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?