My Mother's Rival by Charlotte M. Braeme
C >>
Charlotte M. Braeme >> My Mother\'s Rival
"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself.
You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"--and here his
voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your
mother."
That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be.
Then he took me in his arms.
"My dearest little Laura," he said, "two angels have been with us during
the night--the angel of life and the angel of death. You have had a
little brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is
very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect
rest she will not get better--there must not be a sound in the house."
A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I
could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers and
sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him.
"I should like to see my little brother, papa--if I may," I said.
He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered:
"I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you."
We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms
that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully
decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the
berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child.
My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale
snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen
face with closed eyes and lips.
Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was
not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no
horrors for me.
"May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed
with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty
eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was,
they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death.
"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked.
"Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he
lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of
Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of man
this child might have been or what he might have done?"
"Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked.
"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father.
I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little
brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again?
CHAPTER IV.
My mother was in danger and my baby brother dead. The gloom that lay
over our house was something never to be forgotten; the silence that was
never broken by one laugh or one cheerful word, the scared faces--for
every one loved "my lady." One fine morning, when the snowdrops had
grown more plentiful, and there was a faint sign of the coming spring in
the air, they took my baby brother to bury him. Such a tiny coffin, such
tiny white wreaths, a little white pall covered with flowers. My father
would not let black come near him.
My father wept bitter tears.
"There sleeps my little son and heir, Laura," he said to me--"my little
boy. It is as though he had just peeped out of Heaven at this world,
and, not liking it, had gone back again."
A pretty little white monument was put up to the baby Gerald. My mother
chose the epitaph, which I had always thought so pretty. It was simply
this--"The angels gather such lilies for God."
By degrees some little sunshine stole back, the dreadful silence
lessened, the servants began to walk about without list slippers, the
birds were carried back to the beautiful aviary--my mother's favorite
nook; the doctors smiled as they came down the grand staircase. I heard
Sir Roland whistling and singing as he had done weeks ago.
At last I was admitted to see her. One fine March morning, when the wind
was blowing freshly and tossing the big, bare branches, I was taken to
her room. I should not have known her; a pale, languid lady lay there in
the place of my laughing, beautiful mother; two large blue eyes full of
tears looked at me; two thin, white arms clasped me, and then I was
lying on my mother's heart. Oh, my darling, if we could have died then.
"My little Laura, I was afraid I should never see you again," whispered
a faint voice.
Ah, me, the ecstasy of the next half-hour! I sat close by her side and
told her how the snowdrops were growing and the purple and golden
crocuses made the garden seem quite gay. I told her where I had found
the first violets, some of which I had brought to her. I cannot tell
what it was like to me to feel my mother's hand on my head once more.
Then came a brief time of happiness. My mother improved a little, and
was carried from the bedroom where she had spent so many weeks to her
boudoir, and I was allowed to be with her all day.
"She would be better soon and able to go out," my father said, and then
the happy old times would come back again. My mother would walk with me
through the picture gallery at sunset, and more, she would dance with
flying feet and run races with me in the wood. Oh, how I longed for the
time when she would regain the color in her face and light in her eyes!
They said I must be patient, it would come in time. But, alas! it was
weary waiting; the days seemed as weeks to me, and yet my dear,
beautiful mother was still confined to her room and to her bed. So it
went on.
The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet
she was still lying helpless on the sofa.
One day papa and I were both sitting with her. She looked better, and
was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the
woods.
"I feel better this morning," she said. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I
could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me."
"It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know
best."
"I am sure I could walk," said my mother, "and I feel such a restless
longing to put my foot to the ground once more."
There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another
word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite
upright. My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry. She
tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground.
Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious
care. The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us
once more. Then the crushing blow came. Great doctors came from England
and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it
came at length.
My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the
flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life. She was to be a
hopeless, helpless cripple. She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a
chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more--she would
never walk again.
My father's heart almost broke. I can see him now crying and sobbing
like a child. He would not believe it. He turned from one to the other,
crying out:
"It cannot be true! I will not believe it! She is so young and so
beautiful--it cannot be true!"
"It is most unfortunately true," said the head physician, sorrowfully.
