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.