4 + +Author: Charlotte M. Braeme + +Release Date: February 26, 2005 [EBook #15181] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY MOTHER'S RIVAL *** + + + + +Produced by Steven desJardins and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h3>EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No. 4</h3> +<h4>Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago</h4> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 439px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="439" height="500" alt="cover image" title="cover image" /> +</div> + +<h1>MY MOTHER'S RIVAL</h1> + +<h2>By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME</h2> + +<blockquote><p><i>Author of "Dora Thorne," "The Belle of Lynn," "The Mystery of Colde +Fell," "Madolin's Lover," "Coralie," Etc., Etc.</i></p></blockquote> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I" />CHAPTER I.</h3> + + +<p>I have often wondered if the world ever thinks of what becomes of the +children of great criminals who expiate their crime on the scaffold. Are +they taken away and brought up somewhere in ignorance of who or what +they are? Does some kind relative step forward always bring them up +under another name?</p> + +<p>There is great criminal trial, and we hear that the man condemned to +death leaves two daughters and a son—what becomes of them can any one +living say? Who meets them in after life? Has any young man ever been +pointed out to you as the son of Mr. So-and-so, the murderer? Has any +young woman been pointed out to you as his daughter?</p> + +<p>It is not long since all England was interested in the trial of a +so-called gentleman for murder. He was found guilty, condemned and +executed. At the time of the trial all the papers spoke of his little +son—a fair-haired little lad, who was as unconscious of all that +happened as a little babe. I have often wondered what became of him. +Does he hear his father's name? Do those with whom he lives know him for +a murderer's son? If he goes wooing any fair-faced girl, will she be +afraid of marrying him lest, in the coming years, she may suffer the +same fate his mother did? Does that same son, when he reads of criminals +and scaffolds, wince, and shudder, and grow sick at heart?</p> + +<p>And the daughters, do they grow old and die before their time? Do they +hide themselves under false names in silent places, dreading lest the +world should know them? Does any man ever woo them? Are they ever happy +wives and mothers?</p> + +<p>I have thought much on this subject, because I, who write this story, +seem to the world one of the most commonplace people in it, and yet I +have lived, from the time I was a child, in the midst of a tragedy dark +as any that ever saddened this fair land.</p> + +<p>No one knows it, no one guesses it. People talk of troubles, of +romances, of sad stories and painful histories before me, but no one +ever guessed that I have known perhaps the saddest of all. My heart +learned to ache as the first lesson it learned in life.</p> + +<p>When I think of those unhappy children who go about the world with so +dark a secret locked in their hearts, I think of myself, and what I hold +locked in my heart.</p> + +<p>Read for yourself, dear reader, and tell me if you think there have been +many fates in this world harder than mine.</p> + +<p>My Name is Laura Tayne, and my home Tayne Abbey, in the grand old +County of Kent. The Taynes were of good family, not very ancient—the +baronetcy is quite a modern one, dating from George the First—but Tayne +Abbey is one of the grandest old buildings in England. Whenever I looked +at it I thought of those beautiful, picturesque, haunted houses that one +sees in Christmas annuals, with Christmas lights shining from the great +windows. I am sorry to say that I know very little of architecture. I +could not describe Tayne Abbey; it was a dark, picturesque, massive +building; the tall towers were covered with ivy, the large windows were +wreathed with flowers of every hue. In some parts of sweet, sunny Kent +the flowers grow as though they were in a huge hothouse; they did so at +Tayne Abbey, for the front stood to the west, and there were years when +it seemed to be nothing but summer.</p> + +<p>The great oriel windows—the deep bay windows, large as small rooms—the +carved oaken panels, the finely painted ceilings, the broad corridors, +the beautiful suites of rooms—all so bright, light and lofty—the +old-fashioned porch and the entrance hall, the grand sweep of terraces +one after another, the gardens, the grounds, the park, were all +perfection in their way. To make the picture quite complete, close to +us—joined, indeed, by a subterranean passage, for the existence of +which no one could account—stood the ruins of what had once been the +real Abbey of Tayne—a fine old abbey that, in the time of "bluff King +Hal," had been inhabited by the monks of St. Benedict. They were driven +away, and the abbey and lands were given to the family of De Montford. +The De Montfords did not prosper; after some generations the abbey fell +into ruins, and then they sold the abbey to the Taynes, who had long +wished for it on account of the similarity of names. Our ancestors built +the present mansion called Tayne Abbey; each succeeding Tayne had done +something to beautify it—one had built the magnificent picture gallery, +and had made a magnificent collection of pictures, so magnificent, +indeed, as to rob the Taynes for many years afterward of some part of +their revenue. There they stood still, a fortune in themselves. Another +Tayne had devoted himself to collecting gold and silver plate; in no +other house in England was there such a collection of valuable plate as +in ours. A third Tayne had thought of nothing but his gardens, devoting +his time, thoughts and money to them until they were wonderful to +behold. There were no square and round beds of different flowers, +arranged with mathematical precision; the white lilies stood in great +white sheaves, the eucharis lilies grew tall and stately, the grand +arum lily reared its deep chalice, the lovely lily of the valley shot +its white bells; there were every variety of carnation, of sweet +williams, of sweet peas, of the old-fashioned southernwood and pansy; +there grew crocus, snowdrop and daffadowndilly; great lilac trees, and +the white auricula were there in abundance; there, too, stood a sun-dial +and a fine fountain. It was a garden to please a poet and a painter; but +I have to tell the story of the lives of human beings, and not of +flowers.</p> + +<p>The first memory that comes to me is of my beautiful young mother; the +mention of her name brings me the vision of a fair face with hair of +bright gold, and deep, large, blue eyes; of soft silken dresses, from +the folds of which came the sweetest perfume; of fine trailing laces, +fine as the intricate work of a spider's web; of white hands, always +warm and soft, and covered with sparkly rings; of a sweet, low voice, +that was like the cooing of a dove. All these things come back to me as +I write the word "mother." My father, Sir Roland Tayne, was a hearty, +handsome, pleasure-loving man. No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or +angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved.</p> + +<p>He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me. Every one +said I was the very image of mama. I had the same golden hair and +deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands. I remember that my +mother—that sweet young mother—never walked steadily when she was out +with me. It was as though she could not help dancing like a child.</p> + +<p>"Come along, baby darling," she would say to me, "let us get away from +them all, and have a race."</p> + +<p>She called me "baby" until I was nearly six—for no other came to take +my place. I heard the servants speak of me, and say what a great heiress +I would be in the years to come, if my father had no sons; but I hardly +understood, and cared still less.</p> + +<p>As I grew older I worshipped my beautiful mother, she was so very kind +to me. I always felt that she was so pleased to see me. She never gave +me the impression that I was tiresome, or intruded on her. Sometimes her +toilet would be finished before the dinner-bell rang, then she would +come to the nursery and ask for me. We walked up and down the long +picture gallery, where the dead, and gone Ladies Tayne looked at us from +the walls. No face there was so fair as my mother's. She was more +beautiful than a picture, with her golden hair and fair face, her +sweeping dresses and trailing laces.</p> + +<p>The tears rise even now, hot and bitter, to my eyes when I think of +those happy hours—my intense pride in and devoted love for my mother. +How lightly I held her hand, how I kissed her lovely trailing laces.</p> + +<p>"Mamma," I said to her, one day, "it is just like coming to heaven when +you call me to walk with you."</p> + +<p>"You will know a better heaven some day," she said, laughingly; "but I +have not known it yet."</p> + +<p>What was there she did not do? She sang until the music seemed to float +round the room; she drew and painted, and she danced. I have seen no one +like her. They said she was like an angel in the house; so young, so +fair, so sweet—so young, yet, in her wise, sweet way, a mother and +friend to the whole household. Even the maids, when they had done +anything wrong and feared the housekeeper, would ask my mother to +intercede for them.</p> + +<p>If she saw a servant who had been crying, she did not rest until she +knew the cause of the tears. If it were a sick mother, then money and +wine would be dispatched. I have heard since that even if their love +affairs went wrong, it was always "my lady" who set them right, and many +a happy marriage took place from Tayne Abbey.</p> + +<p>It was just the same with the poor on the estate; she was a friend to +each one, man, woman or child. Her face was like a sunbeam in the +cottages, yet she was by no means unwise or indiscriminate in her +charities. When the people had employment she gave nothing but kind +words; where they were industrious, and could not get work, she helped +them liberally; where they were idle, and would not work, "my lady" +lectured with grave sweetness that was enough to convert the most +hardened sinner.</p> + +<p>Every one sought her in distress, her loving sweetness of disposition +was so well known. Great ladies came from London sometimes, looking +world-worn and weary, longing for comfort and sympathy. She gave it so +sweetly, no wonder they had desired it.</p> + +<p>It was the same thing on our own estate. If husband and wife quarreled, +it was to my mother they appealed—if a child seemed inclined to go +wrong, the mother at once came to her for advice.</p> + +<p>Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when +every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II" />CHAPTER II.</h3> + + +<p>Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women +in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different +little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her +husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.</p> + +<p>As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had +their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When +Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book +of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from +Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her:</p> + +<p>"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the +inevitable."</p> + +<p>"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who +have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"</p> + +<p>"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven," +and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.</p> + +<p>"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be +patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you +do?"</p> + +<p>"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient, +Isabel."</p> + +<p>"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with +indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the +presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that +case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I +should die."</p> + +<p>"Die—nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "What is the use of dying?—the +very thing they want. I will not die;" but my mother had laid her fair +head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue +sky. Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice?</p> + +<p>"I am not as strong as you, Isabel," she said, gently, "and I love Sir +Roland with my whole heart."</p> + +<p>"I loved my husband with my whole heart," sobbed the beautiful woman, +"and I have done nothing in this world to deserve what I have suffered. +I loved him with a pure, great affection—what became of it? Three days +after we were married I saw him myself patting one of the maids—a +good-looking one, you may be sure—on the cheek."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he meant no harm," said my mother, consolingly; "you know that +gentlemen do not attach so much importance as we do to these little +trifles."</p> + +<p>"You try, Beatrice, how you would like it; you have been married ten +years, and even at this date you would not like Sir Roland to do such a +thing?"</p> + +<p>"I am sure I should not; but then, you know, there are men and men. Sir +Roland is graver in character than Lord Conyngham. What would mean much +from one, means little from the other."</p> + +<p>So, with sweet, wise words, she strove to console and comfort this poor +lady, who had evidently been stricken to the heart in some way or +another. I often thought of my mother's words, "I should die," long +after Lady Conyngham had made some kind of reconciliation with her +husband, and had gone back to him. I thought of my mother's face, as she +leaned back to watch the sky, crying out, "I should die."</p> + +<p>I knew that I ought not to have sat still; my conscience reproached me +very much; but when I did get up to go away mamma did not notice me. +From that time it was wonderful how much I thought of "husbands." They +were to me the most mysterious people in the world—a race quite apart +from other men. When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S——'s +husband, to me he became a wicked man at once. Some were good; some bad. +Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than +otherwise at them. I studied intently all the different varieties of +husbands. I heard my father laugh often, and say:</p> + +<p>"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens."</p> + +<p>He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my +mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not +like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they +should wonder why the subject interested me.</p> + +<p>Once, when I was with my mother—we were walking up and down the picture +gallery—I did venture to ask her:</p> + +<p>"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?"</p> + +<p>How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain +in her eyes altogether.</p> + +<p>"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very +surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all +husbands are good."</p> + +<p>"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not—I heard +her say so."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry you heard it—you must not repeat it; you are much too young +to talk about husbands, Laura."</p> + +<p>Of course I did not mention then again—equally of course I did not +think less of this mysterious kind of beings.</p> + +<p>My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland—she +loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said +he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met +with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none +so perfect as he was then.</p> + +<p>"You do not know what trouble means, dear Lady Tayne." "With a husband +like yours, life is all sunshine." "You have been spoiled with +kindness!"</p> + +<p>All these exclamations I used to hear, until I became quite sure that my +father was the best husband in the world.</p> + +<p>On my tenth birthday my father would have a large ball, and he insisted +that I should be present at it. My mother half hesitated, but he +insisted; so, thanks to him, I have one perfectly happy memory. I +thought far more of my beautiful mother than myself. I stood in the +hall, watching her as she came down the great staircase, great waves of +shining silk and trailing laces making her train, diamonds gleaming in +her golden hair, her white neck and arms bare; so tall, slender and +stately, like the picture of some lovely young queen. Papa and I stood +together watching her.</p> + +<p>"Let me kiss her first!" I cried, running to her.</p> + +<p>"Mind the lace and diamonds, Laura," he cried.</p> + +<p>"Never mind either, my darling," she said laughingly. "One kiss from you +is worth more than all."</p> + +<p>Sir Roland kissed her and stood looking at her with admiring eyes.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, Beatrice," he said, "that you grow younger and more +beautiful? It is dead swindle! I shall be a gray-bearded old man by the +time you have grown quite young again."</p> + +<p>My sweet mother! she evidently enjoyed his praise; she touched his face +with her pretty hand.</p> + +<p>"Old or young, Roland," she said, lovingly, "my heart will never change +in its great love for you."</p> + +<p>They did not know how intensely I appreciated this little scene.</p> + +<p>"Here is a good husband," I said to myself, like the impertinent little +critic I was; "this is not like Lady Conyngham's husband!"—the truth +being that I could never get that unfortunate man quite out of my mind.</p> + +<p>That night, certainly the very happiest of my life, my father danced +with me. Heaven help me! I can remember my pride as I stood by the tall, +stalwart figure, just able with the tips of my fingers to touch his arm. +Mamma danced with me, too, and my happiness was complete. I watched all +the ladies there, young and old; there was not one so fair as my mother. +Closing my eyes, so tired of this world's sunlight, I see her again as I +saw her that night, queen of the brilliant throng, the fairest woman +present. I see her with her loving heart full of emotion kissing my +father. I see her in the ballroom, the most graceful figure present.</p> + +<p>I remember how every half-hour she came to speak to me and see if I were +happy, and once, when she thought I was warm and tired, she took my hand +and led me into the beautiful cool conservatory, where we sat and talked +until I had grown cool again. I see her talking with queenly grace and +laughing eyes, no one forgotten or neglected, partners found for the +least attractive girls, while the sunshine of her presence was +everywhere. She led a cotillion. I remember seeing her stand waiting the +signal, the very type of grace and beauty.</p> + +<p>Oh, my darling, if I were with you! As I saw her then I never saw her +more.</p> + +<p>I was present the next morning when my father and mother discussed the +ball.</p> + +<p>"How well you looked, Beatrice," said my father.</p> + +<p>"How well I felt," she replied. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I enjoy +dancing far better now than I did before I was married. I should like +dancing parties a little oftener; they are much more amusing than your +solemn dinner parties."</p> + +<p>But, ah me! the dancing feet were soon to be stilled; all the rest of +that summer there was something mysterious—every one was so solicitous +about my mother—they seemed to think of nothing but her health. She was +gay and charming herself, laughing at the fuss, anxiety and care. Sir +Roland was devoted to her; he never left her. She took no more rides now +on her favorite Sir Tristam, my father drove her carefully in the +carriage; there were no more balls or parties; "extreme quiet and +repose" seemed to be the keynote. Mamma was always "resting."</p> + +<p>"She cannot want rest," I exclaimed, "when she does nothing to tire her! +Oh, let me go to her!" for some foolish person had started a theory that +I tired her. I who worshiped her, who would have kept silence for a year +rather than have disturbed her for one moment! I appealed to Sir Roland, +and he consulted her; the result was that I was permitted to steal into +her boudoir, and, to my childish mind, it seemed that during those days +my mother's heart and mine grew together.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III" />CHAPTER III.</h3> + + +<p>It was a quiet Christmas at Tayne Abbey; we had no visitors, for my +mother required the greatest care; but she did not forget one person in +the house, or one on the estate. Sir Roland laughed when he saw the +preparations—the beef, the blankets, the clothing of all kinds, the +innumerable presents, for she had remembered every one's wants and +needs. Sir Roland laughed.</p> + +<p>"My dearest Beatrice," he said; "this will cost far more than a houseful +of guests."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the cost," she said; "it will bring down a blessing on us."</p> + +<p>A quiet, beautiful Christmas. My father was in the highest of spirits, +and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe. He went out +to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though +she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing, +the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to +read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the +child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn. I +read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it. She +loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the +herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.</p> + +<p>She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other, +interested her so greatly.</p> + +<p>I knew afterward.</p> + +<p>It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow +and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint +perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.</p> + +<p>I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had +been most loving to me. She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir +all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a +great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her. She looked +very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her +good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go. +What words she whispered to me—so loving that I have never forgotten +them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back +when I had reached the door to say good-night again—twice I went back +and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I +was frightened.</p> + +<p>"Mamma, darling," I asked, "are you very ill?"</p> + +<p>"Why, Laura?" she questioned.</p> + +<p>"Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here. You never move +about or dance and play as you used to do."</p> + +<p>"But I will, Laura. You will see, the very first game we play at hare +and hounds I shall beat you. God bless my darling child!"</p> + +<p>That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence. +What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the +doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the +galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven +even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my +mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no +nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face +pale, her eyes swollen with tears.</p> + +<p>"What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it +has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?"</p> + +<p>"No, my dear," she replied.</p> + +<p>But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me.</p> + +<p>"Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was +startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their +wickedness."</p> + +<p>"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories—I speak the +truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast +here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you."</p> + +<p>"How is mamma?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.</p> + +<p>"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."</p> + +<p>"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.</p> + +<p>And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not +say my mother was better.</p> + +<p>My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, +and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.</p> + +<p>When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the +house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound—no +bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma +loved were all quiet—the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang +over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart +grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more +of my fears to Emma.</p> + +<p>She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for +me, and left me there.</p> + +<p>I went in and sprang to my father's arms—my own clasped together round +his neck—looking eagerly in his face.</p> + +<p>Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of +yesterday—so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had +shed many tears.</p> + +<p>"My little Laura—my darling," he said, "I have something to tell +you—something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in +an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed +to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear—</p> + +<p>"Mamma is dead."</p> + +<p>Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.</p> + +<p>"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself. +You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"—and here his +voice quivered—"it is just possible that you might be useful to your +mother."</p> + +<p>That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be.</p> + +<p>Then he took me in his arms.</p> + +<p>"My dearest little Laura," he said, "two angels have been with us during +the night—the angel of life and the angel of death. You have had a +little brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is +very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect +rest she will not get better—there must not be a sound in the house."</p> + +<p>A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I +could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers and +sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him.</p> + +<p>"I should like to see my little brother, papa—if I may," I said.</p> + +<p>He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered:</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you."</p> + +<p>We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms +that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully +decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the +berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child.</p> + +<p>My father took me up to it—at first I saw only the flowers, pale +snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen +face with closed eyes and lips.</p> + +<p>Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was +not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no +horrors for me.</p> + +<p>"May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed +with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty +eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was, +they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death.</p> + +<p>"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Your mother's favorite name—Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he +lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of +Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child—who knows what manner of man +this child might have been or what he might have done?"