"The poor lady will dance and walk no more."
"Who is to tell her?" cried my father. "I dare not."
"It will be far better that she should not know--a hundred times better.
Let her live as long as she can in ignorance of her fate; she will be
more cheerful and in reality far better than if she knew the truth; it
would hang over her like a funeral pall; the stronger her nerve and
spirit the better for her. She would regain neither, knowing this."
"But in time--with care--she is so young. Perhaps there may be a
chance."
"I tell you plainly," said the doctor, "that most unfortunately there is
none--there is not the faintest," and, he added, solemnly, "may Heaven
lighten your afflictions to you!"
They went away, and my father drew me to his arms.
"Laura," he said, "you must help me all your life to take care of
mamma."
"I will, indeed," I cried. "I ask nothing better from Heaven than to
give my life to her--my beautiful mother."
And then he told me that she would never walk again--that her flying
feet were to rest forever more--that in her presence I must always be
quite bright and cheerful, and never say one word of what I knew.
No more difficult task could have been laid on the heart of a child. I
did it. No matter what I suffered, I always went into her room with a
smile and bright, cheerful words.
So the long years passed; my beautiful mother grew better and happier
and stronger--little dreaming that she was never to walk out in the
meads and grounds again. She was always talking about them and saying
where she should go and what she should do when she grew well.
Roses bloomed, lilies lived and died, the birds enjoyed their happy
summer, then flew over the sea to warmer climes; summer dew and summer
rain fell, the dead leaves were whirled in the autumn winds, and still
my mother lay helpless. If this one year seemed so long, what would a
lifetime be?
As some of her strength returned it seemed to me that mother grew more
and more charming. She laughed and enjoyed all our care of her, and when
the wonderful chair came from London, in which she could go round the
garden, and could be wheeled from one room to another, she was as
delighted as a child.
"Still," she said to my father, "it seems to me a pity almost, Roland,
to have sent to London for this. I shall surely be able to walk soon."
He turned away from her with tears in his eyes.
A month or two afterward we were both sitting with her, and she said,
quite suddenly:
"It seems a long time since I began to lie here. I am afraid it will be
many months before I get well again. I think I shall resign myself to
proper invalids' fashions. I will have some pretty lace caps, Laura, and
we will have more books." Then a wistful expression crossed her face and
she said: "I would give anything on earth to walk, even only for ten
minutes, by the side of the river; as I lie here I think so much about
it. I know it in all its moods--when the wind hurries it and the little
wavelets dash along; when the tide is deep and the water overflows among
the reeds and grasses; when it is still and silent and the shadows of
the stars lie on it, and when the sun turns it into a stream of living
gold, I know it well."
"You will see it again soon," said my father, in a broken voice. "I will
drive you down any time you like."
But my mother said nothing. I think she had seen the tears in Sir
Roland's eyes. From that day she seemed to grow more reconciled to her
lot. Now let me add a tribute to my father. His devotion to her was
something marvelous; he seemed to love her better in her helpless state
than he had done when she was full of health and spirits. I admired him
so much for it during the first year of my mother's illness. He never
left her. Hunting, shooting, fishing, dinner parties, everything was
given up that he might sit with her.
One of the drawing rooms, a beautiful, lofty apartment looking over the
park to the hills beyond, was arranged as my mother's room; there all
that she loved best was taken.
The one next to it was made into a sleeping room for her, so that she
should never have to be carried up and down stairs. A room for her maid
came next. And my father had a door so placed that the chair could be
wheeled from the rooms through the glass doors into the grounds.
"You think, then," she said, "that I shall not grow well just yet,
Roland?"
"No, my darling, not just yet," he replied.
What words of mine could ever describe what that sick room became? It
was a paradise of beautiful flowers, singing birds, little fragrant
fountains and all that was most lovely. After a time visitors came, and
my mother saw them; the poor came, and she consoled them.
"My lady" was with them once more, never more to walk into their
cottages and look at the rosy children. They came to her now, and that
room became a haven of refuge.
So it went on for three years, and I woke up one morning to find it was
my thirteenth birthday.
CHAPTER V.
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.
CHAPTER VI.
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: