My Mother's Rival by Charlotte M. Braeme
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Charlotte M. Braeme >> My Mother\'s Rival
"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?
CHAPTER VII.
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.
CHAPTER VIII.
The first real rebellion, and the first time that the eyes of people
were opened to the amount of influence and authority that Miss Reinhart
had acquired in Tayne Hall. One or two domestic matters had gone
wrong--nothing very much, but dinner was late several times, and the
household machinery did not seem to run on as it had done. My father
complained; the cook did not evidently take so much pains.
"There is no one to look after her," he said, with a deep sigh.
Miss Reinhart responded by another.
"Dear Sir Roland, can I help you--may I help you?" she explained. "Your
housekeeper is too old; you will never do any good until you have
another."
"But," said my father, "she has been here so long; she was my mother's
housekeeper long before I was born. It does not seem right to send away
an old servant."
"You need not send her away, I said before; you might pension her off."
"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it. She has very peculiar ideas on
that point. I must see what she thinks about it."
"Of course," said Miss Reinhart, "you will do as you think best, Sir
Roland--and your way is, I am sure, always the best--but I should have
thought, considering the very nervous state that Lady Tayne always lies
in, that it would have been far better not to let her know about it
until it is all over."
My father thought for a few moments, and then he said:
"No, I should not like to do that; it would seem like taking an unfair
advantage of her helplessness."
Miss Reinhart blushed deeply.
"Oh, Sir Roland!" she cried, "you could not suppose that I thought of
such a thing! I assure you I am quite incapable of it. I thought only of
dear Lady Tayne."
And she seemed so distressed, so concerned and anxious that my father
hardly knew how to reassure her. She explained and protested until at
last, and with something of impatience, he said:
"I will speak to Lady Tayne about it this morning." I knew he felt in
want of some kind of moral support when he took my hand and said, in
would-be careless words: "Come with me, Laura, to see mamma."
And we went, hand-in-hand, to my mother's room. There, after the usual
loving greetings had been exchanged, my father broached the subject
which evidently perplexed and sadly worried him. Broached it ever so
gently, but I, who knew every look and trick of my mother's face, saw
how deeply pained she was. She never attempted to interrupt him, but
when he had finished speaking--having passed over very lightly indeed
the little domestic matters which had gone wrong since my mother's
illness, dwelling principally upon the benefit that would most probably
accrue if a younger housekeeper were engaged--my mother declined to do
anything of the kind.
"My dear Roland," she said, "it would literally break my heart; think
what a faithful old servant she has been."
"That is just it," said my father; "she is too old--too old, Miss
Reinhart thinks, to do her work well."
There is a moment's silence.
"Miss Reinhart thinks so," said my mother, in those clear, gentle tones
I knew so well; "but then, Roland, what can Miss Reinhart know about our
household matters?"
That question puzzled him, for I believe that he himself was quite
unconscious how or to what extent he was influenced by my governess.
"I should think," he replied, "that she must have noticed the little
disasters and failures. She is only anxious to spare you trouble and
help you."
"That would not help me, sending away an attached and faithful old
servant like Mrs. Eastwood and putting a stranger in her place."
"But if the stranger should be more efficient of the two, what then,
Beatrice?"
"I do not care about that," she said, plaintively. "Mrs. Eastwood could
have an assistant--that would be better. You see, Roland, I am so
accustomed to her, she knows all my ways, and sends me just what I like.
I am so thoroughly accustomed to her I could not bear a stranger."
"But, my darling, the stranger would never come near you," said my
father.
"Mrs. Eastwood does," said my mother. "You do not know, Roland, when my
maid and nurse are tired she often comes to sit with me in the dead of
night, and we can talk about old times, even before you were born. She
tells me about your mother and you when you were a little boy. I should
not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart does not understand."
"That settles the affair, my darling. If you do not decidedly wish it,
it shall never be done."
She drew his face down to hers and kissed it.