</p> + +<p>"Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father.</p> + +<p>I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little +brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV" />CHAPTER IV.</h3> + + +<p>My mother was in danger and my baby brother dead. The gloom that lay +over our house was something never to be forgotten; the silence that was +never broken by one laugh or one cheerful word, the scared faces—for +every one loved "my lady." One fine morning, when the snowdrops had +grown more plentiful, and there was a faint sign of the coming spring in +the air, they took my baby brother to bury him. Such a tiny coffin, such +tiny white wreaths, a little white pall covered with flowers. My father +would not let black come near him.</p> + +<p>My father wept bitter tears.</p> + +<p>"There sleeps my little son and heir, Laura," he said to me—"my little +boy. It is as though he had just peeped out of Heaven at this world, +and, not liking it, had gone back again."</p> + +<p>A pretty little white monument was put up to the baby Gerald. My mother +chose the epitaph, which I had always thought so pretty. It was simply +this—"The angels gather such lilies for God."</p> + +<p>By degrees some little sunshine stole back, the dreadful silence +lessened, the servants began to walk about without list slippers, the +birds were carried back to the beautiful aviary—my mother's favorite +nook; the doctors smiled as they came down the grand staircase. I heard +Sir Roland whistling and singing as he had done weeks ago.</p> + +<p>At last I was admitted to see her. One fine March morning, when the wind +was blowing freshly and tossing the big, bare branches, I was taken to +her room. I should not have known her; a pale, languid lady lay there in +the place of my laughing, beautiful mother; two large blue eyes full of +tears looked at me; two thin, white arms clasped me, and then I was +lying on my mother's heart. Oh, my darling, if we could have died then.</p> + +<p>"My little Laura, I was afraid I should never see you again," whispered +a faint voice.</p> + +<p>Ah, me, the ecstasy of the next half-hour! I sat close by her side and +told her how the snowdrops were growing and the purple and golden +crocuses made the garden seem quite gay. I told her where I had found +the first violets, some of which I had brought to her. I cannot tell +what it was like to me to feel my mother's hand on my head once more.</p> + +<p>Then came a brief time of happiness. My mother improved a little, and +was carried from the bedroom where she had spent so many weeks to her +boudoir, and I was allowed to be with her all day.</p> + +<p>"She would be better soon and able to go out," my father said, and then +the happy old times would come back again. My mother would walk with me +through the picture gallery at sunset, and more, she would dance with +flying feet and run races with me in the wood. Oh, how I longed for the +time when she would regain the color in her face and light in her eyes! +They said I must be patient, it would come in time. But, alas! it was +weary waiting; the days seemed as weeks to me, and yet my dear, +beautiful mother was still confined to her room and to her bed. So it +went on.</p> + +<p>The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet +she was still lying helpless on the sofa.</p> + +<p>One day papa and I were both sitting with her. She looked better, and +was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the +woods.</p> + +<p>"I feel better this morning," she said. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I +could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me."</p> + +<p>"It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know +best."</p> + +<p>"I am sure I could walk," said my mother, "and I feel such a restless +longing to put my foot to the ground once more."</p> + +<p>There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another +word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite +upright. My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry. She +tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground.</p> + +<p>Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious +care. The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us +once more. Then the crushing blow came. Great doctors came from England +and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it +came at length.</p> + +<p>My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the +flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life. She was to be a +hopeless, helpless cripple. She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a +chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more—she would +never walk again.</p> + +<p>My father's heart almost broke. I can see him now crying and sobbing +like a child. He would not believe it. He turned from one to the other, +crying out:</p> + +<p>"It cannot be true! I will not believe it! She is so young and so +beautiful—it cannot be true!"</p> + +<p>"It is most unfortunately true," said the head physician, sorrowfully. +"The poor lady will dance and walk no more."</p> + +<p>"Who is to tell her?" cried my father. "I dare not."</p> + +<p>"It will be far better that she should not know—a hundred times better. +Let her live as long as she can in ignorance of her fate; she will be +more cheerful and in reality far better than if she knew the truth; it +would hang over her like a funeral pall; the stronger her nerve and +spirit the better for her. She would regain neither, knowing this."</p> + +<p>"But in time—with care—she is so young. Perhaps there may be a +chance."</p> + +<p>"I tell you plainly," said the doctor, "that most unfortunately there is +none—there is not the faintest," and, he added, solemnly, "may Heaven +lighten your afflictions to you!"</p> + +<p>They went away, and my father drew me to his arms.</p> + +<p>"Laura," he said, "you must help me all your life to take care of +mamma."</p> + +<p>"I will, indeed," I cried. "I ask nothing better from Heaven than to +give my life to her—my beautiful mother."</p> + +<p>And then he told me that she would never walk again—that her flying +feet were to rest forever more—that in her presence I must always be +quite bright and cheerful, and never say one word of what I knew.</p> + +<p>No more difficult task could have been laid on the heart of a child. I +did it. No matter what I suffered, I always went into her room with a +smile and bright, cheerful words.</p> + +<p>So the long years passed; my beautiful mother grew better and happier +and stronger—little dreaming that she was never to walk out in the +meads and grounds again. She was always talking about them and saying +where she should go and what she should do when she grew well.</p> + +<p>Roses bloomed, lilies lived and died, the birds enjoyed their happy +summer, then flew over the sea to warmer climes; summer dew and summer +rain fell, the dead leaves were whirled in the autumn winds, and still +my mother lay helpless. If this one year seemed so long, what would a +lifetime be?</p> + +<p>As some of her strength returned it seemed to me that mother grew more +and more charming. She laughed and enjoyed all our care of her, and when +the wonderful chair came from London, in which she could go round the +garden, and could be wheeled from one room to another, she was as +delighted as a child.</p> + +<p>"Still," she said to my father, "it seems to me a pity almost, Roland, +to have sent to London for this. I shall surely be able to walk soon."</p> + +<p>He turned away from her with tears in his eyes.</p> + +<p>A month or two afterward we were both sitting with her, and she said, +quite suddenly:</p> + +<p>"It seems a long time since I began to lie here. I am afraid it will be +many months before I get well again. I think I shall resign myself to +proper invalids' fashions. I will have some pretty lace caps, Laura, and +we will have more books." Then a wistful expression crossed her face and +she said: "I would give anything on earth to walk, even only for ten +minutes, by the side of the river; as I lie here I think so much about +it. I know it in all its moods—when the wind hurries it and the little +wavelets dash along; when the tide is deep and the water overflows among +the reeds and grasses; when it is still and silent and the shadows of +the stars lie on it, and when the sun turns it into a stream of living +gold, I know it well."</p> + +<p>"You will see it again soon," said my father, in a broken voice. "I will +drive you down any time you like."</p> + +<p>But my mother said nothing. I think she had seen the tears in Sir +Roland's eyes. From that day she seemed to grow more reconciled to her +lot. Now let me add a tribute to my father. His devotion to her was +something marvelous; he seemed to love her better in her helpless state +than he had done when she was full of health and spirits. I admired him +so much for it during the first year of my mother's illness. He never +left her. Hunting, shooting, fishing, dinner parties, everything was +given up that he might sit with her.</p> + +<p>One of the drawing rooms, a beautiful, lofty apartment looking over the +park to the hills beyond, was arranged as my mother's room; there all +that she loved best was taken.</p> + +<p>The one next to it was made into a sleeping room for her, so that she +should never have to be carried up and down stairs. A room for her maid +came next. And my father had a door so placed that the chair could be +wheeled from the rooms through the glass doors into the grounds.</p> + +<p>"You think, then," she said, "that I shall not grow well just yet, +Roland?"</p> + +<p>"No, my darling, not just yet," he replied.</p> + +<p>What words of mine could ever describe what that sick room became? It +was a paradise of beautiful flowers, singing birds, little fragrant +fountains and all that was most lovely. After a time visitors came, and +my mother saw them; the poor came, and she consoled them.</p> + +<p>"My lady" was with them once more, never more to walk into their +cottages and look at the rosy children. They came to her now, and that +room became a haven of refuge.</p> + +<p>So it went on for three years, and I woke up one morning to find it was +my thirteenth birthday.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V" />CHAPTER V.</h3> + + +<p>That day both my parents awoke to the fact that I must have more +education. I could not go to school; to have taken me from my mother +would have been death to both of us. They had a long conversation, and +it was decided that the wisest plan would be for me to have a +governess—a lady who would at the same time be a companion to my +mother. I am quite sure that at first she did not like it, but afterward +she turned to my father, with a sweet, loving smile.</p> + +<p>"It will relieve you very much," she said, "and give you time to get +out."</p> + +<p>"I shall never leave you," he said, "no matter who comes."</p> + +<p>Several letters were written; my father gave himself unheard-of trouble; +and after some weeks of doubt, hesitation and correspondence, a +governess was selected for me. She had been living with Lady Bucarest, +and was most highly recommended; she was amiable, accomplished, good +tempered and well qualified for the duties Lady Tayne wished her to +fulfill.</p> + +<p>"What a paragon!" cried my father, as he read through the list of +virtues.</p> + +<p>"I hope we shall not be disappointed," said my mother. "Oh, Laura, +darling, if it could be, I would educate you entirely, and give you into +no other hands."</p> + +<p>It was March when my governess—by name Miss Sara Reinhart—came. I +always associate her in my own mind with the leaden skies, the cold +winds, the bleak rains and biting frosts of March. She was to be with us +on the seventh, and the whole of the day was like a tempest; the wind +blew, the rain fell. We could hear the rustling of the great boughs; the +wind rolled down the great avenues and shook the window frames.</p> + +<p>My mother's room that day was the brightest in the house; cheery fire in +the silver grate and the profusion of flowers made it so cheerful. How +many times during that day both my father and mother said:</p> + +<p>"What an uncomfortable journey Miss Reinhart will have!"</p> + +<p>She ordered a good fire to be lighted in her bedroom and tea to be +prepared for her. The carriage was sent to the station with plenty of +wraps, and every care was taken of the strange lady. The wind was +rolling like thunder through the great avenues, the tall trees bent +under the fury of the blast; when the sound ceased I heard the carriage +wheels, and going to my mother, who was reading, I said: "She has come."</p> + +<p>My mother took my hand silently. Why did we both look at each other? +What curious foreboding came to us both, that made us cling to each +other? Poor mother! poor child!</p> + +<p>Some time afterward my father came in and said:</p> + +<p>"Will you see Miss Reinhart to-night, Beatrice, darling?"</p> + +<p>She looked flushed and tired, but she answered, laughing quietly at her +own nervousness:</p> + +<p>"I suppose I shall not sleep unless I do see her, Roland. Yes, when she +has taken her tea and had time to make herself quite comfortable, I +shall be pleased to see her."</p> + +<p>Why did we mother and child, cling to each other as though some terrible +danger were overtaking us? It struck me that there was some little +delay, and my father remained with the strange lady.</p> + +<p>We had talked about her and wondered what she would be like. I had +always pictured her as a girl many years older than myself, but still a +girl, with a certain consciousness and shyness about her. I had expected +that she would stand in awe of my mother at first, and be, perhaps, +impressed with the grandeur of Tayne Abbey. When the time came to say +that Miss Reinhart would be glad to see Lady Tayne, and Sir Roland +brought the strange lady into the room, I was silently in utter amaze. +This was no school-girl, no half-conscious, half-shy governess, +impressed and awe-struck. There floated, rather than walked, into the +room a beautiful woman, with dark draperies falling gracefully around +her, a beautiful, self-possessed woman, whose every motion was harmony. +She looked straight at my mother; one quick glance of her dark eyes +seemed to take in every detail of the fair face and figure on the couch. +She held out her hand white as my mother's own, and said:</p> + +<p>"I am grieved to find you so ill, Lady Tayne, I hope I may be of good +service to you."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said my mother's sweet voice, as their hands for one moment +met.</p> + +<p>Then the beautiful dark face turned to me.</p> + +<p>"And this is my pupil," she said. "I hope we shall be good friends."</p> + +<p>I had an uneasy sense that she was patronizing us. I looked across at my +father. He was watching her with keen admiration on his face. I—with a +child's keen instinct—had drawn nearer to my mother, as though to +protect her. Then Sir Roland placed a chair for Miss Reinhart near my +mother's sofa. She thanked him with a smile, and took it with the grace +of a duchess.</p> + +<p>Her manner was perfect. To my mother, gentle and deferential; to my +father, respectful, with just a dash of quiet independence; to me kind +and loving. Looking at her critically, it was almost impossible to find +a finer woman—her head was beautifully shaped, her hair raven black and +smooth as satin, little ears like pretty pink shells, a beautiful face +with dark, dreamy eyes, thick dark lashes, straight, dark brows, and a +mouth that was, perhaps, the loveliest feature in her face. It was not +tragical beauty, either, but comfortable and comfort loving; there was a +beautiful dimple in her white chin—a wicked dimple, suggestive of fun +and laughter; another, and even more beautiful dimple, deepened near +her lips, and laughed when she laughed. There was nothing of tragedy +about her.</p> + +<p>Very soon she was leading the conversation, telling us the details of +her journey, but all in so humorous a fashion that it was quite +irresistible. Sir Roland laughed as I had never seen him laugh before, +and my mother was much amused. Any one looking on at the time would +never have thought this was a governess undergoing a scrutiny, but +rather a duchess trying to entertain her friends.</p> + +<p>After some few minutes I saw my mother's sweet face grow pale, and I +knew that she felt tired.</p> + +<p>"Papa," I cried, forgetting my governess, "mamma is tired; look at her +face."</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart rose at once and seemed to float to the sofa. "I am +afraid," she said, "that I deserve rebuke. I was so anxious to cheer you +that I fear I have tired you. Shall I take Miss Laura with me, or would +you like to have her a little longer?"</p> + +<p>My mother grasped my hand. "You are very kind," she said to Miss +Reinhart, "but I am weak and nervous; so little tires me."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is very sad," she answered, in cold, sweet tones.</p> + +<p>I hated her voice, I hated her sweetness, I hated her. Child as I was, a +tempest of scorn and grief and bitter rebellion raged within me. Why +should she stand there in what seemed to me the insolent pride of her +beauty, while my sweet mother was never to stand again? Why should she +speak in those pitying tones? My mother did not need her pity. Then my +father came up, too, and said that Miss Reinhart had better delay for a +few days before beginning the routine of her duties so as to get used to +the place. She seemed quite willing.</p> + +<p>"Laura," said Sir Roland, "will you take Miss Reinhart to her room?"</p> + +<p>But I clung to my mother's hand.</p> + +<p>"I cannot leave mamma," I said. "Please do not ask me."</p> + +<p>He turned from me with an apology.</p> + +<p>"Laura can never leave her mother," he said.</p> + +<p>She answered:</p> + +<p>"Laura is quite right."</p> + +<p>But I caught just one glimpse of her beautiful eyes, which made me +thoughtful.</p> + +<p>She went, and my father was quite silent for some minutes afterward. +Then my mother asked:</p> + +<p>"What do you think of her, Roland?"</p> + +<p>"Well, my darling, she is really so different to what I had expected, I +can hardly form a judgment. I thought to see a crude kind of girl. Miss +Reinhart is a very beautiful woman of the world, as graceful, well-bred +and self-possessed as a duchess."</p> + +<p>"She is not half so beautiful as mamma," I cried.</p> + +<p>"No, little faithful heart; not one-half," said Sir Roland.</p> + +<p>"I must say that she seems to me far more like a fine lady visitor than +a governess," said my mother.</p> + +<p>"You will find her all right," said Sir Roland, brightly. "She seems to +understand her duties and to be quite competent for them. I fancy you +will like her Beatrice, darling; after all, it will be some thing to +have some one to amuse us. How well she tells a story! with what +brilliancy and verve!"</p> + +<p>"I want no more amusement than I find with you and Laura," said my +mother. "You are all-sufficient to me. Still, as you say, dear, it is +well to have a pleasant companion."</p> + +<p>Then, as my mother was tired, her maid came, and Sir Roland said, +"Good-night."</p> + +<p>I remember how we both felt sad and lonely, though we could not quite +tell why; and that my beautiful mother fell fast asleep, holding my hand +in hers; and that they would not take me away, lest they should awake +her.</p> + +<p>"And my lady has so little sleep," they said, pityingly, "we never awake +her."</p> + +<p>I wish, my darling, that for both of us it had been the long, sweet +sleep from which there is no awaking.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI" />CHAPTER VI.</h3> + + +<p>The first three days following Miss Reinhart's arrival were a holiday. +My father himself showed her over the house, took her through the +picture galleries, told her all the legends of the place. She walked out +in the grounds and had learned to make herself quite at home. Sir Roland +told her that she must do so, that her duties and responsibilities would +be great. She must therefore take care of herself.</p> + +<p>I was with them in the picture gallery, and Sir Roland never stopped to +think that it would perhaps be better not to discuss such things before +me.</p> + +<p>"I hope," he said, "to interest you in the whole place. I cannot tell +you how different things are when the mistress of the house is ill and +helpless."</p> + +<p>"I am sure it must be so," she said, in that sweet voice, which I felt +to be false and hated.</p> + +<p>"At any time," he said, "if you see things going wrong I should be +grateful for a little management on your part."</p> + +<p>"I will always do my very best for you, Sir Roland," she said, +earnestly, and I could feel in some vague way that she was sympathizing +with him and pitying him in a way that was against my mother's +interests. I could hardly tell how.</p> + +<p>"Have you a good housekeeper?" she asked, and my father answered:</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Eastwood has been here over fifty years, I believe."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Miss Reinhart, "that is too long; those very old housekeepers +are faithful, and all that kind of thing, but they are seldom of much +use. If everything does not go on as you wish in this unfortunate state +of things, rely upon it that is what is wrong. You should pension this +good Mrs. Eastwood off, and get some one young and active, with a +thorough knowledge of her business."</p> + +<p>"We will talk about it later on," he said. "I have no doubt but that you +are quite right."</p> + +<p>She looked up into his face with tender anxiety; I saw the look, and +could have killed her for it.</p> + +<p>"You know that I am devoted to your interests." she said. "I will +cheerfully and gladly do everything and anything I can," she said, "to +help you. You know you may command my services when and how you will."</p> + +<p>She spoke with the air of a grandduchess offering to obtain court +patronage, and my father made her a low, sweeping bow.</p> + +<p>Who was she, that she should talk to my father of "unfortunate +circumstances," and of her devotion to him? As for things going wrong, +it was not true—my mother, from her sofa, ordered the household, and I +knew there was nothing wrong.</p> + +<p>When my father saw the angry, pained expression on my face, an idea +seemed to occur to him. He called me to his side, and whispered to me:</p> + +<p>"You may run away and play, darling; and mind, Laura, you must never +repeat one word of what you hear to your mother; it would not do to +trouble her when little things go wrong."</p> + +<p>"Nothing has gone wrong," I answered. "Although she is ill, mamma sees +to everything."</p> + +<p>I should have said much more, but that my father placed his hand over my +mouth.</p> + +<p>"Hush! little one," he said. "I am afraid I give you too much license."</p> + +<p>"A little wholesome discipline needed," said Miss Reinhart; "but a sweet +child, Sir Roland—a sweet child, indeed!"</p> + +<p>I could not hear what followed, but I feel quite sure that she whispered +something which ended in these words:</p> + +<p>"Too much with Lady Tayne."</p> + +<p>I ran, fast as I could go, anywhere—where I could give vent to my +childish fury. I could have stamped on her beautiful face. What right +had she, a stranger, to talk about Mrs. Eastwood and mamma—to talk to +papa as though he were an injured man—what right? I tried hard to keep +all my indignation and anger, my fear and dread of what was to follow, +to myself, but I could not bear it. I believe my heart would have broken +but for Emma, my nurse. She found me behind the great cluster of laurel +trees crying bitterly; and when she took me in her arms to console me, I +told her all about it—told her every word. I know how she listened in +dismay, for her easy, bony face grew pale, and she said nothing for some +few minutes, then she cried out:</p> + +<p>"Oh, Miss Laura, you must be good and patient; don't set yourself +against her—perhaps she means no harm."</p> + +<p>"She means harm and she will do it," I cried; "why should she speak in +that tone to papa, and why does she look at him as though he were to be +pitied because mamma is ill? It is mamma who wants pity; she is twenty +times better lying there sick and ill than other mothers who are well +and strong and go about everywhere."</p> + +<p>"God bless the child!" cried my nurse; "why of course she is. Now, Miss +Laura, you know I love you, and what I say to you is always because I do +love you. Do what I say. You see she has to live here, and you had +better try to make the best of it."</p> + +<p>"She hates mamma and she hates me," I cried, unreasonably.</p> + +<p>"Now, my dear little lady," said Emma, "how can you possibly know that? +You are not reasonable or patient; try to make the best of it. It is of +no use for you to make an enemy of the new lady; if you do I am sure +you will suffer for it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Emma!" I cried, "why did she come; we were all so happy; we were +all three so happy—why did she come? I did not want any education, I am +sure."</p> + +<p>"Pardon me, Miss Laura, but I think you do," said Emma, gravely.</p> + +<p>"The only thing I want to live for at all is to be with mamma," I +said—"to take care of her and try to make her happy. I do not want any +other life than that."</p> + +<p>"But," said my nurse, and I have often thought since what sense lay in +her words, "do you know, Miss Laura, that my lady, who is so clever +herself, will want an educated companion? For her sake you must learn +all you can."</p> + +<p>Those words gave me quite a new light. Why, of course I must; my mother +was not only well educated, but she was also highly accomplished; she +spoke French and German and had a very fair knowledge of Italian, +whereas I had only just mastered the rudiments of English. New life, new +ideas, new ambitions suddenly awoke within me, and, seeing her +advantage, Emma pursued it.</p> + +<p>"I have heard," she said, "that my lady is wonderfully clever. You will +be her companion and her constant comfort; you must know some of the +things she does. Now, Miss Laura, make up your mind, dear; instead of +making the lady your enemy, be quick and learn all she can teach +you—the sooner you know it all the sooner she will go."</p> + +<p>Ah, that was something like a reason for studying; I would learn lessons +all day and all night to insure her going. It must be a matter of years, +but if by constant application I could shorten the time, even by one +year, that was much. Then Emma gave me much sensible advice; above all, +never to speak to mamma about Miss Reinhart.</p> + +<p>"You see, Miss Laura, if your dear mamma took curious fancies against +this lady, how dreadful it would be. It would make her much worse, and +we do not know what might happen. Whatever occurs, bear it all patiently +or come to me."</p> + +<p>"My life is spoiled," I cried; "but I will do what you say."</p> + +<p>And I made to myself a vow, which I kept through all temptation, never +once to complain to my mother about Miss Reinhart. I did keep it, and +Heaven knows how much it cost me. My father was rather surprised the +next day when I went to his study and asked him if I could begin my +lessons at once. He laughed.</p> + +<p>"What an energetic scholar," he cried. "Why do you wish to begin so +soon, Laura?"</p> + +<p>"Because I have so very much to learn," I replied.</p> + +<p>"You shall begin this day, Laura," he said; "but Miss Reinhart must see +mamma first, and arrange the best hours for study. There are two or +three little arrangements I should like changing—for instance, now that +mamma is never present, I cannot see why you and Miss Reinhart should +not take breakfast with me. I am very lonely, and should be delighted if +we could manage that. But I must speak to mamma. Then I should like you +to go on dining with me, as you have done since mamma's illness. It +makes me quite ill to enter that great, desolate dining room. Do you +remember how mamma's sweet face used to shine there, Laura?"