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.