My Mother's Rival Part 8

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 pa.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate 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 gla.s.s 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."