</p> + +<p>Did I? Did I ever enter the room without?</p> + +<p>"Make your mind easy, Laura; you shall begin your lessons to-day, and we +will see what mamma wishes to be done."</p> + +<p>That day an arrangement was made: Miss Reinhart and I were to breakfast +and dine with papa; the morning, until two was to be devoted to my +studies, and the rest of the day, if mamma desired her presence, Miss +Reinhart was to spend with her. We were to walk together, and I was, as +usual, to go out with mamma when her chair was wheeled into the grounds.</p> + +<p>"Heaven send that it may last!" said Emma, when she heard of it.</p> + +<p>I wonder if any angel repeated the prayer?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII" />CHAPTER VII.</h3> + + +<p>To me it seemed that I was as old at fifteen as many a girl of eighteen; +I had lived so much with grown-up people; I had received all my +impressions from them. I was very quick and appreciative. I read +character well, and seemed to have a weird, uncanny insight into the +thoughts and ideas of people—into their motives and plans. I had too +much of this faculty, for I was often made uncomfortable because shadows +came between me and others, and because I seemed to feel and understand +things that I could never put into words.</p> + +<p>Here is one little instance of what I mean: I stood one afternoon at the +window of my mother's room. The sun was shining brightly on the bloom of +countless flowers and the feathery spray of the fountains; the whole +place looked so bright and beautiful that it was a perfect picture. I +saw Miss Reinhart on the terrace; she was leaning over the stone +balustrade admiring the magnificent view. There was a restless, +disconsolate expression mixed with her admiration, and I knew quite well +the thoughts passing through her mind were, first, a vivid regret that +the place was not hers, then a wonder as to the possibility of its ever +belonging to her. I could read it in the lingering, loving glance she +threw round, followed by the impatient frown and restless movement. The +idea possessed me so strongly that I could not help going to my mother +and clasping my arms round her neck, as though I would save her from all +harm; but I did not tell her why. I had learned my lesson; from first to +last never a word passed my lips that could have grieved her even in the +least, never.</p> + +<p>The first thing that struck me in the manner of Miss Reinhart was the +way in which she spoke to my father. Now, I am quite sure, no matter +what came afterward, that at that time my father was one of the most +loyal and honest of men. I am sure that he loved my mother with greatest +affection: that her illness made her all the more dear to him, and that +he looked upon it as a trial equally great for both of them; he loved +her the more for it, and he devoted himself to her to make up to her as +much as he could for the privations that she had to undergo. As for +pitying himself, such an idea never occurred to him; of that I am +certain. All his love, pity, his compassion and sympathy, were for her, +without any thought of himself; but she almost spoke to him as though he +were to be pitied, as though he were very much injured and put upon, as +though my mother's illness were a wrong done to him.</p> + +<p>At first I noticed that he, too, seemed somewhat surprised; that he +would look half-wonderingly at her; then, at last, he fell into her +mood. She generally began at the breakfast table, where she came looking +as beautiful as a picture; the loveliest hue of the rose on her face, +the freshness of the morning in her dark eyes and on her lips; dressed +with great elegance, always with one lovely flower in her hair, and a +knot of fresh, fragrant blossoms at her breast; the fairest of women, +but how I disliked her. I can imagine that to any gentleman her society +must have been extremely agreeable.</p> + +<p>My father's lonely breakfasts had often been a cause of great distress +to him. He was essentially so gay and cheery; he loved the sound of +voices and laughter; he liked to be amused; to discuss the plans for the +day; to comment upon the letters received. To breakfast alone, or sit +alone, was for him a torture; he sighed always when the breakfast bell +rang, and we knew that it was a torture in its way. When my mother found +it out she insisted upon my joining him every morning. I was but a +child, and could not interest him very much.</p> + +<p>Now the matter was quite different. There was Miss Reinhart, fresh and +beautiful as the morning, witty and graceful, ready to ply him with +flatteries, making tea for him with her own white hands, talking in the +very brightest and most animated style. She had brilliant powers of +conversation, and no one could be more amusing. Although I hated her, I +often found myself hanging on the words that fell from her lips.</p> + +<p>No wonder that the breakfast hour was prolonged, and that, often after +the urn had grown cold, my father would cry out that he wanted more tea. +Miss Reinhart arranged his papers for him; she laid them ready to his +hand; they discussed the politics and the principal events of the day.</p> + +<p>Young as I was, I was struck with her animation and verve. She spoke +with such vivacity; her splendid face lighted with earnest, graceful +enthusiasm. She held very original and clever ideas about everything, +and it often happened that the conversation was prolonged until my +father would take out his watch and exclaim with wonder at the time. +Then Miss Reinhart would blush, and, taking me by the hand, disappear. +More than once my father followed us, and, taking my hand, would say:</p> + +<p>"Let us have a walk on the terrace before the lessons begin, Laura—Miss +Reinhart will come with us."</p> + +<p>But it was not to me he talked.</p> + +<p>In the early days of her arrival I heard my dear mother once, when my +father was speaking of her fine manners, say:</p> + +<p>"We ought to be proud to have so grand a lady for governess."</p> + +<p>Poor mamma, who knows the price she paid for a lady governess?</p> + +<p>It was when these morning visits grew so long that I first began to +notice the tone in which Miss Reinhart spoke of my mother.</p> + +<p>She would lean her beautiful head just a little forward, her eyes bright +with sweetest sympathy, her voice as beautifully sweet as the cooing of +the ring-dove.</p> + +<p>"How is dear Lady Tayne this morning, Sir Roland?" she would ask.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid there is little difference and no improvement," was his +reply.</p> + +<p>"Ah, how sad—what a sad fate—so young and so afflicted. It must be +dreadful for you, Sir Roland. I sympathize so much with you. I never +quite lose sight of your troubles. I do not know that there could +possibly be a greater one."</p> + +<p>At first my father would laugh, and say gently:</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes, there could be one—it would be so much worse if my dear wife +had died."</p> + +<p>But after a time he began to shake his head gravely as she shook hers, +and sigh as he answered:</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes, it is a terrible infliction."</p> + +<p>If any little domestic unpleasantness occurred, a thing by Sir Roland's +desire always kept from my mother, she would look so kindly at him.</p> + +<p>"Dear Sir Roland, how tiresome all this is for you. I wonder you are so +patient." Could my mother help it, I cried to myself with passionate +tears; was it her fault that she was stricken and helpless; ought this +woman to speak to my father about it as though he were the sufferer? The +tears that fell from my eyes blinded me; thus I had to go to my lessons, +my heart torn with its sense of injury and resentment against the one +who seemed to me my mother's enemy, I knew not why.</p> + +<p>Again, if there was a question about any visitors, and my father seemed +at a loss for a few minutes, she would say:</p> + +<p>"How painful it is for you, Sir Roland, to be troubled in this fashion; +can I do anything to help you?" Or it would be, "How sorry I am to see +you teased about such trifles, Sir Roland; can I manage it for you?"</p> + +<p>The same when he received invitations: before now it had seemed at least +almost a pleasure to decline them. I could remember how he used to take +both the letters of invitation and his refusals and send them to my +mother, commenting on them as he read. That was always followed by a +pretty little love scene, during which my mother would express her +regret that he was deprived of a pleasure; and he always answered that +the only pleasure he had was to be with her.</p> + +<p>Nor do I believe that state of things would ever have changed but for +Miss Reinhart. Now, when these letters came and he would read them with +knitted brow, she would inquire gently, ah, and with such sweet, +seductive sweetness, if anything in his letters had put him out.</p> + +<p>"No," he would answer with a sigh. "Oh, no! There is nothing in my +letters to annoy me—just the contrary. I ought to feel delighted. Sir +Charles Pomfret wishes me to go over to Pomfort Castle for a few days; +he has a fine large party there, and several of my old friends among +them."</p> + +<p>"What a disappointment to you," she cried. "You must feel these things +sorely."</p> + +<p>A frown instead of a smile passed over his face.</p> + +<p>I remember when he used to laugh, and say that it was a pleasure to give +up anything to be with my mother. Now he began to pace up and down the +room while she looked after him with pitiful eyes. Suddenly she rose, +and, going up to him, laid her hand on his arm. She gazed earnestly into +his face.</p> + +<p>"Why stay away, Sir Roland? I am sure you might go if you would. I will +take care of Lady Tayne. I do not see that you need be anxious, or that +there is the least need for giving up the party; let me persuade you to +go."</p> + +<p>"It seems unkind to leave Lady Tayne," he said. "I have never left her +for so long, and never alone."</p> + +<p>"If you will trust her to me, I will take the greatest care of her," +said Miss Reinhart; "and I am sure, quite sure, that if Lady Tayne knew, +she would insist on it—she would indeed. She would be the last to wish +you to give up every pleasure for her sake."</p> + +<p>It was the thin end of the wedge, but she succeeded in driving it in.</p> + +<p>He went. It was the first time he had left my mother, but by no means +the last. He went himself to tell her that he had decided on going. She +was most amiable and unselfish, and told him what was perfectly +true—that she was delighted, and that if he would begin to go out +without her she would be most happy. I know that she was unselfishly +glad, yet her sweet face was paler that night than usual; and once more +I felt sure that there were tears in her eyes.</p> + +<p>My father's visit was prolonged for a whole week, and very much he +enjoyed it. He wrote home every day; but it did not seem natural to me +that Miss Reinhart should be waiting for him in the hall, or that he +should tell her all about his visit long before he went to my mother's +room.</p> + +<p>But it was so, and my poor, dear mother did not know it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII" />CHAPTER VIII.</h3> + + +<p>The first real rebellion, and the first time that the eyes of people +were opened to the amount of influence and authority that Miss Reinhart +had acquired in Tayne Hall. One or two domestic matters had gone +wrong—nothing very much, but dinner was late several times, and the +household machinery did not seem to run on as it had done. My father +complained; the cook did not evidently take so much pains.</p> + +<p>"There is no one to look after her," he said, with a deep sigh.</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart responded by another.</p> + +<p>"Dear Sir Roland, can I help you—may I help you?" she explained. "Your +housekeeper is too old; you will never do any good until you have +another."</p> + +<p>"But," said my father, "she has been here so long; she was my mother's +housekeeper long before I was born. It does not seem right to send away +an old servant."</p> + +<p>"You need not send her away, I said before; you might pension her off."</p> + +<p>"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it. She has very peculiar ideas on +that point. I must see what she thinks about it."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Miss Reinhart, "you will do as you think best, Sir +Roland—and your way is, I am sure, always the best—but I should have +thought, considering the very nervous state that Lady Tayne always lies +in, that it would have been far better not to let her know about it +until it is all over."</p> + +<p>My father thought for a few moments, and then he said:</p> + +<p>"No, I should not like to do that; it would seem like taking an unfair +advantage of her helplessness."</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart blushed deeply.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Sir Roland!" she cried, "you could not suppose that I thought of +such a thing! I assure you I am quite incapable of it. I thought only of +dear Lady Tayne."</p> + +<p>And she seemed so distressed, so concerned and anxious that my father +hardly knew how to reassure her. She explained and protested until at +last, and with something of impatience, he said:</p> + +<p>"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it this morning." I knew he felt in +want of some kind of moral support when he took my hand and said, in +would-be careless words: "Come with me, Laura, to see mamma."</p> + +<p>And we went, hand-in-hand, to my mother's room. There, after the usual +loving greetings had been exchanged, my father broached the subject +which evidently perplexed and sadly worried him. Broached it ever so +gently, but I, who knew every look and trick of my mother's face, saw +how deeply pained she was. She never attempted to interrupt him, but +when he had finished speaking—having passed over very lightly indeed +the little domestic matters which had gone wrong since my mother's +illness, dwelling principally upon the benefit that would most probably +accrue if a younger housekeeper were engaged—my mother declined to do +anything of the kind.</p> + +<p>"My dear Roland," she said, "it would literally break my heart; think +what a faithful old servant she has been."</p> + +<p>"That is just it," said my father; "she is too old—too old, Miss +Reinhart thinks, to do her work well."</p> + +<p>There is a moment's silence.</p> + +<p>"Miss Reinhart thinks so," said my mother, in those clear, gentle tones +I knew so well; "but then, Roland, what can Miss Reinhart know about our +household matters?"</p> + +<p>That question puzzled him, for I believe that he himself was quite +unconscious how or to what extent he was influenced by my governess.</p> + +<p>"I should think," he replied, "that she must have noticed the little +disasters and failures. She is only anxious to spare you trouble and +help you."</p> + +<p>"That would not help me, sending away an attached and faithful old +servant like Mrs. Eastwood and putting a stranger in her place."</p> + +<p>"But if the stranger should be more efficient of the two, what then, +Beatrice?"</p> + +<p>"I do not care about that," she said, plaintively. "Mrs. Eastwood could +have an assistant—that would be better. You see, Roland, I am so +accustomed to her, she knows all my ways, and sends me just what I like. +I am so thoroughly accustomed to her I could not bear a stranger."</p> + +<p>"But, my darling, the stranger would never come near you," said my +father.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Eastwood does," said my mother. "You do not know, Roland, when my +maid and nurse are tired she often comes to sit with me in the dead of +night, and we can talk about old times, even before you were born. She +tells me about your mother and you when you were a little boy. I should +not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart does not understand."</p> + +<p>"That settles the affair, my darling. If you do not decidedly wish it, +it shall never be done."</p> + +<p>She drew his face down to hers and kissed it.</p> + +<p>"You are so good to me," she said, gently. "You bear so much for my +sake. I know that you will not mind a little inconvenience every now and +then. I am sure you will not."</p> + +<p>"No; if you wish her to stay she shall do so," said Sir Roland; but I, +who know every play of his features, feel quite sure that he was not +pleased.</p> + +<p>Little was said the next morning at breakfast time. Sir Roland said +hurriedly that Lady Tayne did not wish to change; she was attached to +the old housekeeper, and did not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart +listened with a gentle, sympathetic face.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "it will, of course, be much more pleasant for Lady +Tayne, but you should be considered as well. I know of a person, a most +excellent, economical managing woman, who is competent in every way to +undertake the situation. Still, if I cannot serve you in one way, can I +not in another? Shall I try to make matters easier for Mrs. Eastwood? I +understand housekeeping very well. I could do some good, I think!"</p> + +<p>"You are very kind to offer," he said. "I really do not like to complain +to Lady Tayne. She cannot possibly help it, and it distresses her. Not +that there is much the matter, only a few little irregularities; but +then you will not have time."</p> + +<p>"If you give me the permission," she said, "I will make the time."</p> + +<p>"It would really be a kindness," he said, "and I am very grateful to you +indeed. Perhaps you will be kind enough just to overlook matters for +me."</p> + +<p>I was with them, listening in fear and trembling, for I knew quite well +that Mrs. Eastwood would never submit to the rule of my governess. No +woman on earth ever played her cards so skillfully as Miss Reinhart. She +did not begin by interfering with the housekeeping at once; that would +not have been policy; she was far too wise.</p> + +<p>She began by small reforms. The truth must be told. Since my mother's +long illness our household had in some measure relaxed from its good +discipline. At first Miss Reinhart only interfered with the minor +arrangements. She made little alterations, all of which were conducive +to my father's comfort, and he was very grateful. When he saw that she +did so well in one direction, he asked her to help in another; and at +last came, what I had foreseen, a collision with Mrs. Eastwood.</p> + +<p>The Wars of the Roses were nothing to it. But for the pitiful tragedy +embodied in it, I could have laughed as at a farce. Miss Reinhart was +valiant, but Mrs. Eastwood was more valiant still. The whole household +ranged itself on one side or the other. The old servants were all on the +housekeeper's side, the new ones went with Miss Reinhart.</p> + +<p>"A house divided against itself cannot stand." Ours did not. Before long +the rival powers came into collision, and there was a declaration of +war—war to the knife!</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart, "speaking solely in the interests of Sir Roland," wished +the dinner hour to be changed; it would be more convenient and suitable +to Sir Roland if it were an hour later. The housekeeper said that to +make it an hour later would be to disturb all the arrangements of the +house, and it could not be done.</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart said it was the duty of the housekeeper to obey.</p> + +<p>The housekeeper said that she was accustomed to take her orders from the +master and mistress of the house, and that she did not recognize that of +the governess.</p> + +<p>"You will be compelled to recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain +here," she said.</p> + +<p>"Then I shall not remain," said the old housekeeper, trembling with +indignation, which was exactly what Miss Reinhart had desired her to +say.</p> + +<p>"You had better tell Sir Roland yourself," said my governess, in her +cold, impassive manner. "It has nothing whatever to do with me. Sir +Roland wishes me to attend to these things, and I have done so—the +result does not lie with me."</p> + +<p>"I have lived here, the most faithful and devoted of servants, for more +than fifty years. Why should you turn me away, or seek to turn me away?" +she said. "I have never wronged you. You may get one more clever, but no +one who will love my lady as I do—no one who will serve her one-half so +faithfully or so well, try your best, Miss Reinhart."</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to do with it," she replied coldly. "I will tell Sir +Roland that you desire to leave—there my business ends."</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, Miss Reinhart, there it does not end. I have no wish +to leave the place and family I love so well; but I say that I would +rather leave than obey you."</p> + +<p>"I will word your message just as you wish," she said; "there shall be +no mistake."</p> + +<p>I was with her when that conversation was repeated to Sir Roland, and I +may say that was my first real experience in the real deceit of the +world. Repeated to him, it bore quite a different aspect; it was an +insolent rebellion against proper authority, and my father resented it +very much.</p> + +<p>"Unless you had told me yourself, I would not have believed it, Miss +Reinhart."</p> + +<p>"It is quite true," she replied, calmly, looking, in her exquisite +morning dress, calm, sweet and unruffled as an angel.</p> + +<p>I believe, honestly, that from that time she tried to make things worse. +Every day the feud increased, until the whole household seemed to be +ranged one against the other. If the housekeeper said one thing, Miss +Reinhart at once said the opposite. Then an appeal would be made to Sir +Roland, who gradually became worn and worried of the very sound of it.</p> + +<p>"You will do no good," said Miss Reinhart to my father, "until you have +pensioned that old housekeeper off. Once done, you will have perfect +peace."</p> + +<p>Constant dripping wears away a stone. My father was so accustomed to +hearing she must go that at last the idea became familiar to him. I am +quite sure that Miss Reinhart had made this her test; that she had said +to herself—if she had her own way in this, she should in everything +else. It was her test of what she might do and how far she might go.</p> + +<p>It came at last. The blow fell on us, and she won. My father spoke +seriously to my mother. He said Mrs. Eastwood could have a cottage on +the estate, and he should allow her a sufficient income to live upon. +She could come to the Abbey when she liked to call on my mother, and +might be as happy as possible. It was not just to the other servants, or +even to themselves, he said, to keep one in such a position who was +really too old to fulfill the duties.</p> + +<p>My mother said nothing. It must be just as my father pleased. But when +he added that Miss Reinhart thought it the best thing possible, she +turned away her face and said no more.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX" />CHAPTER IX.</h3> + + +<p>How the shadow fell, I cannot quite remember—how people first began to +find out there was something wrong at Tayne Hall. Mrs. Eastwood, after a +long interview with my mother, had gone away to the cottage, and Miss +Reinhart had brought some person, whom she appeared to know very well, +on the scene.</p> + +<p>Many of the servants would believe that the new housekeeper was the +governess' mother—there was a certain similarity of face and figure +between them; whether it was so or not, mattered little. From the hour +that Mrs. Stone entered the house my dear mother's rule may be said to +have ended; from that time domestic management may be summed up in a few +words—constant opposition to my mother's wishes and constant, +flattering attention to those of my father. If my mother missed the +little dainties that Mrs. Eastwood had lavished on her, my father +appreciated to the full the comfortable arrangements, the punctuality +over dinner, the bright and fresh appearance of everything. Nor was Miss +Reinhart slow in reminding him that he owed all this extra comfort to +her selection of a good housekeeper.</p> + +<p>It was but natural to suppose that Mrs. Stone looked upon the governess +as the highest authority in the house after Sir Roland; she never +appealed or applied to any one else; she never, I should say, even +remembered the existence of my mother. As for any reference to her, she +never thought of it. Hundreds of times, when I have been busy with my +lessons, she has come to the study, and, rapping at the door, has asked +to speak to my governess. I could hear her plainly saying: "Do you +think Sir Roland would like this?" And they would consult most eagerly +about it. I never once heard my name mentioned.</p> + +<p>"Miss Reinhart," I asked her one morning. "Why do you never think or +speak of my mother? Mrs. Stone never inquires what she would like."</p> + +<p>In the blandest tone of voice she replied to me:</p> + +<p>"My dear Laura, children—and you are but a child—should not ask such +questions."</p> + +<p>"I am a very old child," I replied, with a sigh. "But whether I am a +child or not, I can see that very little attention is ever paid to my +mother."</p> + +<p>"Has Lady Tayne complained?" she asked, hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"No, and never will," I replied, with all a child's pride in a mother's +courage.</p> + +<p>"I thought as much," she said, with a peculiar smile. "Lady Tayne has +plenty of sense."</p> + +<p>"She has plenty of patience," I replied, "and plenty of opportunity of +exercising it."</p> + +<p>"So much the better," replied Miss Reinhart, and then we resumed our +lessons.</p> + +<p>It was soon all over with the old servants. I wonder that my father, so +sensible, so keen in other matters, could not see that her sole ambition +was to have every person in the house under her control. One by one the +old servants disappeared—there was some fault or other with each +one—and my father grew more passive at each attack, and made less +resistance; he was so deeply impressed with the fact that every change +resulted in greater comfort for himself.</p> + +<p>One morning when, by some rare chance, I was left alone with Sir Roland, +and the faces of strange servants passed in and out:</p> + +<p>"Papa," I said, "we have great changes in the house."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he replied, brightly; "and so far as I can see, they have +conduced greatly to our benefit."</p> + +<p>"I want you to grant me one favor, papa—will you?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, my Laura," he replied. "Why, what does this mean?" for I had +thrown myself in his arms with passionate tears—"what is this, Laura?"</p> + +<p>"I want you to promise me," I said, "that, whatever changes go on, you +will not let any one send mamma's maid, Patience, away?"</p> + +<p>He looked dreadfully shocked.</p> + +<p>"Your mother's maid, child?" he said. "Why, who dare even suggest such a +thing? Certainly not. The whole household is constructed with a view to +your mother's happiness."</p> + +<p>So she had told him, and so he believed. It was quite useless talking; +he did not see, he did not, indeed.</p> + +<p>I knew Emma disliked her and Patience, too. The farce of her being my +mother's companion was very soon played out. She never came near, unless +my father went, and then she did not remain long. But—and we, the three +who loved her, noted it with dismay—every day Miss Reinhart became more +of a companion to my father. She ingratiated herself by degrees. At +first it had been merely his breakfast, afterward she offered her +services over his letters; she answered many of them in a clear, +legible hand that pleased him, because it was so easily read. Then his +accounts. I went in several times and found them seated at the table, +side by side, with papers, ledgers and books, yet not so deeply +engrossed but that every now and then they had a jest and a merry laugh.