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.