</p> + +<p>Did he think of my mother during those hours? Did her pale, sweet, +wistful face ever come between him and that beautiful woman?</p> + +<p>Then I noticed that he would say to her:</p> + +<p>"Come out for a few minutes, Miss Reinhart, out on the terrace here, and +let us have some fresh air. If you will permit me, I will smoke my +cigar. Will you come, Laura?"</p> + +<p>I suppose it was natural; she was a beautiful woman, full of talent and +animation, brilliant and fascinating, only too anxious to please him in +every way, laying herself out to captivate him, and he never could +endure being alone.</p> + +<p>Ah, me! what my childish heart suffered—of rage, and terror, and +pain—when I saw my mother's eyes turned wistfully to the door, waiting, +watching for him and asking me, in the sweet, low tones, if I knew where +he was. I learned my lesson sharply enough. The first time she asked me +one bright, sunny morning, when she seemed a little better, and had a +great desire to go out.</p> + +<p>"I wish papa would go with me, Laura," she said. "I never enjoy anything +without him. Where is he?"</p> + +<p>I had seen him ten minutes before that on the lower terrace with Miss +Reinhart, and they were going to the grounds. He was smoking a cigar; +she was looking most fascinating and beautiful in her elegant morning +dress and coquettish hat. Without thinking, I replied, hastily:</p> + +<p>"He is out in the grounds with Miss Reinhart."</p> + +<p>Ah, heaven! shall I ever forget the face turned to mine, so white, so +scared, so stricken?</p> + +<p>"What did you say, Laura? Come here; I did not hear you."</p> + +<p>Then, when her trembling hands clutched mine, I knew what I had done +quite well. Patience came round to my mother with a look at me that +spoke volumes.</p> + +<p>"My lady," she said, "do pray be calm. You know how ill even the least +emotion makes you, and Miss Laura is so frightened when you are ill!"</p> + +<p>The sweet face grew whiter.</p> + +<p>"I will remember," she said.</p> + +<p>Then she repeated the question, but my intelligence had grown in the +last few minutes.</p> + +<p>"Papa is out in the grounds," I replied, "and I saw him speaking to Miss +Reinhart."</p> + +<p>"But," said my mother, "your papa does not walk out with Miss Reinhart. +Laura, darling, you must think before you speak."</p> + +<p>Now, I knew that Sir Roland went out every day with my governess; more +than that, two or three times each day I had seen them; but Patience +looked at me with a solemn warning in her face, and I answered, as I +kissed her:</p> + +<p>"I will try, darling mother. Shall I ever speak as plainly and as +prettily as you do, I wonder?"</p> + +<p>I loved to make little loving, flattering speeches to her, they pleased +her so much and brightened her sweet face; but that evening, when I went +back to her room, I saw her eyes were swollen with weeping. I vowed to +myself to be careful.</p> + +<p>"Where is papa, darling?" she asked, with loving, wistful eyes. "I have +only seen him once to-day."</p> + +<p>"He is still in the dining-room, mamma." Then I added, with a guilty, +blushing face, for I had left my governess with him, "and you know that +I am growing wise enough to understand gentlemen like a nod over the +last glass of port."</p> + +<p>"And Miss Reinhart, Laura, where is she?"</p> + +<p>I was so unused to speaking anything but the plain, simple truth—it was +an effort even to evade the question, and say that she generally enjoyed +herself after dinner in her own fashion. She looked very relieved, and +Patience gave me a friendly nod, as though she would say, "You are +improving, Miss Laura."</p> + +<p>Even after that, so soon as I entered the room, the loving, wistful eyes +would seek mine, and the question was always on her lips:</p> + +<p>"Where is papa?"</p> + +<p>One night she did not seem so well. I was startled myself by the march +of events—for Patience came to the drawing-room door, where Sir Roland +and Miss Reinhart were sitting, and looked slightly confused, as she +said:</p> + +<p>"I have taken the liberty of coming to you, Sir Roland. You wished me +always to tell you when my lady was not so well—she seems very +depressed and lonely."</p> + +<p>"I will go and sit with Lady Tayne," he said.</p> + +<p>Then he glanced at the beautiful, brilliant face of Sara Reinhart.</p> + +<p>"Laura, why are you not sitting with your mother to-night?"</p> + +<p>And I dare not tell him that my jealous heart would not let me leave him +alone with her.</p> + +<p>I understood that night the art with which she managed him, and with +it—child though I was—I had a feeling of contempt for the weak nature +so easily managed.</p> + +<p>He came back to her looking confused.</p> + +<p>"We must defer our game at chess, Miss Reinhart," he said. "Lady Tayne +is not so well; I am going to sit with her. Come on, Laura."</p> + +<p>"How good you are, Sir Roland," she said, impulsively. "You are so +self-sacrificing. I must follow your good example. Can I go to the +library and find a book? The evenings are very long."</p> + +<p>He looked irresolutely at her.</p> + +<p>"You must find them very long," he said. "I am very sorry."</p> + +<p>"It cannot be helped," she answered. "I have always heard that the +nights in the country were twice as long as those in town. I believe +it."</p> + +<p>I knew by instinct what she meant; there was no need for words. It was a +veiled threat that if my father did not spend his evenings with her she +would go back to town. He knew it as well, I am sure, from the look on +his face. I never like to think of that evening, or how it was spent by +us in my mother's room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X" />CHAPTER X.</h3> + + +<p>When this unfortunate state of affairs in our household first became +public property, I cannot tell. I saw the servants, some grow +dissatisfied and leave, some grow impertinent, while some kind of +mysterious knowledge was shared by all.</p> + +<p>"Miss Laura," said my good nurse, Emma, to me one day, "I want to talk +to you very seriously. You are fifteen, and you are no longer a child. I +want to impress this much upon your mind—never say anything to your +mamma about Miss Reinhart, and if my lady asks any questions, try to say +as little as possible—do you understand?"</p> + +<p>I looked at her. Of what use was concealment with this honest, loving +heart?</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said; "I quite understand Emma. You mean that I must never tell +mamma anything about papa and—Miss Reinhart?"</p> + +<p>"Heaven bless the child!" cried the startled woman; "you could not have +understood better or more had you been twenty years old."</p> + +<p>"It is love for mamma that teaches me that and everything else," I +answered.</p> + +<p>"Ah, well, Miss Laura, since you speak frankly to me, so will I to you. +I would not say one word against Sir Roland for all the world. Before +she came he was the kindest and most devoted of husbands; since she has +been here he has changed, there is no doubt of it—terribly changed. My +lady does not know all that we know. She thinks he is tired of always +seeing her ill. She only suspects about Miss Reinhart, she is not sure, +and it must be the work of our lives to keep her from knowing the +truth."</p> + +<p>"Emma," I ventured to interrupt, "do you think it is the truth?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I fear so; and, Miss Laura, you must bear one thing in mind, if +ever my lady knows it to be the truth it will kill her. We must be most +careful and always wear the brightest faces before her, and never let +her know that anything is going wrong."</p> + +<p>"I will do it always," I said, and then, looking up, I saw that my nurse +was sad and grave. "How will it end, Emma?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Only God knows, miss," she replied. "One thing, I hope, is this—that +my lady will never find it out."</p> + +<p>Something was telling upon my dear mother every day; she grew thinner +and paler; the sweet smile, sweet always, grew fainter; her face flushed +at the least sound. Last year my father would have been devoured by +anxiety; now his visits were short and cold. If I said one word my +mother would interrupt me. "Hush! my Laura," she would say, gently; +"gentlemen are not at home in a sick-room. Dear papa is all that is +kind, but sitting long in one room is like imprisonment to him; I love +him far too much to wish him to do it."</p> + +<p>Then I would take the opportunity of repeating some kind word that I had +heard my father say of her. But do as we would, the shadow fell deeper +and darker every day.</p> + +<p>The sense of degradation fell upon me with intolerable weight. That our +household was a mark for slander—a subject of discussion, a blot on +the neighborhood, I understood quite well; that my father was blamed and +my mother pitied I knew also, and that Miss Reinhart was detested seemed +equally clear. She was very particular about going to church, and every +Sunday morning, whether Sir Roland went or not, she drove over to the +church and took me with her. When I went with my mother I had always +enjoyed this hour above all others. All the people we knew crowded +around us and greeted us so warmly—every one had such pleasant things +to say to us. Now, if a child came near where we stood, silent and +solitary, it was at once called back. If Miss Reinhart felt it, she gave +no indication of such feeling; only once—when three ladies, on their +way to their carriages, walked the whole round of the church-yard rather +than cross the path on which she stood—she laughed a cynical laugh that +did not harmonize with the beauty of her face.</p> + +<p>"What foolish, narrow-minded people these country people are!" she said.</p> + +<p>"How do you measure a mind?" I asked, and she answered, impatiently, +that children should not talk nonsense.</p> + +<p>The worst seemed to have come now. Some of our best servants left. Three +people remained true to my mother as the needle to the pole—myself, +Emma and Patience; we were always bright and cheerful in her presence. I +have gone in to see her when my heart has been as heavy as death, and +when my whole soul has been in hot rebellion against the deceit +practiced upon her, when I have shuddered at every laugh I forced from +my lips.</p> + +<p>She had completely changed during the last few months. All her pretty +invalid ways had gone. There was no light in her smiles—they were all +patience. She had quite ceased to ask about papa; where he was, what he +was doing, or anything about him. He went to her twice a day—once in +the morning and again at night. He would bend down carelessly and kiss +her forehead; and tell her any news he had heard, or anything he fancied +would interest her, and after a few minutes go away again. There was no +more lingering by her couch or loving dislike to leaving her—all that +was past and gone.</p> + +<p>My mother never reproached him—unless her faithful love was a reproach. +One thing I shall always hope and believe; it is this, that she never +even dreamed in those days of the extent of the evil. The worst she +thought was that my father encouraged Miss Reinhart in exceeding the +duties of her position; that he had allowed her to take a place that did +not belong to her, and that he permitted her to act in an intimate +manner with him. She believed also that my father, although he still +loved her and wished her well, was tired of her long illness, and +consequently tired of her.</p> + +<p>That was bad enough; but fortunately that was the worst just then—of +deeper evil she did not dream; only we three, who loved her faithfully +and well, knew that.</p> + +<p>But matters were coming to a crisis. I was resting in the nursery one +afternoon—my head had been aching badly—and Emma said an hour's sleep +would take it away. She drew down the blinds and placed my head on the +pillow.</p> + +<p>There was deeper wrong with my heart than with my head.</p> + +<p>My eyes closed, and drowsy languor fell over me. The door opened, and I +saw Alice Young, a very nice, respectable parlor maid, who had not been +with us long, enter the room.</p> + +<p>"Hush!" said my nurse, "Miss Laura is asleep."</p> + +<p>I was not quite, but I did not feel able to contradict them. What did it +matter?</p> + +<p>"I will not wake missie, but I want to speak to you," she said. "I am in +great trouble, Emma. I have had a letter from my mother this morning, +and she says I am to leave this place at once, that it is not +respectable, and that people are talking of it all over the county. What +am I to do?"</p> + +<p>"Go, I suppose," said Emma.</p> + +<p>The girl grew nearer to her.</p> + +<p>"Do you think it is true?" she asked. "I saw him driving her out +yesterday, and three days ago I saw his arm around her waist; but, +still, do you really think it is true, Emma?"</p> + +<p>"It does not matter to us," said Emma.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it does matter," persisted the other. "If it is really true, this +is no place for us; and if it be untrue, some one ought to put an end to +it. I have nothing but my character, and if that goes, all goes. Now, I +ask you to tell me, Emma, ought I to go or stay?"</p> + +<p>My nurse was silent for some few minutes, then she said:</p> + +<p>"You had better go. While missie and my lady stop here, I shall stay, +and when they go, I go. My duty is to them."</p> + +<p>Then I raised my white, miserable face from the pillow.</p> + +<p>"Do not say any more," I cried. "I am not asleep, and I understand it +all."</p> + +<p>"Law, bless the dear young lady!" cried Alice, aghast. "I would not have +spoken for the world if I had known"—</p> + +<p>But I interrupted her.</p> + +<p>"It does not matter, Alice," I said. "You meant no harm, and I am old in +misery, though young in years."</p> + +<p>The girl went away, and Emma flung herself on her knees before me.</p> + +<p>"I am so sorry, Miss Laura," she began, "but I had not patience to +listen—my heart was full of one thing."</p> + +<p>"Emma," I said, "tell me, do you think mamma really knows or suspects +any of these things?"</p> + +<p>"No," was the quiet reply, "I do not. I will tell you why, Miss Laura. +If my lady even thought so, she would not allow Miss Reinhart to remain +in the house another hour with you."</p> + +<p>"I am going to papa now, and I shall ask him to send my governess away," +I said. "She shall not stop here."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI" />CHAPTER XI.</h3> + + +<p>My father had always been kind to me—he had never used a harsh word to +me. My heart was full—it was almost bursting—when I went to him. The +shame, the degradation, the horror, were full upon me. Surely he would +hear reason. I dared not stop to think. I hastened to him. I flung my +arms round his neck and hid my face upon his breast. My passionate sobs +frightened him at first.</p> + +<p>"My dearest Laura, what is the matter?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Papa, send Miss Reinhart away," I cried; "do send her away. We were so +happy before she came, and mamma was happy. Can you not see there is a +black shadow hanging over the house? Send it away—be as you were before +she came. Oh, papa, she has taken you from us."</p> + +<p>When I told him what I had heard he looked shocked and horrified.</p> + +<p>"My poor child! I had no idea of this."</p> + +<p>He laid me on the couch while he walked up and down the room.</p> + +<p>"Horrible!" I heard him say. "Frightful! Poor child! Alice shall go at +once!"</p> + +<p>He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had +overheard, and sent for the housekeeper. I heard the whispering, but not +the words—there was a long, angry conversation. I heard Sir Roland say +"that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of +conversations should leave." Then he kissed me.</p> + +<p>"Papa," I cried to him, "will you send Miss Reinhart away? No other +change is of any use."</p> + +<p>"My dear Laura, you are prejudiced. You must not listen to those stupid +servants and their vile exaggerations. Miss Reinhart is very good and +very useful to me. I cannot send her away as I would dismiss a +servant—nor do I intend."</p> + +<p>"Let her go, that we may be happy as we were before. Oh, papa! she does +not love mamma. She is not good; every one dislikes her. No one will +speak to her. What shall we do? Send her away!"</p> + +<p>"This is all a mistake, Laura," he said; "a cruel—I might say +wicked—mistake. You must not talk to me in this way again."</p> + +<p>Perhaps more might have been said; it might even have been that the +tragedy had been averted but for the sudden rap at the door and the +announcement that the rector wished to see Sir Roland.</p> + +<p>"Ask him to step in here," said my father, with a great mark of +discomposure. "Laura, run away, child, and remember what I have said. Do +not speak to me in this fashion again."</p> + +<p>I learned afterward that the rector had called to remonstrate with +him—to tell him what a scandal and shame was spreading all over the +country side, and to beg of him to end it.</p> + +<p>Many hours elapsed before I saw my father again. I saw him ride out of +the courtyard and did not see him return. When I had gone to his room in +the morning I had taken with me one of my books, and I wanted it for my +studies in the morning.</p> + +<p>It was neither light nor dark. I went quietly along the broad corridors +to my father's study. I never gave one thought to the fact that my +father might be there. I had not seen him return. I went in. The study +was a very long room with deep windows. Quite at the other end, with the +firelight shining on his face, stood my father, and by his side Miss +Reinhart, just as I had seen him stand with my beautiful mother a +hundred times; one arm was thrown round her, and he was looking +earnestly in her face.</p> + +<p>"It must be so," he said; "there is no alternative now."</p> + +<p>She clung to him, whispering, and he kissed her.</p> + +<p>I stole away. Oh! my injured, innocent mother. I do not remember exactly +what I did. I rushed from the house out into the great fir wood and wept +out my hot, rebellious anger and despair there. At breakfast time the +next morning just a gleam of hope came to me. Miss Reinhart said that, +above everything else, she should like a drive.</p> + +<p>Whether it was my pleading and tears or the rector's visit which had +made my father think, I cannot tell, but for the first time he seemed +quite unwilling to drive her out. The tears came into her eyes and he +went over to her and whispered something which made her smile. He talked +to her in a mysterious kind of fashion that I could neither understand +nor make out at all—of some time in the future.</p> + +<p>An uneasy sense of something about to happen came over me. I could feel +the approach of some dark shadow; all day the same sensation rested with +me, yet I saw nothing to justify it. At night my mother called me to her +side.</p> + +<p>"Laura, you do not look so cheerful this evening. What makes my daughter +so sad?"</p> + +<p>I could not tell her of that scene I had witnessed; I could not tell her +of what was wrong.</p> + +<p>On the morning following this, to me, horrible day, I could not help +seeing that there was quite a new understanding between my father and +Miss Reinhart. I overheard him say to her:</p> + +<p>"It would have been quite impossible to have gone on; the whole country +would have been in an uproar."</p> + +<p>All that day there seemed to me something mysterious going on in the +house; the servants went about with puzzled faces; there were +whisperings and consultations. I heard Patience say to Emma:</p> + +<p>"It is not true. I would not believe it. It is some foolish exaggeration +of the servants. I am sure it is not true."</p> + +<p>"Even if it should be I do not know what we could do," said Emma. "We +cannot prevent it. If he has a mind to do such a bad action, he will do +it, if not at one time, surely at another."</p> + +<p>What was it? I never asked questions now.</p> + +<p>One thing I remember. When I went into his room that evening to say +good-night, my father's traveling flask lay there—a pretty silver flask +that my mother had given him for a birthday present. He bade me +"good-night," and I little thought when or how we should meet again.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII" />CHAPTER XII.</h3> + + +<p>I do not judge or condemn him. I do not even say what I should say if he +were any other than my father. His sin was unpardonable; perhaps his +temptation was great; I cannot tell. The Great Judge knows best. I will +tell my miserable story just as it happened.</p> + +<p>The day following—another bright, sunny, warm morning, all sunshine, +song and perfume, the birds singing so sweetly and the fair earth +laughing. It was so bright and beautiful that when I went out into the +grounds my troubles seemed to fade away. I hastened to gather some +flowers for my mother; the mignonette was in bloom, and that was her +favorite flower. I took them to her, and we talked for a few minutes +about the beauty of the day. She seemed somewhat better, and asked me to +get through my studies quickly, so that we might go through the grounds. +I hastened to the school-room. Miss Reinhart was not there. I took my +books and sat down by the window waiting for her. As I sat there, one +after another the servants looked in the room, as though in search of +something, then vanished. At last I grew tired of waiting, and rang to +ask if Miss Reinhart was coming to give me my lessons. Emma came in +reply.</p> + +<p>Miss Reinhart would not be there yet, she said, and it would be better +for me to go out now with my lady and to attend to my books afterward.</p> + +<p>It struck me that every one seemed in a hurry to get us out of the +house. Patience King was not to be seen, and Emma did not like to come +near us because of her tear-stained face. Just as we were leaving the +house my mother turned to the footman, who was at the back of her chair:</p> + +<p>"John," she said, "go and ask Sir Roland if he will come with us."</p> + +<p>I saw the man's face flush crimson, but he went away and returned in a +few minutes, saying that his master was not in.</p> + +<p>My mother repeated the words in some wonder.</p> + +<p>"Have you seen papa this morning, Laura?"</p> + +<p>"No; Emma brought my breakfast to me."</p> + +<p>"I have not seen him either," she said. "He has not been to say +good-morning to me yet. John, leave word that when Sir Roland comes in +we shall be on the grass plot near the sun-dial!"</p> + +<p>Why did they all look at us with such scared faces, with such wondering +eyes? And I felt sure that I heard one say to the other:</p> + +<p>"I have sent for the rector."</p> + +<p>We went—as unconscious of the doom that hung over us as two +children—went my mother's rounds. She looked at all the flowers, but +turned to me once or twice and said, uneasily:</p> + +<p>"I wonder where Sir Roland is? It seems strange not to have seen him."</p> + +<p>We talked about him. There was nothing she liked more than speaking of +him to me. We were out, I should think, at least three hours, and then +my mother felt faint, and we went back.</p> + +<p>The good rector met us and shook hands very kindly with us, but he was +pale and agitated, not like himself in the least. Patience was there, +and Emma; the other servants were huddled in groups, and I knew +something very terrible had happened—something—but what?</p> + +<p>The rector said Lady Tayne was tired, and must have some wine. My mother +took it, and was placed upon her couch once more. She turned to the +footman and asked if my father had returned. The answer was—no. Then +the rector said he wished to speak to her alone. He held a letter in his +hands, and his face was as pale as death. She looked up at him and said, +quickly:</p> + +<p>"Is it bad news?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, gravely; "it is very bad news. Laura, go away and +leave your mother with me."</p> + +<p>But my mother clung to me.</p> + +<p>"No, if I have anything to suffer," she cried, "let Laura stay with +me—I can bear anything with her."</p> + +<p>"Let me stay?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He covered his face with his hands, and was silent for some minutes. I +wonder if he was praying Heaven to give him strength—he had to give my +mother her death blow. I can never remember how he told her—in what +language or fashion—but we gathered the sense of it at last; my father +had left home, and had taken Miss Reinhart with him!</p> + +<p>The blow had fallen—the worst had come. Oh, Heaven! if, sleeping or +waking, I could ever forget my mother's face—if I could close my eyes +without seeing its white, stony horror! The very tone of her voice was +changed.</p> + +<p>"Doctor Dalkeith!" she asked, "is this horrible thing true—true?"</p> + +<p>"Unhappily, Lady Tayne," he replied.</p> + +<p>"You say that my husband, Sir Roland has left me, and has gone +away—with—this person?"</p> + +<p>"I am afraid it is but too true," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Has he ceased to love me, that he has done this?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Lady Tayne, I know nothing but the facts—nothing else. Your +servants sent for me to break it to you, for they could not bear to do +it themselves."</p> + +<p>"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had +gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they +fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried: "I +must follow him!"</p> + +<p>Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and +helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother +suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She +stretched out her hands—into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring +sudden life.</p> + +<p>"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or +three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.</p> + +<p>"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so."</p> + +<p>He rang the bell.</p> + +<p>"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and +for the doctor!"</p> + +<p>"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid so," he replied.</p> + +<p>They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the +rector drew me to her.</p> + +<p>"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; +if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck +and speak to her."</p> + +<p>I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my +beautiful young mother—as I held her there a vision came to me of her, +as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet.</p> + +<p>"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor +child, come away."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked—"dead?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear +child, she could not have lived and borne this—she would have suffered +a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must +have died even as she fell."</p> + +<p>Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my +lips.</p> + +<p>"Oh, mother—mother!"</p> + +<p>And then Heaven was merciful to me, too—a dark shadow seemed to fall +over me, and I remember no more.</p> + +<p>When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining—the birds +singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my +mother died.</p> + +<p>I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving +hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands—a sweet +smile was on her lips.</p> + +<p>The rector stood there with me.</p> + +<p>"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word—murdered."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. +Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent +heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her +coffin? The sweetest flower that grows."</p> + +<p>"No; I do not know."</p> + +<p>"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told +me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who +incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I +do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, +lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so."</p> + +<p>After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my +mother in Heaven I will tell her why.</p> + +<p>She was buried. No news came from my father. Tayne Hall was closed, and +I went to live with my mother's cousin.</p> + +<p>That is the story of the sin; this is the punishment:</p> + +<p>Some years afterward Sir Roland brought his wife back to England—he +married her when my mother died—-but no one would receive them. They +were banished from all civilized society, and to compensate herself for +that, my mother's rival mixed with the fastest and worst set in England. +The end of it was that, after completely ruining him, she ran away from +him and left him as he had left my mother.</p> + +<p>His death redeemed his life. He was found dead on my mother's grave, and +I loved him better in death than in life.</p> + +<p>That is what one wicked woman can do. There is one prayer that should +never leave man's lips, and it is: "Lead us not into temptation."</p> + + +<h4>THE END.</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><a name="Transcribers_Note_The_following_typographical_errors_from_the" id="Transcribers_Note_The_following_typographical_errors_from_the" />[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors from the +original edition have been corrected.</p> + +<p><i>pictuesque</i> has been changed to <i>picturesque</i>.</p> + +<p><i>stood lookinging at her</i> has been changed to <i>stood looking at her</i>.</p> + +<p>The quotation mark in <i>"Oh, baby brother</i> has been removed.</p> + +<p><i>recumbent postion</i> has been changed to <i>recumbent position</i>.</p> + +<p>The quotation mark in <i>"My mother grasped my hand</i> has been removed.</p> + +<p>A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>"My life is spoiled, I +cried</i>.</p> + +<p>A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>"You will be compelled to +recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain here, she said.</i></p> + +<p>A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>Why do you never think or +speak of my mother?</i>]</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's My Mother's Rival, by Charlotte M. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: My Mother's Rival + Everyday Life Library No. 4 + +Author: Charlotte M. Braeme + +Release Date: February 26, 2005 [EBook #15181] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY MOTHER'S RIVAL *** + + + + +Produced by Steven desJardins and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No. 4 +Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago + +[Illustration] + + +MY MOTHER'S RIVAL + +By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME + +<i>Author of "Dora Thorne," "The Belle of Lynn," "The Mystery of Colde +Fell," "Madolin's Lover," "Coralie," Etc., Etc.</i> + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +I have often wondered if the world ever thinks of what becomes of the +children of great criminals who expiate their crime on the scaffold. Are +they taken away and brought up somewhere in ignorance of who or what +they are? Does some kind relative step forward always bring them up +under another name? + +There is great criminal trial, and we hear that the man condemned to +death leaves two daughters and a son--what becomes of them can any one +living say? Who meets them in after life? Has any young man ever been +pointed out to you as the son of Mr. So-and-so, the murderer? Has any +young woman been pointed out to you as his daughter? + +It is not long since all England was interested in the trial of a +so-called gentleman for murder. He was found guilty, condemned and +executed. At the time of the trial all the papers spoke of his little +son--a fair-haired little lad, who was as unconscious of all that +happened as a little babe. I have often wondered what became of him. +Does he hear his father's name? Do those with whom he lives know him for +a murderer's son? If he goes wooing any fair-faced girl, will she be +afraid of marrying him lest, in the coming years, she may suffer the +same fate his mother did? Does that same son, when he reads of criminals +and scaffolds, wince, and shudder, and grow sick at heart? + +And the daughters, do they grow old and die before their time? Do they +hide themselves under false names in silent places, dreading lest the +world should know them? Does any man ever woo them? Are they ever happy +wives and mothers? + +I have thought much on this subject, because I, who write this story, +seem to the world one of the most commonplace people in it, and yet I +have lived, from the time I was a child, in the midst of a tragedy dark +as any that ever saddened this fair land. + +No one knows it, no one guesses it. People talk of troubles, of +romances, of sad stories and painful histories before me, but no one +ever guessed that I have known perhaps the saddest of all. My heart +learned to ache as the first lesson it learned in life. + +When I think of those unhappy children who go about the world with so +dark a secret locked in their hearts, I think of myself, and what I hold +locked in my heart. + +Read for yourself, dear reader, and tell me if you think there have been +many fates in this world harder than mine. + +My Name is Laura Tayne, and my home Tayne Abbey, in the grand old +County of Kent. The Taynes were of good family, not very ancient--the +baronetcy is quite a modern one, dating from George the First--but Tayne +Abbey is one of the grandest old buildings in England. Whenever I looked +at it I thought of those beautiful, picturesque, haunted houses that one +sees in Christmas annuals, with Christmas lights shining from the great +windows. I am sorry to say that I know very little of architecture. I +could not describe Tayne Abbey; it was a dark, picturesque, massive +building; the tall towers were covered with ivy, the large windows were +wreathed with flowers of every hue. In some parts of sweet, sunny Kent +the flowers grow as though they were in a huge hothouse; they did so at +Tayne Abbey, for the front stood to the west, and there were years when +it seemed to be nothing but summer. + +The great oriel windows--the deep bay windows, large as small rooms--the +carved oaken panels, the finely painted ceilings, the broad corridors, +the beautiful suites of rooms--all so bright, light and lofty--the +old-fashioned porch and the entrance hall, the grand sweep of terraces +one after another, the gardens, the grounds, the park, were all +perfection in their way. To make the picture quite complete, close to +us--joined, indeed, by a subterranean passage, for the existence of +which no one could account--stood the ruins of what had once been the +real Abbey of Tayne--a fine old abbey that, in the time of "bluff King +Hal," had been inhabited by the monks of St. Benedict. They were driven +away, and the abbey and lands were given to the family of De Montford. +The De Montfords did not prosper; after some generations the abbey fell +into ruins, and then they sold the abbey to the Taynes, who had long +wished for it on account of the similarity of names. Our ancestors built +the present mansion called Tayne Abbey; each succeeding Tayne had done +something to beautify it--one had built the magnificent picture gallery, +and had made a magnificent collection of pictures, so magnificent, +indeed, as to rob the Taynes for many years afterward of some part of +their revenue. There they stood still, a fortune in themselves. Another +Tayne had devoted himself to collecting gold and silver plate; in no +other house in England was there such a collection of valuable plate as +in ours. A third Tayne had thought of nothing but his gardens, devoting +his time, thoughts and money to them until they were wonderful to +behold. There were no square and round beds of different flowers, +arranged with mathematical precision; the white lilies stood in great +white sheaves, the eucharis lilies grew tall and stately, the grand +arum lily reared its deep chalice, the lovely lily of the valley shot +its white bells; there were every variety of carnation, of sweet +williams, of sweet peas, of the old-fashioned southernwood and pansy; +there grew crocus, snowdrop and daffadowndilly; great lilac trees, and +the white auricula were there in abundance; there, too, stood a sun-dial +and a fine fountain. It was a garden to please a poet and a painter; but +I have to tell the story of the lives of human beings, and not of +flowers. + +The first memory that comes to me is of my beautiful young mother; the +mention of her name brings me the vision of a fair face with hair of +bright gold, and deep, large, blue eyes; of soft silken dresses, from +the folds of which came the sweetest perfume; of fine trailing laces, +fine as the intricate work of a spider's web; of white hands, always +warm and soft, and covered with sparkly rings; of a sweet, low voice, +that was like the cooing of a dove. All these things come back to me as +I write the word "mother." My father, Sir Roland Tayne, was a hearty, +handsome, pleasure-loving man. No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or +angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved. + +He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me. Every one +said I was the very image of mama. I had the same golden hair and +deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands. I remember that my +mother--that sweet young mother--never walked steadily when she was out +with me. It was as though she could not help dancing like a child. + +"Come along, baby darling," she would say to me, "let us get away from +them all, and have a race." + +She called me "baby" until I was nearly six--for no other came to take +my place. I heard the servants speak of me, and say what a great heiress +I would be in the years to come, if my father had no sons; but I hardly +understood, and cared still less. + +As I grew older I worshipped my beautiful mother, she was so very kind +to me. I always felt that she was so pleased to see me. She never gave +me the impression that I was tiresome, or intruded on her. Sometimes her +toilet would be finished before the dinner-bell rang, then she would +come to the nursery and ask for me. We walked up and down the long +picture gallery, where the dead, and gone Ladies Tayne looked at us from +the walls. No face there was so fair as my mother's. She was more +beautiful than a picture, with her golden hair and fair face, her +sweeping dresses and trailing laces. + +The tears rise even now, hot and bitter, to my eyes when I think of +those happy hours--my intense pride in and devoted love for my mother. +How lightly I held her hand, how I kissed her lovely trailing laces. + +"Mamma," I said to her, one day, "it is just like coming to heaven when +you call me to walk with you." + +"You will know a better heaven some day," she said, laughingly; "but I +have not known it yet." + +What was there she did not do? She sang until the music seemed to float +round the room; she drew and painted, and she danced. I have seen no one +like her. They said she was like an angel in the house; so young, so +fair, so sweet--so young, yet, in her wise, sweet way, a mother and +friend to the whole household. Even the maids, when they had done +anything wrong and feared the housekeeper, would ask my mother to +intercede for them. + +If she saw a servant who had been crying, she did not rest until she +knew the cause of the tears. If it were a sick mother, then money and +wine would be dispatched. I have heard since that even if their love +affairs went wrong, it was always "my lady" who set them right, and many +a happy marriage took place from Tayne Abbey. + +It was just the same with the poor on the estate; she was a friend to +each one, man, woman or child. Her face was like a sunbeam in the +cottages, yet she was by no means unwise or indiscriminate in her +charities. When the people had employment she gave nothing but kind +words; where they were industrious, and could not get work, she helped +them liberally; where they were idle, and would not work, "my lady" +lectured with grave sweetness that was enough to convert the most +hardened sinner. + +Every one sought her in distress, her loving sweetness of disposition +was so well known. Great ladies came from London sometimes, looking +world-worn and weary, longing for comfort and sympathy. She gave it so +sweetly, no wonder they had desired it. + +It was the same thing on our own estate. If husband and wife quarreled, +it was to my mother they appealed--if a child seemed inclined to go +wrong, the mother at once came to her for advice. + +Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when +every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good? + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women +in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different +little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her +husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about. + +As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had +their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When +Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book +of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from +Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her: + +"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the +inevitable." + +"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who +have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?" + +"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven," +and she clasped her white hands in gratitude. + +"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be +patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you +do?" + +"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient, +Isabel." + +"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with +indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the +presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?" + +"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that +case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I +should die." + +"Die--nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "What is the use of dying?--the +very thing they want. I will not die;" but my mother had laid her fair +head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue +sky. Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice? + +"I am not as strong as you, Isabel," she said, gently, "and I love Sir +Roland with my whole heart." + +"I loved my husband with my whole heart," sobbed the beautiful woman, +"and I have done nothing in this world to deserve what I have suffered. +I loved him with a pure, great affection--what became of it? Three days +after we were married I saw him myself patting one of the maids--a +good-looking one, you may be sure--on the cheek." + +"Perhaps he meant no harm," said my mother, consolingly; "you know that +gentlemen do not attach so much importance as we do to these little +trifles." + +"You try, Beatrice, how you would like it; you have been married ten +years, and even at this date you would not like Sir Roland to do such a +thing?" + +"I am sure I should not; but then, you know, there are men and men. Sir +Roland is graver in character than Lord Conyngham. What would mean much +from one, means little from the other." + +So, with sweet, wise words, she strove to console and comfort this poor +lady, who had evidently been stricken to the heart in some way or +another. I often thought of my mother's words, "I should die," long +after Lady Conyngham had made some kind of reconciliation with her +husband, and had gone back to him. I thought of my mother's face, as she +leaned back to watch the sky, crying out, "I should die." + +I knew that I ought not to have sat still; my conscience reproached me +very much; but when I did get up to go away mamma did not notice me. +From that time it was wonderful how much I thought of "husbands." They +were to me the most mysterious people in the world--a race quite apart +from other men. When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S----'s +husband, to me he became a wicked man at once. Some were good; some bad. +Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than +otherwise at them. I studied intently all the different varieties of +husbands. I heard my father laugh often, and say: + +"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens." + +He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my +mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not +like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they +should wonder why the subject interested me. + +Once, when I was with my mother--we were walking up and down the picture +gallery--I did venture to ask her: + +"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?" + +How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain +in her eyes altogether. + +"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very +surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all +husbands are good." + +"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not--I heard +her say so." + +"I am sorry you heard it--you must not repeat it; you are much too young +to talk about husbands, Laura." + +Of course I did not mention then again--equally of course I did not +think less of this mysterious kind of beings. + +My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland--she +loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said +he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met +with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none +so perfect as he was then. + +"You do not know what trouble means, dear Lady Tayne." "With a husband +like yours, life is all sunshine." "You have been spoiled with +kindness!" + +All these exclamations I used to hear, until I became quite sure that my +father was the best husband in the world. + +On my tenth birthday my father would have a large ball, and he insisted +that I should be present at it. My mother half hesitated, but he +insisted; so, thanks to him, I have one perfectly happy memory. I +thought far more of my beautiful mother than myself. I stood in the +hall, watching her as she came down the great staircase, great waves of +shining silk and trailing laces making her train, diamonds gleaming in +her golden hair, her white neck and arms bare; so tall, slender and +stately, like the picture of some lovely young queen. Papa and I stood +together watching her. + +"Let me kiss her first!" I cried, running to her. + +"Mind the lace and diamonds, Laura," he cried. + +"Never mind either, my darling," she said laughingly. "One kiss from you +is worth more than all." + +Sir Roland kissed her and stood looking at her with admiring eyes. + +"Do you know, Beatrice," he said, "that you grow younger and more +beautiful? It is dead swindle! I shall be a gray-bearded old man by the +time you have grown quite young again." + +My sweet mother! she evidently enjoyed his praise; she touched his face +with her pretty hand. + +"Old or young, Roland," she said, lovingly, "my heart will never change +in its great love for you." + +They did not know how intensely I appreciated this little scene. + +"Here is a good husband," I said to myself, like the impertinent little +critic I was; "this is not like Lady Conyngham's husband!"--the truth +being that I could never get that unfortunate man quite out of my mind. + +That night, certainly the very happiest of my life, my father danced +with me. Heaven help me! I can remember my pride as I stood by the tall, +stalwart figure, just able with the tips of my fingers to touch his arm. +Mamma danced with me, too, and my happiness was complete. I watched all +the ladies there, young and old; there was not one so fair as my mother. +Closing my eyes, so tired of this world's sunlight, I see her again as I +saw her that night, queen of the brilliant throng, the fairest woman +present. I see her with her loving heart full of emotion kissing my +father. I see her in the ballroom, the most graceful figure present. + +I remember how every half-hour she came to speak to me and see if I were +happy, and once, when she thought I was warm and tired, she took my hand +and led me into the beautiful cool conservatory, where we sat and talked +until I had grown cool again. I see her talking with queenly grace and +laughing eyes, no one forgotten or neglected, partners found for the +least attractive girls, while the sunshine of her presence was +everywhere. She led a cotillion. I remember seeing her stand waiting the +signal, the very type of grace and beauty. + +Oh, my darling, if I were with you! As I saw her then I never saw her +more. + +I was present the next morning when my father and mother discussed the +ball. + +"How well you looked, Beatrice," said my father. + +"How well I felt," she replied. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I enjoy +dancing far better now than I did before I was married. I should like +dancing parties a little oftener; they are much more amusing than your +solemn dinner parties." + +But, ah me! the dancing feet were soon to be stilled; all the rest of +that summer there was something mysterious--every one was so solicitous +about my mother--they seemed to think of nothing but her health. She was +gay and charming herself, laughing at the fuss, anxiety and care. Sir +Roland was devoted to her; he never left her. She took no more rides now +on her favorite Sir Tristam, my father drove her carefully in the +carriage; there were no more balls or parties; "extreme quiet and +repose" seemed to be the keynote. Mamma was always "resting." + +"She cannot want rest," I exclaimed, "when she does nothing to tire her! +Oh, let me go to her!" for some foolish person had started a theory that +I tired her. I who worshiped her, who would have kept silence for a year +rather than have disturbed her for one moment! I appealed to Sir Roland, +and he consulted her; the result was that I was permitted to steal into +her boudoir, and, to my childish mind, it seemed that during those days +my mother's heart and mine grew together. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +It was a quiet Christmas at Tayne Abbey; we had no visitors, for my +mother required the greatest care; but she did not forget one person in +the house, or one on the estate. Sir Roland laughed when he saw the +preparations--the beef, the blankets, the clothing of all kinds, the +innumerable presents, for she had remembered every one's wants and +needs. Sir Roland laughed. + +"My dearest Beatrice," he said; "this will cost far more than a houseful +of guests." + +"Never mind the cost," she said; "it will bring down a blessing on us." + +A quiet, beautiful Christmas. My father was in the highest of spirits, +and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe. He went out +to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though +she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing, +the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to +read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the +child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn. I +read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it. She +loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the +herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills. + +She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other, +interested her so greatly. + +I knew afterward. + +It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow +and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint +perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began. + +I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had +been most loving to me. She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir +all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a +great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her. She looked +very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her +good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go. +What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten +them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back +when I had reached the door to say good-night again--twice I went back +and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I +was frightened. + +"Mamma, darling," I asked, "are you very ill?" + +"Why, Laura?" she questioned. + +"Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here. You never move +about or dance and play as you used to do." + +"But I will, Laura. You will see, the very first game we play at hare +and hounds I shall beat you. God bless my darling child!" + +That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence. +What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the +doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the +galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven +even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my +mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no +nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face +pale, her eyes swollen with tears. + +"What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it +has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?" + +"No, my dear," she replied. + +But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me. + +"Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was +startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their +wickedness." + +"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the +truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast +here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you." + +"How is mamma?" I asked. + +"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply. + +"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is." + +"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied. + +And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not +say my mother was better. + +My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, +and then Emma said it was time I went to papa. + +When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the +house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound--no +bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma +loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang +over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart +grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more +of my fears to Emma. + +She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for +me, and left me there. + +I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round +his neck--looking eagerly in his face. + +Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of +yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had +shed many tears. + +"My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell +you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night." + +"Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!" + +"Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in +an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed +to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear-- + +"Mamma is dead." + +Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then. + +"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself. +You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"--and here his +voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your +mother." + +That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be. + +Then he took me in his arms. + +"My dearest little Laura," he said, "two angels have been with us during +the night--the angel of life and the angel of death. You have had a +little brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is +very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect +rest she will not get better--there must not be a sound in the house." + +A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I +could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers and +sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him. + +"I should like to see my little brother, papa--if I may," I said. + +He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered: + +"I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you." + +We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms +that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully +decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the +berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child. + +My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale +snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen +face with closed eyes and lips. + +Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was +not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no +horrors for me. + +"May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed +with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty +eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was, +they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death. + +"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked. + +"Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he +lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of +Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of man +this child might have been or what he might have done?" + +"Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked. + +"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father. + +I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little +brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again? + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +My mother was in danger and my baby brother dead. The gloom that lay +over our house was something never to be forgotten; the silence that was +never broken by one laugh or one cheerful word, the scared faces--for +every one loved "my lady." One fine morning, when the snowdrops had +grown more plentiful, and there was a faint sign of the coming spring in +the air, they took my baby brother to bury him. Such a tiny coffin, such +tiny white wreaths, a little white pall covered with flowers. My father +would not let black come near him. + +My father wept bitter tears. + +"There sleeps my little son and heir, Laura," he said to me--"my little +boy. It is as though he had just peeped out of Heaven at this world, +and, not liking it, had gone back again." + +A pretty little white monument was put up to the baby Gerald. My mother +chose the epitaph, which I had always thought so pretty. It was simply +this--"The angels gather such lilies for God." + +By degrees some little sunshine stole back, the dreadful silence +lessened, the servants began to walk about without list slippers, the +birds were carried back to the beautiful aviary--my mother's favorite +nook; the doctors smiled as they came down the grand staircase. I heard +Sir Roland whistling and singing as he had done weeks ago. + +At last I was admitted to see her. One fine March morning, when the wind +was blowing freshly and tossing the big, bare branches, I was taken to +her room. I should not have known her; a pale, languid lady lay there in +the place of my laughing, beautiful mother; two large blue eyes full of +tears looked at me; two thin, white arms clasped me, and then I was +lying on my mother's heart. Oh, my darling, if we could have died then. + +"My little Laura, I was afraid I should never see you again," whispered +a faint voice. + +Ah, me, the ecstasy of the next half-hour! I sat close by her side and +told her how the snowdrops were growing and the purple and golden +crocuses made the garden seem quite gay. I told her where I had found +the first violets, some of which I had brought to her. I cannot tell +what it was like to me to feel my mother's hand on my head once more. + +Then came a brief time of happiness. My mother improved a little, and +was carried from the bedroom where she had spent so many weeks to her +boudoir, and I was allowed to be with her all day. + +"She would be better soon and able to go out," my father said, and then +the happy old times would come back again. My mother would walk with me +through the picture gallery at sunset, and more, she would dance with +flying feet and run races with me in the wood. Oh, how I longed for the +time when she would regain the color in her face and light in her eyes! +They said I must be patient, it would come in time. But, alas! it was +weary waiting; the days seemed as weeks to me, and yet my dear, +beautiful mother was still confined to her room and to her bed. So it +went on. + +The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet +she was still lying helpless on the sofa. + +One day papa and I were both sitting with her. She looked better, and +was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the +woods. + +"I feel better this morning," she said. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I +could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me." + +"It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know +best." + +"I am sure I could walk," said my mother, "and I feel such a restless +longing to put my foot to the ground once more." + +There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another +word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite +upright. My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry. She +tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground. + +Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious +care. The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us +once more. Then the crushing blow came. Great doctors came from England +and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it +came at length. + +My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the +flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life. She was to be a +hopeless, helpless cripple. She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a +chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more--she would +never walk again. + +My father's heart almost broke. I can see him now crying and sobbing +like a child. He would not believe it. He turned from one to the other, +crying out: + +"It cannot be true! I will not believe it! She is so young and so +beautiful--it cannot be true!" + +"It is most unfortunately true," said the head physician, sorrowfully. +"The poor lady will dance and walk no more." + +"Who is to tell her?" cried my father. "I dare not." + +"It will be far better that she should not know--a hundred times better. +Let her live as long as she can in ignorance of her fate; she will be +more cheerful and in reality far better than if she knew the truth; it +would hang over her like a funeral pall; the stronger her nerve and +spirit the better for her. She would regain neither, knowing this." + +"But in time--with care--she is so young. Perhaps there may be a +chance." + +"I tell you plainly," said the doctor, "that most unfortunately there is +none--there is not the faintest," and, he added, solemnly, "may Heaven +lighten your afflictions to you!" + +They went away, and my father drew me to his arms. + +"Laura," he said, "you must help me all your life to take care of +mamma." + +"I will, indeed," I cried. "I ask nothing better from Heaven than to +give my life to her--my beautiful mother." + +And then he told me that she would never walk again--that her flying +feet were to rest forever more--that in her presence I must always be +quite bright and cheerful, and never say one word of what I knew. + +No more difficult task could have been laid on the heart of a child. I +did it. No matter what I suffered, I always went into her room with a +smile and bright, cheerful words. + +So the long years passed; my beautiful mother grew better and happier +and stronger--little dreaming that she was never to walk out in the +meads and grounds again. She was always talking about them and saying +where she should go and what she should do when she grew well. + +Roses bloomed, lilies lived and died, the birds enjoyed their happy +summer, then flew over the sea to warmer climes; summer dew and summer +rain fell, the dead leaves were whirled in the autumn winds, and still +my mother lay helpless. If this one year seemed so long, what would a +lifetime be? + +As some of her strength returned it seemed to me that mother grew more +and more charming. She laughed and enjoyed all our care of her, and when +the wonderful chair came from London, in which she could go round the +garden, and could be wheeled from one room to another, she was as +delighted as a child. + +"Still," she said to my father, "it seems to me a pity almost, Roland, +to have sent to London for this. I shall surely be able to walk soon." + +He turned away from her with tears in his eyes. + +A month or two afterward we were both sitting with her, and she said, +quite suddenly: + +"It seems a long time since I began to lie here. I am afraid it will be +many months before I get well again. I think I shall resign myself to +proper invalids' fashions. I will have some pretty lace caps, Laura, and +we will have more books." Then a wistful expression crossed her face and +she said: "I would give anything on earth to walk, even only for ten +minutes, by the side of the river; as I lie here I think so much about +it. I know it in all its moods--when the wind hurries it and the little +wavelets dash along; when the tide is deep and the water overflows among +the reeds and grasses; when it is still and silent and the shadows of +the stars lie on it, and when the sun turns it into a stream of living +gold, I know it well." + +"You will see it again soon," said my father, in a broken voice. "I will +drive you down any time you like." + +But my mother said nothing. I think she had seen the tears in Sir +Roland's eyes. From that day she seemed to grow more reconciled to her +lot. Now let me add a tribute to my father. His devotion to her was +something marvelous; he seemed to love her better in her helpless state +than he had done when she was full of health and spirits. I admired him +so much for it during the first year of my mother's illness. He never +left her. Hunting, shooting, fishing, dinner parties, everything was +given up that he might sit with her. + +One of the drawing rooms, a beautiful, lofty apartment looking over the +park to the hills beyond, was arranged as my mother's room; there all +that she loved best was taken. + +The one next to it was made into a sleeping room for her, so that she +should never have to be carried up and down stairs. A room for her maid +came next. And my father had a door so placed that the chair could be +wheeled from the rooms through the glass doors into the grounds. + +"You think, then," she said, "that I shall not grow well just yet, +Roland?" + +"No, my darling, not just yet," he replied. + +What words of mine could ever describe what that sick room became? It +was a paradise of beautiful flowers, singing birds, little fragrant +fountains and all that was most lovely. After a time visitors came, and +my mother saw them; the poor came, and she consoled them. + +"My lady" was with them once more, never more to walk into their +cottages and look at the rosy children. They came to her now, and that +room became a haven of refuge. + +So it went on for three years, and I woke up one morning to find it was +my thirteenth birthday. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +That day both my parents awoke to the fact that I must have more +education. I could not go to school; to have taken me from my mother +would have been death to both of us. They had a long conversation, and +it was decided that the wisest plan would be for me to have a +governess--a lady who would at the same time be a companion to my +mother. I am quite sure that at first she did not like it, but afterward +she turned to my father, with a sweet, loving smile. + +"It will relieve you very much," she said, "and give you time to get +out." + +"I shall never leave you," he said, "no matter who comes." + +Several letters were written; my father gave himself unheard-of trouble; +and after some weeks of doubt, hesitation and correspondence, a +governess was selected for me. She had been living with Lady Bucarest, +and was most highly recommended; she was amiable, accomplished, good +tempered and well qualified for the duties Lady Tayne wished her to +fulfill. + +"What a paragon!" cried my father, as he read through the list of +virtues. + +"I hope we shall not be disappointed," said my mother. "Oh, Laura, +darling, if it could be, I would educate you entirely, and give you into +no other hands." + +It was March when my governess--by name Miss Sara Reinhart--came. I +always associate her in my own mind with the leaden skies, the cold +winds, the bleak rains and biting frosts of March. She was to be with us +on the seventh, and the whole of the day was like a tempest; the wind +blew, the rain fell. We could hear the rustling of the great boughs; the +wind rolled down the great avenues and shook the window frames. + +My mother's room that day was the brightest in the house; cheery fire in +the silver grate and the profusion of flowers made it so cheerful. How +many times during that day both my father and mother said: + +"What an uncomfortable journey Miss Reinhart will have!" + +She ordered a good fire to be lighted in her bedroom and tea to be +prepared for her. The carriage was sent to the station with plenty of +wraps, and every care was taken of the strange lady. The wind was +rolling like thunder through the great avenues, the tall trees bent +under the fury of the blast; when the sound ceased I heard the carriage +wheels, and going to my mother, who was reading, I said: "She has come." + +My mother took my hand silently. Why did we both look at each other? +What curious foreboding came to us both, that made us cling to each +other? Poor mother! poor child! + +Some time afterward my father came in and said: + +"Will you see Miss Reinhart to-night, Beatrice, darling?" + +She looked flushed and tired, but she answered, laughing quietly at her +own nervousness: + +"I suppose I shall not sleep unless I do see her, Roland. Yes, when she +has taken her tea and had time to make herself quite comfortable, I +shall be pleased to see her." + +Why did we mother and child, cling to each other as though some terrible +danger were overtaking us? It struck me that there was some little +delay, and my father remained with the strange lady. + +We had talked about her and wondered what she would be like. I had +always pictured her as a girl many years older than myself, but still a +girl, with a certain consciousness and shyness about her. I had expected +that she would stand in awe of my mother at first, and be, perhaps, +impressed with the grandeur of Tayne Abbey. When the time came to say +that Miss Reinhart would be glad to see Lady Tayne, and Sir Roland +brought the strange lady into the room, I was silently in utter amaze. +This was no school-girl, no half-conscious, half-shy governess, +impressed and awe-struck. There floated, rather than walked, into the +room a beautiful woman, with dark draperies falling gracefully around +her, a beautiful, self-possessed woman, whose every motion was harmony. +She looked straight at my mother; one quick glance of her dark eyes +seemed to take in every detail of the fair face and figure on the couch. +She held out her hand white as my mother's own, and said: + +"I am grieved to find you so ill, Lady Tayne, I hope I may be of good +service to you." + +"Thank you," said my mother's sweet voice, as their hands for one moment +met. + +Then the beautiful dark face turned to me. + +"And this is my pupil," she said. "I hope we shall be good friends." + +I had an uneasy sense that she was patronizing us. I looked across at my +father. He was watching her with keen admiration on his face. I--with a +child's keen instinct--had drawn nearer to my mother, as though to +protect her. Then Sir Roland placed a chair for Miss Reinhart near my +mother's sofa. She thanked him with a smile, and took it with the grace +of a duchess. + +Her manner was perfect. To my mother, gentle and deferential; to my +father, respectful, with just a dash of quiet independence; to me kind +and loving. Looking at her critically, it was almost impossible to find +a finer woman--her head was beautifully shaped, her hair raven black and +smooth as satin, little ears like pretty pink shells, a beautiful face +with dark, dreamy eyes, thick dark lashes, straight, dark brows, and a +mouth that was, perhaps, the loveliest feature in her face. It was not +tragical beauty, either, but comfortable and comfort loving; there was a +beautiful dimple in her white chin--a wicked dimple, suggestive of fun +and laughter; another, and even more beautiful dimple, deepened near +her lips, and laughed when she laughed. There was nothing of tragedy +about her. + +Very soon she was leading the conversation, telling us the details of +her journey, but all in so humorous a fashion that it was quite +irresistible. Sir Roland laughed as I had never seen him laugh before, +and my mother was much amused. Any one looking on at the time would +never have thought this was a governess undergoing a scrutiny, but +rather a duchess trying to entertain her friends. + +After some few minutes I saw my mother's sweet face grow pale, and I +knew that she felt tired. + +"Papa," I cried, forgetting my governess, "mamma is tired; look at her +face." + +Miss Reinhart rose at once and seemed to float to the sofa. "I am +afraid," she said, "that I deserve rebuke. I was so anxious to cheer you +that I fear I have tired you. Shall I take Miss Laura with me, or would +you like to have her a little longer?" + +My mother grasped my hand. "You are very kind," she said to Miss +Reinhart, "but I am weak and nervous; so little tires me." + +"Yes, it is very sad," she answered, in cold, sweet tones. + +I hated her voice, I hated her sweetness, I hated her. Child as I was, a +tempest of scorn and grief and bitter rebellion raged within me. Why +should she stand there in what seemed to me the insolent pride of her +beauty, while my sweet mother was never to stand again? Why should she +speak in those pitying tones? My mother did not need her pity. Then my +father came up, too, and said that Miss Reinhart had better delay for a +few days before beginning the routine of her duties so as to get used to +the place. She seemed quite willing. + +"Laura," said Sir Roland, "will you take Miss Reinhart to her room?" + +But I clung to my mother's hand. + +"I cannot leave mamma," I said. "Please do not ask me." + +He turned from me with an apology. + +"Laura can never leave her mother," he said. + +She answered: + +"Laura is quite right." + +But I caught just one glimpse of her beautiful eyes, which made me +thoughtful. + +She went, and my father was quite silent for some minutes afterward. +Then my mother asked: + +"What do you think of her, Roland?" + +"Well, my darling, she is really so different to what I had expected, I +can hardly form a judgment. I thought to see a crude kind of girl. Miss +Reinhart is a very beautiful woman of the world, as graceful, well-bred +and self-possessed as a duchess." + +"She is not half so beautiful as mamma," I cried. + +"No, little faithful heart; not one-half," said Sir Roland. + +"I must say that she seems to me far more like a fine lady visitor than +a governess," said my mother. + +"You will find her all right," said Sir Roland, brightly. "She seems to +understand her duties and to be quite competent for them. I fancy you +will like her Beatrice, darling; after all, it will be some thing to +have some one to amuse us. How well she tells a story! with what +brilliancy and verve!" + +"I want no more amusement than I find with you and Laura," said my +mother. "You are all-sufficient to me. Still, as you say, dear, it is +well to have a pleasant companion." + +Then, as my mother was tired, her maid came, and Sir Roland said, +"Good-night." + +I remember how we both felt sad and lonely, though we could not quite +tell why; and that my beautiful mother fell fast asleep, holding my hand +in hers; and that they would not take me away, lest they should awake +her. + +"And my lady has so little sleep," they said, pityingly, "we never awake +her." + +I wish, my darling, that for both of us it had been the long, sweet +sleep from which there is no awaking. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +The first three days following Miss Reinhart's arrival were a holiday. +My father himself showed her over the house, took her through the +picture galleries, told her all the legends of the place. She walked out +in the grounds and had learned to make herself quite at home. Sir Roland +told her that she must do so, that her duties and responsibilities would +be great. She must therefore take care of herself. + +I was with them in the picture gallery, and Sir Roland never stopped to +think that it would perhaps be better not to discuss such things before +me. + +"I hope," he said, "to interest you in the whole place. I cannot tell +you how different things are when the mistress of the house is ill and +helpless." + +"I am sure it must be so," she said, in that sweet voice, which I felt +to be false and hated. + +"At any time," he said, "if you see things going wrong I should be +grateful for a little management on your part." + +"I will always do my very best for you, Sir Roland," she said, +earnestly, and I could feel in some vague way that she was sympathizing +with him and pitying him in a way that was against my mother's +interests. I could hardly tell how. + +"Have you a good housekeeper?" she asked, and my father answered: + +"Mrs. Eastwood has been here over fifty years, I believe." + +"Ah!" said Miss Reinhart, "that is too long; those very old housekeepers +are faithful, and all that kind of thing, but they are seldom of much +use. If everything does not go on as you wish in this unfortunate state +of things, rely upon it that is what is wrong. You should pension this +good Mrs. Eastwood off, and get some one young and active, with a +thorough knowledge of her business." + +"We will talk about it later on," he said. "I have no doubt but that you +are quite right." + +She looked up into his face with tender anxiety; I saw the look, and +could have killed her for it. + +"You know that I am devoted to your interests." she said. "I will +cheerfully and gladly do everything and anything I can," she said, "to +help you. You know you may command my services when and how you will." + +She spoke with the air of a grandduchess offering to obtain court +patronage, and my father made her a low, sweeping bow. + +Who was she, that she should talk to my father of "unfortunate +circumstances," and of her devotion to him? As for things going wrong, +it was not true--my mother, from her sofa, ordered the household, and I +knew there was nothing wrong. + +When my father saw the angry, pained expression on my face, an idea +seemed to occur to him. He called me to his side, and whispered to me: + +"You may run away and play, darling; and mind, Laura, you must never +repeat one word of what you hear to your mother; it would not do to +trouble her when little things go wrong." + +"Nothing has gone wrong," I answered. "Although she is ill, mamma sees +to everything." + +I should have said much more, but that my father placed his hand over my +mouth. + +"Hush! little one," he said. "I am afraid I give you too much license." + +"A little wholesome discipline needed," said Miss Reinhart; "but a sweet +child, Sir Roland--a sweet child, indeed!" + +I could not hear what followed, but I feel quite sure that she whispered +something which ended in these words: + +"Too much with Lady Tayne." + +I ran, fast as I could go, anywhere--where I could give vent to my +childish fury. I could have stamped on her beautiful face. What right +had she, a stranger, to talk about Mrs. Eastwood and mamma--to talk to +papa as though he were an injured man--what right? I tried hard to keep +all my indignation and anger, my fear and dread of what was to follow, +to myself, but I could not bear it. I believe my heart would have broken +but for Emma, my nurse. She found me behind the great cluster of laurel +trees crying bitterly; and when she took me in her arms to console me, I +told her all about it--told her every word. I know how she listened in +dismay, for her easy, bony face grew pale, and she said nothing for some +few minutes, then she cried out: + +"Oh, Miss Laura, you must be good and patient; don't set yourself +against her--perhaps she means no harm." + +"She means harm and she will do it," I cried; "why should she speak in +that tone to papa, and why does she look at him as though he were to be +pitied because mamma is ill? It is mamma who wants pity; she is twenty +times better lying there sick and ill than other mothers who are well +and strong and go about everywhere." + +"God bless the child!" cried my nurse; "why of course she is. Now, Miss +Laura, you know I love you, and what I say to you is always because I do +love you. Do what I say. You see she has to live here, and you had +better try to make the best of it." + +"She hates mamma and she hates me," I cried, unreasonably. + +"Now, my dear little lady," said Emma, "how can you possibly know that? +You are not reasonable or patient; try to make the best of it. It is of +no use for you to make an enemy of the new lady; if you do I am sure +you will suffer for it." + +"Oh, Emma!" I cried, "why did she come; we were all so happy; we were +all three so happy--why did she come? I did not want any education, I am +sure." + +"Pardon me, Miss Laura, but I think you do," said Emma, gravely. + +"The only thing I want to live for at all is to be with mamma," I +said--"to take care of her and try to make her happy. I do not want any +other life than that." + +"But," said my nurse, and I have often thought since what sense lay in +her words, "do you know, Miss Laura, that my lady, who is so clever +herself, will want an educated companion? For her sake you must learn +all you can." + +Those words gave me quite a new light. Why, of course I must; my mother +was not only well educated, but she was also highly accomplished; she +spoke French and German and had a very fair knowledge of Italian, +whereas I had only just mastered the rudiments of English. New life, new +ideas, new ambitions suddenly awoke within me, and, seeing her +advantage, Emma pursued it. + +"I have heard," she said, "that my lady is wonderfully clever. You will +be her companion and her constant comfort; you must know some of the +things she does. Now, Miss Laura, make up your mind, dear; instead of +making the lady your enemy, be quick and learn all she can teach +you--the sooner you know it all the sooner she will go." + +Ah, that was something like a reason for studying; I would learn lessons +all day and all night to insure her going. It must be a matter of years, +but if by constant application I could shorten the time, even by one +year, that was much. Then Emma gave me much sensible advice; above all, +never to speak to mamma about Miss Reinhart. + +"You see, Miss Laura, if your dear mamma took curious fancies against +this lady, how dreadful it would be. It would make her much worse, and +we do not know what might happen. Whatever occurs, bear it all patiently +or come to me." + +"My life is spoiled," I cried; "but I will do what you say." + +And I made to myself a vow, which I kept through all temptation, never +once to complain to my mother about Miss Reinhart. I did keep it, and +Heaven knows how much it cost me. My father was rather surprised the +next day when I went to his study and asked him if I could begin my +lessons at once. He laughed. + +"What an energetic scholar," he cried. "Why do you wish to begin so +soon, Laura?" + +"Because I have so very much to learn," I replied. + +"You shall begin this day, Laura," he said; "but Miss Reinhart must see +mamma first, and arrange the best hours for study. There are two or +three little arrangements I should like changing--for instance, now that +mamma is never present, I cannot see why you and Miss Reinhart should +not take breakfast with me. I am very lonely, and should be delighted if +we could manage that. But I must speak to mamma. Then I should like you +to go on dining with me, as you have done since mamma's illness. It +makes me quite ill to enter that great, desolate dining room. Do you +remember how mamma's sweet face used to shine there, Laura?" + +Did I? Did I ever enter the room without? + +"Make your mind easy, Laura; you shall begin your lessons to-day, and we +will see what mamma wishes to be done." + +That day an arrangement was made: Miss Reinhart and I were to breakfast +and dine with papa; the morning, until two was to be devoted to my +studies, and the rest of the day, if mamma desired her presence, Miss +Reinhart was to spend with her. We were to walk together, and I was, as +usual, to go out with mamma when her chair was wheeled into the grounds. + +"Heaven send that it may last!" said Emma, when she heard of it. + +I wonder if any angel repeated the prayer? + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +To me it seemed that I was as old at fifteen as many a girl of eighteen; +I had lived so much with grown-up people; I had received all my +impressions from them. I was very quick and appreciative. I read +character well, and seemed to have a weird, uncanny insight into the +thoughts and ideas of people--into their motives and plans. I had too +much of this faculty, for I was often made uncomfortable because shadows +came between me and others, and because I seemed to feel and understand +things that I could never put into words. + +Here is one little instance of what I mean: I stood one afternoon at the +window of my mother's room. The sun was shining brightly on the bloom of +countless flowers and the feathery spray of the fountains; the whole +place looked so bright and beautiful that it was a perfect picture. I +saw Miss Reinhart on the terrace; she was leaning over the stone +balustrade admiring the magnificent view. There was a restless, +disconsolate expression mixed with her admiration, and I knew quite well +the thoughts passing through her mind were, first, a vivid regret that +the place was not hers, then a wonder as to the possibility of its ever +belonging to her. I could read it in the lingering, loving glance she +threw round, followed by the impatient frown and restless movement. The +idea possessed me so strongly that I could not help going to my mother +and clasping my arms round her neck, as though I would save her from all +harm; but I did not tell her why. I had learned my lesson; from first to +last never a word passed my lips that could have grieved her even in the +least, never. + +The first thing that struck me in the manner of Miss Reinhart was the +way in which she spoke to my father. Now, I am quite sure, no matter +what came afterward, that at that time my father was one of the most +loyal and honest of men. I am sure that he loved my mother with greatest +affection: that her illness made her all the more dear to him, and that +he looked upon it as a trial equally great for both of them; he loved +her the more for it, and he devoted himself to her to make up to her as +much as he could for the privations that she had to undergo. As for +pitying himself, such an idea never occurred to him; of that I am +certain. All his love, pity, his compassion and sympathy, were for her, +without any thought of himself; but she almost spoke to him as though he +were to be pitied, as though he were very much injured and put upon, as +though my mother's illness were a wrong done to him. + +At first I noticed that he, too, seemed somewhat surprised; that he +would look half-wonderingly at her; then, at last, he fell into her +mood. She generally began at the breakfast table, where she came looking +as beautiful as a picture; the loveliest hue of the rose on her face, +the freshness of the morning in her dark eyes and on her lips; dressed +with great elegance, always with one lovely flower in her hair, and a +knot of fresh, fragrant blossoms at her breast; the fairest of women, +but how I disliked her. I can imagine that to any gentleman her society +must have been extremely agreeable. + +My father's lonely breakfasts had often been a cause of great distress +to him. He was essentially so gay and cheery; he loved the sound of +voices and laughter; he liked to be amused; to discuss the plans for the +day; to comment upon the letters received. To breakfast alone, or sit +alone, was for him a torture; he sighed always when the breakfast bell +rang, and we knew that it was a torture in its way. When my mother found +it out she insisted upon my joining him every morning. I was but a +child, and could not interest him very much. + +Now the matter was quite different. There was Miss Reinhart, fresh and +beautiful as the morning, witty and graceful, ready to ply him with +flatteries, making tea for him with her own white hands, talking in the +very brightest and most animated style. She had brilliant powers of +conversation, and no one could be more amusing. Although I hated her, I +often found myself hanging on the words that fell from her lips. + +No wonder that the breakfast hour was prolonged, and that, often after +the urn had grown cold, my father would cry out that he wanted more tea. +Miss Reinhart arranged his papers for him; she laid them ready to his +hand; they discussed the politics and the principal events of the day. + +Young as I was, I was struck with her animation and verve. She spoke +with such vivacity; her splendid face lighted with earnest, graceful +enthusiasm. She held very original and clever ideas about everything, +and it often happened that the conversation was prolonged until my +father would take out his watch and exclaim with wonder at the time. +Then Miss Reinhart would blush, and, taking me by the hand, disappear. +More than once my father followed us, and, taking my hand, would say: + +"Let us have a walk on the terrace before the lessons begin, Laura--Miss +Reinhart will come with us." + +But it was not to me he talked. + +In the early days of her arrival I heard my dear mother once, when my +father was speaking of her fine manners, say: + +"We ought to be proud to have so grand a lady for governess." + +Poor mamma, who knows the price she paid for a lady governess? + +It was when these morning visits grew so long that I first began to +notice the tone in which Miss Reinhart spoke of my mother. + +She would lean her beautiful head just a little forward, her eyes bright +with sweetest sympathy, her voice as beautifully sweet as the cooing of +the ring-dove. + +"How is dear Lady Tayne this morning, Sir Roland?" she would ask. + +"I am afraid there is little difference and no improvement," was his +reply. + +"Ah, how sad--what a sad fate--so young and so afflicted. It must be +dreadful for you, Sir Roland. I sympathize so much with you. I never +quite lose sight of your troubles. I do not know that there could +possibly be a greater one." + +At first my father would laugh, and say gently: + +"Ah, yes, there could be one--it would be so much worse if my dear wife +had died." + +But after a time he began to shake his head gravely as she shook hers, +and sigh as he answered: + +"Ah, yes, it is a terrible infliction." + +If any little domestic unpleasantness occurred, a thing by Sir Roland's +desire always kept from my mother, she would look so kindly at him. + +"Dear Sir Roland, how tiresome all this is for you. I wonder you are so +patient." Could my mother help it, I cried to myself with passionate +tears; was it her fault that she was stricken and helpless; ought this +woman to speak to my father about it as though he were the sufferer? The +tears that fell from my eyes blinded me; thus I had to go to my lessons, +my heart torn with its sense of injury and resentment against the one +who seemed to me my mother's enemy, I knew not why. + +Again, if there was a question about any visitors, and my father seemed +at a loss for a few minutes, she would say: + +"How painful it is for you, Sir Roland, to be troubled in this fashion; +can I do anything to help you?" Or it would be, "How sorry I am to see +you teased about such trifles, Sir Roland; can I manage it for you?" + +The same when he received invitations: before now it had seemed at least +almost a pleasure to decline them. I could remember how he used to take +both the letters of invitation and his refusals and send them to my +mother, commenting on them as he read. That was always followed by a +pretty little love scene, during which my mother would express her +regret that he was deprived of a pleasure; and he always answered that +the only pleasure he had was to be with her. + +Nor do I believe that state of things would ever have changed but for +Miss Reinhart. Now, when these letters came and he would read them with +knitted brow, she would inquire gently, ah, and with such sweet, +seductive sweetness, if anything in his letters had put him out. + +"No," he would answer with a sigh. "Oh, no! There is nothing in my +letters to annoy me--just the contrary. I ought to feel delighted. Sir +Charles Pomfret wishes me to go over to Pomfort Castle for a few days; +he has a fine large party there, and several of my old friends among +them." + +"What a disappointment to you," she cried. "You must feel these things +sorely." + +A frown instead of a smile passed over his face. + +I remember when he used to laugh, and say that it was a pleasure to give +up anything to be with my mother. Now he began to pace up and down the +room while she looked after him with pitiful eyes. Suddenly she rose, +and, going up to him, laid her hand on his arm. She gazed earnestly into +his face. + +"Why stay away, Sir Roland? I am sure you might go if you would. I will +take care of Lady Tayne. I do not see that you need be anxious, or that +there is the least need for giving up the party; let me persuade you to +go." + +"It seems unkind to leave Lady Tayne," he said. "I have never left her +for so long, and never alone." + +"If you will trust her to me, I will take the greatest care of her," +said Miss Reinhart; "and I am sure, quite sure, that if Lady Tayne knew, +she would insist on it--she would indeed. She would be the last to wish +you to give up every pleasure for her sake." + +It was the thin end of the wedge, but she succeeded in driving it in. + +He went. It was the first time he had left my mother, but by no means +the last. He went himself to tell her that he had decided on going. She +was most amiable and unselfish, and told him what was perfectly +true--that she was delighted, and that if he would begin to go out +without her she would be most happy. I know that she was unselfishly +glad, yet her sweet face was paler that night than usual; and once more +I felt sure that there were tears in her eyes. + +My father's visit was prolonged for a whole week, and very much he +enjoyed it. He wrote home every day; but it did not seem natural to me +that Miss Reinhart should be waiting for him in the hall, or that he +should tell her all about his visit long before he went to my mother's +room. + +But it was so, and my poor, dear mother did not know it. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +The first real rebellion, and the first time that the eyes of people +were opened to the amount of influence and authority that Miss Reinhart +had acquired in Tayne Hall. One or two domestic matters had gone +wrong--nothing very much, but dinner was late several times, and the +household machinery did not seem to run on as it had done. My father +complained; the cook did not evidently take so much pains. + +"There is no one to look after her," he said, with a deep sigh. + +Miss Reinhart responded by another. + +"Dear Sir Roland, can I help you--may I help you?" she explained. "Your +housekeeper is too old; you will never do any good until you have +another." + +"But," said my father, "she has been here so long; she was my mother's +housekeeper long before I was born. It does not seem right to send away +an old servant." + +"You need not send her away, I said before; you might pension her off." + +"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it. She has very peculiar ideas on +that point. I must see what she thinks about it." + +"Of course," said Miss Reinhart, "you will do as you think best, Sir +Roland--and your way is, I am sure, always the best--but I should have +thought, considering the very nervous state that Lady Tayne always lies +in, that it would have been far better not to let her know about it +until it is all over." + +My father thought for a few moments, and then he said: + +"No, I should not like to do that; it would seem like taking an unfair +advantage of her helplessness." + +Miss Reinhart blushed deeply. + +"Oh, Sir Roland!" she cried, "you could not suppose that I thought of +such a thing! I assure you I am quite incapable of it. I thought only of +dear Lady Tayne." + +And she seemed so distressed, so concerned and anxious that my father +hardly knew how to reassure her. She explained and protested until at +last, and with something of impatience, he said: + +"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it this morning." I knew he felt in +want of some kind of moral support when he took my hand and said, in +would-be careless words: "Come with me, Laura, to see mamma." + +And we went, hand-in-hand, to my mother's room. There, after the usual +loving greetings had been exchanged, my father broached the subject +which evidently perplexed and sadly worried him. Broached it ever so +gently, but I, who knew every look and trick of my mother's face, saw +how deeply pained she was. She never attempted to interrupt him, but +when he had finished speaking--having passed over very lightly indeed +the little domestic matters which had gone wrong since my mother's +illness, dwelling principally upon the benefit that would most probably +accrue if a younger housekeeper were engaged--my mother declined to do +anything of the kind. + +"My dear Roland," she said, "it would literally break my heart; think +what a faithful old servant she has been." + +"That is just it," said my father; "she is too old--too old, Miss +Reinhart thinks, to do her work well." + +There is a moment's silence. + +"Miss Reinhart thinks so," said my mother, in those clear, gentle tones +I knew so well; "but then, Roland, what can Miss Reinhart know about our +household matters?" + +That question puzzled him, for I believe that he himself was quite +unconscious how or to what extent he was influenced by my governess. + +"I should think," he replied, "that she must have noticed the little +disasters and failures. She is only anxious to spare you trouble and +help you." + +"That would not help me, sending away an attached and faithful old +servant like Mrs. Eastwood and putting a stranger in her place." + +"But if the stranger should be more efficient of the two, what then, +Beatrice?" + +"I do not care about that," she said, plaintively. "Mrs. Eastwood could +have an assistant--that would be better. You see, Roland, I am so +accustomed to her, she knows all my ways, and sends me just what I like. +I am so thoroughly accustomed to her I could not bear a stranger." + +"But, my darling, the stranger would never come near you," said my +father. + +"Mrs. Eastwood does," said my mother. "You do not know, Roland, when my +maid and nurse are tired she often comes to sit with me in the dead of +night, and we can talk about old times, even before you were born. She +tells me about your mother and you when you were a little boy. I should +not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart does not understand." + +"That settles the affair, my darling. If you do not decidedly wish it, +it shall never be done." + +She drew his face down to hers and kissed it. + +"You are so good to me," she said, gently. "You bear so much for my +sake. I know that you will not mind a little inconvenience every now and +then. I am sure you will not." + +"No; if you wish her to stay she shall do so," said Sir Roland; but I, +who know every play of his features, feel quite sure that he was not +pleased. + +Little was said the next morning at breakfast time. Sir Roland said +hurriedly that Lady Tayne did not wish to change; she was attached to +the old housekeeper, and did not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart +listened with a gentle, sympathetic face. + +"Yes," she said, "it will, of course, be much more pleasant for Lady +Tayne, but you should be considered as well. I know of a person, a most +excellent, economical managing woman, who is competent in every way to +undertake the situation. Still, if I cannot serve you in one way, can I +not in another? Shall I try to make matters easier for Mrs. Eastwood? I +understand housekeeping very well. I could do some good, I think!" + +"You are very kind to offer," he said. "I really do not like to complain +to Lady Tayne. She cannot possibly help it, and it distresses her. Not +that there is much the matter, only a few little irregularities; but +then you will not have time." + +"If you give me the permission," she said, "I will make the time." + +"It would really be a kindness," he said, "and I am very grateful to you +indeed. Perhaps you will be kind enough just to overlook matters for +me." + +I was with them, listening in fear and trembling, for I knew quite well +that Mrs. Eastwood would never submit to the rule of my governess. No +woman on earth ever played her cards so skillfully as Miss Reinhart. She +did not begin by interfering with the housekeeping at once; that would +not have been policy; she was far too wise. + +She began by small reforms. The truth must be told. Since my mother's +long illness our household had in some measure relaxed from its good +discipline. At first Miss Reinhart only interfered with the minor +arrangements. She made little alterations, all of which were conducive +to my father's comfort, and he was very grateful. When he saw that she +did so well in one direction, he asked her to help in another; and at +last came, what I had foreseen, a collision with Mrs. Eastwood. + +The Wars of the Roses were nothing to it. But for the pitiful tragedy +embodied in it, I could have laughed as at a farce. Miss Reinhart was +valiant, but Mrs. Eastwood was more valiant still. The whole household +ranged itself on one side or the other. The old servants were all on the +housekeeper's side, the new ones went with Miss Reinhart. + +"A house divided against itself cannot stand." Ours did not. Before long +the rival powers came into collision, and there was a declaration of +war--war to the knife! + +Miss Reinhart, "speaking solely in the interests of Sir Roland," wished +the dinner hour to be changed; it would be more convenient and suitable +to Sir Roland if it were an hour later. The housekeeper said that to +make it an hour later would be to disturb all the arrangements of the +house, and it could not be done. + +Miss Reinhart said it was the duty of the housekeeper to obey. + +The housekeeper said that she was accustomed to take her orders from the +master and mistress of the house, and that she did not recognize that of +the governess. + +"You will be compelled to recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain +here," she said. + +"Then I shall not remain," said the old housekeeper, trembling with +indignation, which was exactly what Miss Reinhart had desired her to +say. + +"You had better tell Sir Roland yourself," said my governess, in her +cold, impassive manner. "It has nothing whatever to do with me. Sir +Roland wishes me to attend to these things, and I have done so--the +result does not lie with me." + +"I have lived here, the most faithful and devoted of servants, for more +than fifty years. Why should you turn me away, or seek to turn me away?" +she said. "I have never wronged you. You may get one more clever, but no +one who will love my lady as I do--no one who will serve her one-half so +faithfully or so well, try your best, Miss Reinhart." + +"I have nothing to do with it," she replied coldly. "I will tell Sir +Roland that you desire to leave--there my business ends." + +"I beg your pardon, Miss Reinhart, there it does not end. I have no wish +to leave the place and family I love so well; but I say that I would +rather leave than obey you." + +"I will word your message just as you wish," she said; "there shall be +no mistake." + +I was with her when that conversation was repeated to Sir Roland, and I +may say that was my first real experience in the real deceit of the +world. Repeated to him, it bore quite a different aspect; it was an +insolent rebellion against proper authority, and my father resented it +very much. + +"Unless you had told me yourself, I would not have believed it, Miss +Reinhart." + +"It is quite true," she replied, calmly, looking, in her exquisite +morning dress, calm, sweet and unruffled as an angel. + +I believe, honestly, that from that time she tried to make things worse. +Every day the feud increased, until the whole household seemed to be +ranged one against the other. If the housekeeper said one thing, Miss +Reinhart at once said the opposite. Then an appeal would be made to Sir +Roland, who gradually became worn and worried of the very sound of it. + +"You will do no good," said Miss Reinhart to my father, "until you have +pensioned that old housekeeper off. Once done, you will have perfect +peace." + +Constant dripping wears away a stone. My father was so accustomed to +hearing she must go that at last the idea became familiar to him. I am +quite sure that Miss Reinhart had made this her test; that she had said +to herself--if she had her own way in this, she should in everything +else. It was her test of what she might do and how far she might go. + +It came at last. The blow fell on us, and she won. My father spoke +seriously to my mother. He said Mrs. Eastwood could have a cottage on +the estate, and he should allow her a sufficient income to live upon. +She could come to the Abbey when she liked to call on my mother, and +might be as happy as possible. It was not just to the other servants, or +even to themselves, he said, to keep one in such a position who was +really too old to fulfill the duties. + +My mother said nothing. It must be just as my father pleased. But when +he added that Miss Reinhart thought it the best thing possible, she +turned away her face and said no more. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +How the shadow fell, I cannot quite remember--how people first began to +find out there was something wrong at Tayne Hall. Mrs. Eastwood, after a +long interview with my mother, had gone away to the cottage, and Miss +Reinhart had brought some person, whom she appeared to know very well, +on the scene. + +Many of the servants would believe that the new housekeeper was the +governess' mother--there was a certain similarity of face and figure +between them; whether it was so or not, mattered little. From the hour +that Mrs. Stone entered the house my dear mother's rule may be said to +have ended; from that time domestic management may be summed up in a few +words--constant opposition to my mother's wishes and constant, +flattering attention to those of my father. If my mother missed the +little dainties that Mrs. Eastwood had lavished on her, my father +appreciated to the full the comfortable arrangements, the punctuality +over dinner, the bright and fresh appearance of everything. Nor was Miss +Reinhart slow in reminding him that he owed all this extra comfort to +her selection of a good housekeeper. + +It was but natural to suppose that Mrs. Stone looked upon the governess +as the highest authority in the house after Sir Roland; she never +appealed or applied to any one else; she never, I should say, even +remembered the existence of my mother. As for any reference to her, she +never thought of it. Hundreds of times, when I have been busy with my +lessons, she has come to the study, and, rapping at the door, has asked +to speak to my governess. I could hear her plainly saying: "Do you +think Sir Roland would like this?" And they would consult most eagerly +about it. I never once heard my name mentioned. + +"Miss Reinhart," I asked her one morning. "Why do you never think or +speak of my mother? Mrs. Stone never inquires what she would like." + +In the blandest tone of voice she replied to me: + +"My dear Laura, children--and you are but a child--should not ask such +questions." + +"I am a very old child," I replied, with a sigh. "But whether I am a +child or not, I can see that very little attention is ever paid to my +mother." + +"Has Lady Tayne complained?" she asked, hurriedly. + +"No, and never will," I replied, with all a child's pride in a mother's +courage. + +"I thought as much," she said, with a peculiar smile. "Lady Tayne has +plenty of sense." + +"She has plenty of patience," I replied, "and plenty of opportunity of +exercising it." + +"So much the better," replied Miss Reinhart, and then we resumed our +lessons. + +It was soon all over with the old servants. I wonder that my father, so +sensible, so keen in other matters, could not see that her sole ambition +was to have every person in the house under her control. One by one the +old servants disappeared--there was some fault or other with each +one--and my father grew more passive at each attack, and made less +resistance; he was so deeply impressed with the fact that every change +resulted in greater comfort for himself. + +One morning when, by some rare chance, I was left alone with Sir Roland, +and the faces of strange servants passed in and out: + +"Papa," I said, "we have great changes in the house." + +"Yes," he replied, brightly; "and so far as I can see, they have +conduced greatly to our benefit." + +"I want you to grant me one favor, papa--will you?" + +"Certainly, my Laura," he replied. "Why, what does this mean?" for I had +thrown myself in his arms with passionate tears--"what is this, Laura?" + +"I want you to promise me," I said, "that, whatever changes go on, you +will not let any one send mamma's maid, Patience, away?" + +He looked dreadfully shocked. + +"Your mother's maid, child?" he said. "Why, who dare even suggest such a +thing? Certainly not. The whole household is constructed with a view to +your mother's happiness." + +So she had told him, and so he believed. It was quite useless talking; +he did not see, he did not, indeed. + +I knew Emma disliked her and Patience, too. The farce of her being my +mother's companion was very soon played out. She never came near, unless +my father went, and then she did not remain long. But--and we, the three +who loved her, noted it with dismay--every day Miss Reinhart became more +of a companion to my father. She ingratiated herself by degrees. At +first it had been merely his breakfast, afterward she offered her +services over his letters; she answered many of them in a clear, +legible hand that pleased him, because it was so easily read. Then his +accounts. I went in several times and found them seated at the table, +side by side, with papers, ledgers and books, yet not so deeply +engrossed but that every now and then they had a jest and a merry laugh. + +Did he think of my mother during those hours? Did her pale, sweet, +wistful face ever come between him and that beautiful woman? + +Then I noticed that he would say to her: + +"Come out for a few minutes, Miss Reinhart, out on the terrace here, and +let us have some fresh air. If you will permit me, I will smoke my +cigar. Will you come, Laura?" + +I suppose it was natural; she was a beautiful woman, full of talent and +animation, brilliant and fascinating, only too anxious to please him in +every way, laying herself out to captivate him, and he never could +endure being alone. + +Ah, me! what my childish heart suffered--of rage, and terror, and +pain--when I saw my mother's eyes turned wistfully to the door, waiting, +watching for him and asking me, in the sweet, low tones, if I knew where +he was. I learned my lesson sharply enough. The first time she asked me +one bright, sunny morning, when she seemed a little better, and had a +great desire to go out. + +"I wish papa would go with me, Laura," she said. "I never enjoy anything +without him. Where is he?" + +I had seen him ten minutes before that on the lower terrace with Miss +Reinhart, and they were going to the grounds. He was smoking a cigar; +she was looking most fascinating and beautiful in her elegant morning +dress and coquettish hat. Without thinking, I replied, hastily: + +"He is out in the grounds with Miss Reinhart." + +Ah, heaven! shall I ever forget the face turned to mine, so white, so +scared, so stricken? + +"What did you say, Laura? Come here; I did not hear you." + +Then, when her trembling hands clutched mine, I knew what I had done +quite well. Patience came round to my mother with a look at me that +spoke volumes. + +"My lady," she said, "do pray be calm. You know how ill even the least +emotion makes you, and Miss Laura is so frightened when you are ill!" + +The sweet face grew whiter. + +"I will remember," she said. + +Then she repeated the question, but my intelligence had grown in the +last few minutes. + +"Papa is out in the grounds," I replied, "and I saw him speaking to Miss +Reinhart." + +"But," said my mother, "your papa does not walk out with Miss Reinhart. +Laura, darling, you must think before you speak." + +Now, I knew that Sir Roland went out every day with my governess; more +than that, two or three times each day I had seen them; but Patience +looked at me with a solemn warning in her face, and I answered, as I +kissed her: + +"I will try, darling mother. Shall I ever speak as plainly and as +prettily as you do, I wonder?" + +I loved to make little loving, flattering speeches to her, they pleased +her so much and brightened her sweet face; but that evening, when I went +back to her room, I saw her eyes were swollen with weeping. I vowed to +myself to be careful. + +"Where is papa, darling?" she asked, with loving, wistful eyes. "I have +only seen him once to-day." + +"He is still in the dining-room, mamma." Then I added, with a guilty, +blushing face, for I had left my governess with him, "and you know that +I am growing wise enough to understand gentlemen like a nod over the +last glass of port." + +"And Miss Reinhart, Laura, where is she?" + +I was so unused to speaking anything but the plain, simple truth--it was +an effort even to evade the question, and say that she generally enjoyed +herself after dinner in her own fashion. She looked very relieved, and +Patience gave me a friendly nod, as though she would say, "You are +improving, Miss Laura." + +Even after that, so soon as I entered the room, the loving, wistful eyes +would seek mine, and the question was always on her lips: + +"Where is papa?" + +One night she did not seem so well. I was startled myself by the march +of events--for Patience came to the drawing-room door, where Sir Roland +and Miss Reinhart were sitting, and looked slightly confused, as she +said: + +"I have taken the liberty of coming to you, Sir Roland. You wished me +always to tell you when my lady was not so well--she seems very +depressed and lonely." + +"I will go and sit with Lady Tayne," he said. + +Then he glanced at the beautiful, brilliant face of Sara Reinhart. + +"Laura, why are you not sitting with your mother to-night?" + +And I dare not tell him that my jealous heart would not let me leave him +alone with her. + +I understood that night the art with which she managed him, and with +it--child though I was--I had a feeling of contempt for the weak nature +so easily managed. + +He came back to her looking confused. + +"We must defer our game at chess, Miss Reinhart," he said. "Lady Tayne +is not so well; I am going to sit with her. Come on, Laura." + +"How good you are, Sir Roland," she said, impulsively. "You are so +self-sacrificing. I must follow your good example. Can I go to the +library and find a book? The evenings are very long." + +He looked irresolutely at her. + +"You must find them very long," he said. "I am very sorry." + +"It cannot be helped," she answered. "I have always heard that the +nights in the country were twice as long as those in town. I believe +it." + +I knew by instinct what she meant; there was no need for words. It was a +veiled threat that if my father did not spend his evenings with her she +would go back to town. He knew it as well, I am sure, from the look on +his face. I never like to think of that evening, or how it was spent by +us in my mother's room. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +When this unfortunate state of affairs in our household first became +public property, I cannot tell. I saw the servants, some grow +dissatisfied and leave, some grow impertinent, while some kind of +mysterious knowledge was shared by all. + +"Miss Laura," said my good nurse, Emma, to me one day, "I want to talk +to you very seriously. You are fifteen, and you are no longer a child. I +want to impress this much upon your mind--never say anything to your +mamma about Miss Reinhart, and if my lady asks any questions, try to say +as little as possible--do you understand?" + +I looked at her. Of what use was concealment with this honest, loving +heart? + +"Yes," I said; "I quite understand Emma. You mean that I must never tell +mamma anything about papa and--Miss Reinhart?" + +"Heaven bless the child!" cried the startled woman; "you could not have +understood better or more had you been twenty years old." + +"It is love for mamma that teaches me that and everything else," I +answered. + +"Ah, well, Miss Laura, since you speak frankly to me, so will I to you. +I would not say one word against Sir Roland for all the world. Before +she came he was the kindest and most devoted of husbands; since she has +been here he has changed, there is no doubt of it--terribly changed. My +lady does not know all that we know. She thinks he is tired of always +seeing her ill. She only suspects about Miss Reinhart, she is not sure, +and it must be the work of our lives to keep her from knowing the +truth." + +"Emma," I ventured to interrupt, "do you think it is the truth?" + +"Yes, I fear so; and, Miss Laura, you must bear one thing in mind, if +ever my lady knows it to be the truth it will kill her. We must be most +careful and always wear the brightest faces before her, and never let +her know that anything is going wrong." + +"I will do it always," I said, and then, looking up, I saw that my nurse +was sad and grave. "How will it end, Emma?" I asked. + +"Only God knows, miss," she replied. "One thing, I hope, is this--that +my lady will never find it out." + +Something was telling upon my dear mother every day; she grew thinner +and paler; the sweet smile, sweet always, grew fainter; her face flushed +at the least sound. Last year my father would have been devoured by +anxiety; now his visits were short and cold. If I said one word my +mother would interrupt me. "Hush! my Laura," she would say, gently; +"gentlemen are not at home in a sick-room. Dear papa is all that is +kind, but sitting long in one room is like imprisonment to him; I love +him far too much to wish him to do it." + +Then I would take the opportunity of repeating some kind word that I had +heard my father say of her. But do as we would, the shadow fell deeper +and darker every day. + +The sense of degradation fell upon me with intolerable weight. That our +household was a mark for slander--a subject of discussion, a blot on +the neighborhood, I understood quite well; that my father was blamed and +my mother pitied I knew also, and that Miss Reinhart was detested seemed +equally clear. She was very particular about going to church, and every +Sunday morning, whether Sir Roland went or not, she drove over to the +church and took me with her. When I went with my mother I had always +enjoyed this hour above all others. All the people we knew crowded +around us and greeted us so warmly--every one had such pleasant things +to say to us. Now, if a child came near where we stood, silent and +solitary, it was at once called back. If Miss Reinhart felt it, she gave +no indication of such feeling; only once--when three ladies, on their +way to their carriages, walked the whole round of the church-yard rather +than cross the path on which she stood--she laughed a cynical laugh that +did not harmonize with the beauty of her face. + +"What foolish, narrow-minded people these country people are!" she said. + +"How do you measure a mind?" I asked, and she answered, impatiently, +that children should not talk nonsense. + +The worst seemed to have come now. Some of our best servants left. Three +people remained true to my mother as the needle to the pole--myself, +Emma and Patience; we were always bright and cheerful in her presence. I +have gone in to see her when my heart has been as heavy as death, and +when my whole soul has been in hot rebellion against the deceit +practiced upon her, when I have shuddered at every laugh I forced from +my lips. + +She had completely changed during the last few months. All her pretty +invalid ways had gone. There was no light in her smiles--they were all +patience. She had quite ceased to ask about papa; where he was, what he +was doing, or anything about him. He went to her twice a day--once in +the morning and again at night. He would bend down carelessly and kiss +her forehead; and tell her any news he had heard, or anything he fancied +would interest her, and after a few minutes go away again. There was no +more lingering by her couch or loving dislike to leaving her--all that +was past and gone. + +My mother never reproached him--unless her faithful love was a reproach. +One thing I shall always hope and believe; it is this, that she never +even dreamed in those days of the extent of the evil. The worst she +thought was that my father encouraged Miss Reinhart in exceeding the +duties of her position; that he had allowed her to take a place that did +not belong to her, and that he permitted her to act in an intimate +manner with him. She believed also that my father, although he still +loved her and wished her well, was tired of her long illness, and +consequently tired of her. + +That was bad enough; but fortunately that was the worst just then--of +deeper evil she did not dream; only we three, who loved her faithfully +and well, knew that. + +But matters were coming to a crisis. I was resting in the nursery one +afternoon--my head had been aching badly--and Emma said an hour's sleep +would take it away. She drew down the blinds and placed my head on the +pillow. + +There was deeper wrong with my heart than with my head. + +My eyes closed, and drowsy languor fell over me. The door opened, and I +saw Alice Young, a very nice, respectable parlor maid, who had not been +with us long, enter the room. + +"Hush!" said my nurse, "Miss Laura is asleep." + +I was not quite, but I did not feel able to contradict them. What did it +matter? + +"I will not wake missie, but I want to speak to you," she said. "I am in +great trouble, Emma. I have had a letter from my mother this morning, +and she says I am to leave this place at once, that it is not +respectable, and that people are talking of it all over the county. What +am I to do?" + +"Go, I suppose," said Emma. + +The girl grew nearer to her. + +"Do you think it is true?" she asked. "I saw him driving her out +yesterday, and three days ago I saw his arm around her waist; but, +still, do you really think it is true, Emma?" + +"It does not matter to us," said Emma. + +"Yes, it does matter," persisted the other. "If it is really true, this +is no place for us; and if it be untrue, some one ought to put an end to +it. I have nothing but my character, and if that goes, all goes. Now, I +ask you to tell me, Emma, ought I to go or stay?" + +My nurse was silent for some few minutes, then she said: + +"You had better go. While missie and my lady stop here, I shall stay, +and when they go, I go. My duty is to them." + +Then I raised my white, miserable face from the pillow. + +"Do not say any more," I cried. "I am not asleep, and I understand it +all." + +"Law, bless the dear young lady!" cried Alice, aghast. "I would not have +spoken for the world if I had known"-- + +But I interrupted her. + +"It does not matter, Alice," I said. "You meant no harm, and I am old in +misery, though young in years." + +The girl went away, and Emma flung herself on her knees before me. + +"I am so sorry, Miss Laura," she began, "but I had not patience to +listen--my heart was full of one thing." + +"Emma," I said, "tell me, do you think mamma really knows or suspects +any of these things?" + +"No," was the quiet reply, "I do not. I will tell you why, Miss Laura. +If my lady even thought so, she would not allow Miss Reinhart to remain +in the house another hour with you." + +"I am going to papa now, and I shall ask him to send my governess away," +I said. "She shall not stop here." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +My father had always been kind to me--he had never used a harsh word to +me. My heart was full--it was almost bursting--when I went to him. The +shame, the degradation, the horror, were full upon me. Surely he would +hear reason. I dared not stop to think. I hastened to him. I flung my +arms round his neck and hid my face upon his breast. My passionate sobs +frightened him at first. + +"My dearest Laura, what is the matter?" he asked. + +"Papa, send Miss Reinhart away," I cried; "do send her away. We were so +happy before she came, and mamma was happy. Can you not see there is a +black shadow hanging over the house? Send it away--be as you were before +she came. Oh, papa, she has taken you from us." + +When I told him what I had heard he looked shocked and horrified. + +"My poor child! I had no idea of this." + +He laid me on the couch while he walked up and down the room. + +"Horrible!" I heard him say. "Frightful! Poor child! Alice shall go at +once!" + +He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had +overheard, and sent for the housekeeper. I heard the whispering, but not +the words--there was a long, angry conversation. I heard Sir Roland say +"that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of +conversations should leave." Then he kissed me. + +"Papa," I cried to him, "will you send Miss Reinhart away? No other +change is of any use." + +"My dear Laura, you are prejudiced. You must not listen to those stupid +servants and their vile exaggerations. Miss Reinhart is very good and +very useful to me. I cannot send her away as I would dismiss a +servant--nor do I intend." + +"Let her go, that we may be happy as we were before. Oh, papa! she does +not love mamma. She is not good; every one dislikes her. No one will +speak to her. What shall we do? Send her away!" + +"This is all a mistake, Laura," he said; "a cruel--I might say +wicked--mistake. You must not talk to me in this way again." + +Perhaps more might have been said; it might even have been that the +tragedy had been averted but for the sudden rap at the door and the +announcement that the rector wished to see Sir Roland. + +"Ask him to step in here," said my father, with a great mark of +discomposure. "Laura, run away, child, and remember what I have said. Do +not speak to me in this fashion again." + +I learned afterward that the rector had called to remonstrate with +him--to tell him what a scandal and shame was spreading all over the +country side, and to beg of him to end it. + +Many hours elapsed before I saw my father again. I saw him ride out of +the courtyard and did not see him return. When I had gone to his room in +the morning I had taken with me one of my books, and I wanted it for my +studies in the morning. + +It was neither light nor dark. I went quietly along the broad corridors +to my father's study. I never gave one thought to the fact that my +father might be there. I had not seen him return. I went in. The study +was a very long room with deep windows. Quite at the other end, with the +firelight shining on his face, stood my father, and by his side Miss +Reinhart, just as I had seen him stand with my beautiful mother a +hundred times; one arm was thrown round her, and he was looking +earnestly in her face. + +"It must be so," he said; "there is no alternative now." + +She clung to him, whispering, and he kissed her. + +I stole away. Oh! my injured, innocent mother. I do not remember exactly +what I did. I rushed from the house out into the great fir wood and wept +out my hot, rebellious anger and despair there. At breakfast time the +next morning just a gleam of hope came to me. Miss Reinhart said that, +above everything else, she should like a drive. + +Whether it was my pleading and tears or the rector's visit which had +made my father think, I cannot tell, but for the first time he seemed +quite unwilling to drive her out. The tears came into her eyes and he +went over to her and whispered something which made her smile. He talked +to her in a mysterious kind of fashion that I could neither understand +nor make out at all--of some time in the future. + +An uneasy sense of something about to happen came over me. I could feel +the approach of some dark shadow; all day the same sensation rested with +me, yet I saw nothing to justify it. At night my mother called me to her +side. + +"Laura, you do not look so cheerful this evening. What makes my daughter +so sad?" + +I could not tell her of that scene I had witnessed; I could not tell her +of what was wrong. + +On the morning following this, to me, horrible day, I could not help +seeing that there was quite a new understanding between my father and +Miss Reinhart. I overheard him say to her: + +"It would have been quite impossible to have gone on; the whole country +would have been in an uproar." + +All that day there seemed to me something mysterious going on in the +house; the servants went about with puzzled faces; there were +whisperings and consultations. I heard Patience say to Emma: + +"It is not true. I would not believe it. It is some foolish exaggeration +of the servants. I am sure it is not true." + +"Even if it should be I do not know what we could do," said Emma. "We +cannot prevent it. If he has a mind to do such a bad action, he will do +it, if not at one time, surely at another." + +What was it? I never asked questions now. + +One thing I remember. When I went into his room that evening to say +good-night, my father's traveling flask lay there--a pretty silver flask +that my mother had given him for a birthday present. He bade me +"good-night," and I little thought when or how we should meet again. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +I do not judge or condemn him. I do not even say what I should say if he +were any other than my father. His sin was unpardonable; perhaps his +temptation was great; I cannot tell. The Great Judge knows best. I will +tell my miserable story just as it happened. + +The day following--another bright, sunny, warm morning, all sunshine, +song and perfume, the birds singing so sweetly and the fair earth +laughing. It was so bright and beautiful that when I went out into the +grounds my troubles seemed to fade away. I hastened to gather some +flowers for my mother; the mignonette was in bloom, and that was her +favorite flower. I took them to her, and we talked for a few minutes +about the beauty of the day. She seemed somewhat better, and asked me to +get through my studies quickly, so that we might go through the grounds. +I hastened to the school-room. Miss Reinhart was not there. I took my +books and sat down by the window waiting for her. As I sat there, one +after another the servants looked in the room, as though in search of +something, then vanished. At last I grew tired of waiting, and rang to +ask if Miss Reinhart was coming to give me my lessons. Emma came in +reply. + +Miss Reinhart would not be there yet, she said, and it would be better +for me to go out now with my lady and to attend to my books afterward. + +It struck me that every one seemed in a hurry to get us out of the +house. Patience King was not to be seen, and Emma did not like to come +near us because of her tear-stained face. Just as we were leaving the +house my mother turned to the footman, who was at the back of her chair: + +"John," she said, "go and ask Sir Roland if he will come with us." + +I saw the man's face flush crimson, but he went away and returned in a +few minutes, saying that his master was not in. + +My mother repeated the words in some wonder. + +"Have you seen papa this morning, Laura?" + +"No; Emma brought my breakfast to me." + +"I have not seen him either," she said. "He has not been to say +good-morning to me yet. John, leave word that when Sir Roland comes in +we shall be on the grass plot near the sun-dial!" + +Why did they all look at us with such scared faces, with such wondering +eyes? And I felt sure that I heard one say to the other: + +"I have sent for the rector." + +We went--as unconscious of the doom that hung over us as two +children--went my mother's rounds. She looked at all the flowers, but +turned to me once or twice and said, uneasily: + +"I wonder where Sir Roland is? It seems strange not to have seen him." + +We talked about him. There was nothing she liked more than speaking of +him to me. We were out, I should think, at least three hours, and then +my mother felt faint, and we went back. + +The good rector met us and shook hands very kindly with us, but he was +pale and agitated, not like himself in the least. Patience was there, +and Emma; the other servants were huddled in groups, and I knew +something very terrible had happened--something--but what? + +The rector said Lady Tayne was tired, and must have some wine. My mother +took it, and was placed upon her couch once more. She turned to the +footman and asked if my father had returned. The answer was--no. Then +the rector said he wished to speak to her alone. He held a letter in his +hands, and his face was as pale as death. She looked up at him and said, +quickly: + +"Is it bad news?" + +"Yes," he answered, gravely; "it is very bad news. Laura, go away and +leave your mother with me." + +But my mother clung to me. + +"No, if I have anything to suffer," she cried, "let Laura stay with +me--I can bear anything with her." + +"Let me stay?" I asked. + +He covered his face with his hands, and was silent for some minutes. I +wonder if he was praying Heaven to give him strength--he had to give my +mother her death blow. I can never remember how he told her--in what +language or fashion--but we gathered the sense of it at last; my father +had left home, and had taken Miss Reinhart with him! + +The blow had fallen--the worst had come. Oh, Heaven! if, sleeping or +waking, I could ever forget my mother's face--if I could close my eyes +without seeing its white, stony horror! The very tone of her voice was +changed. + +"Doctor Dalkeith!" she asked, "is this horrible thing true--true?" + +"Unhappily, Lady Tayne," he replied. + +"You say that my husband, Sir Roland has left me, and has gone +away--with--this person?" + +"I am afraid it is but too true," he replied. + +"Has he ceased to love me, that he has done this?" + +"My dear Lady Tayne, I know nothing but the facts--nothing else. Your +servants sent for me to break it to you, for they could not bear to do +it themselves." + +"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had +gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they +fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried: "I +must follow him!" + +Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and +helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother +suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She +stretched out her hands--into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring +sudden life. + +"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or +three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground. + +"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so." + +He rang the bell. + +"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and +for the doctor!" + +"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face. + +"I am afraid so," he replied. + +They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the +rector drew me to her. + +"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; +if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck +and speak to her." + +I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my +beautiful young mother--as I held her there a vision came to me of her, +as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet. + +"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor +child, come away." + +"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked--"dead?" + +"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear +child, she could not have lived and borne this--she would have suffered +a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must +have died even as she fell." + +Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my +lips. + +"Oh, mother--mother!" + +And then Heaven was merciful to me, too--a dark shadow seemed to fall +over me, and I remember no more. + +When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining--the birds +singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my +mother died. + +I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving +hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands--a sweet +smile was on her lips. + +The rector stood there with me. + +"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word--murdered." + +"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. +Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent +heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her +coffin? The sweetest flower that grows." + +"No; I do not know." + +"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told +me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who +incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I +do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, +lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so." + +After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my +mother in Heaven I will tell her why. + +She was buried. No news came from my father. Tayne Hall was closed, and +I went to live with my mother's cousin. + +That is the story of the sin; this is the punishment: + +Some years afterward Sir Roland brought his wife back to England--he +married her when my mother died---but no one would receive them. They +were banished from all civilized society, and to compensate herself for +that, my mother's rival mixed with the fastest and worst set in England. +The end of it was that, after completely ruining him, she ran away from +him and left him as he had left my mother. + +His death redeemed his life. He was found dead on my mother's grave, and +I loved him better in death than in life. + +That is what one wicked woman can do. There is one prayer that should +never leave man's lips, and it is: "Lead us not into temptation." + + +THE END. + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors from the +original edition have been corrected. + +<i>pictuesque</i> has been changed to <i>picturesque</i>. + +<i>stood lookinging at her</i> has been changed to <i>stood looking at her</i>. + +The quotation mark in <i>"Oh, baby brother</i> has been removed. + +<i>recumbent postion</i> has been changed to <i>recumbent position</i>. + +The quotation mark in <i>"My mother grasped my hand</i> has been removed. + +A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>"My life is spoiled, I +cried</i>. + +A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>"You will be compelled to +recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain here, she said.</i> + +A missing quotation mark has been added to <i>Why do you never think or +speak of my mother?</i>] + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's My Mother's Rival, by Charlotte M. 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