"You are so good to me," she said, gently. "You bear so much for my
sake. I know that you will not mind a little inconvenience every now and
then. I am sure you will not."
"No; if you wish her to stay she shall do so," said Sir Roland; but I,
who know every play of his features, feel quite sure that he was not
pleased.
Little was said the next morning at breakfast time. Sir Roland said
hurriedly that Lady Tayne did not wish to change; she was attached to
the old housekeeper, and did not like to lose her. Miss Reinhart
listened with a gentle, sympathetic face.
"Yes," she said, "it will, of course, be much more pleasant for Lady
Tayne, but you should be considered as well. I know of a person, a most
excellent, economical managing woman, who is competent in every way to
undertake the situation. Still, if I cannot serve you in one way, can I
not in another? Shall I try to make matters easier for Mrs. Eastwood? I
understand housekeeping very well. I could do some good, I think!"
"You are very kind to offer," he said. "I really do not like to complain
to Lady Tayne. She cannot possibly help it, and it distresses her. Not
that there is much the matter, only a few little irregularities; but
then you will not have time."
"If you give me the permission," she said, "I will make the time."
"It would really be a kindness," he said, "and I am very grateful to you
indeed. Perhaps you will be kind enough just to overlook matters for
me."
I was with them, listening in fear and trembling, for I knew quite well
that Mrs. Eastwood would never submit to the rule of my governess. No
woman on earth ever played her cards so skillfully as Miss Reinhart. She
did not begin by interfering with the housekeeping at once; that would
not have been policy; she was far too wise.
She began by small reforms. The truth must be told. Since my mother's
long illness our household had in some measure relaxed from its good
discipline. At first Miss Reinhart only interfered with the minor
arrangements. She made little alterations, all of which were conducive
to my father's comfort, and he was very grateful. When he saw that she
did so well in one direction, he asked her to help in another; and at
last came, what I had foreseen, a collision with Mrs. Eastwood.
The Wars of the Roses were nothing to it. But for the pitiful tragedy
embodied in it, I could have laughed as at a farce. Miss Reinhart was
valiant, but Mrs. Eastwood was more valiant still. The whole household
ranged itself on one side or the other. The old servants were all on the
housekeeper's side, the new ones went with Miss Reinhart.
"A house divided against itself cannot stand." Ours did not. Before long
the rival powers came into collision, and there was a declaration of
war--war to the knife!
Miss Reinhart, "speaking solely in the interests of Sir Roland," wished
the dinner hour to be changed; it would be more convenient and suitable
to Sir Roland if it were an hour later. The housekeeper said that to
make it an hour later would be to disturb all the arrangements of the
house, and it could not be done.
Miss Reinhart said it was the duty of the housekeeper to obey.
The housekeeper said that she was accustomed to take her orders from the
master and mistress of the house, and that she did not recognize that of
the governess.
"You will be compelled to recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain
here," she said.
"Then I shall not remain," said the old housekeeper, trembling with
indignation, which was exactly what Miss Reinhart had desired her to
say.
"You had better tell Sir Roland yourself," said my governess, in her
cold, impassive manner. "It has nothing whatever to do with me. Sir
Roland wishes me to attend to these things, and I have done so--the
result does not lie with me."
"I have lived here, the most faithful and devoted of servants, for more
than fifty years. Why should you turn me away, or seek to turn me away?"
she said. "I have never wronged you. You may get one more clever, but no
one who will love my lady as I do--no one who will serve her one-half so
faithfully or so well, try your best, Miss Reinhart."
"I have nothing to do with it," she replied coldly. "I will tell Sir
Roland that you desire to leave--there my business ends."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Reinhart, there it does not end. I have no wish
to leave the place and family I love so well; but I say that I would
rather leave than obey you."
"I will word your message just as you wish," she said; "there shall be
no mistake."
I was with her when that conversation was repeated to Sir Roland, and I
may say that was my first real experience in the real deceit of the
world. Repeated to him, it bore quite a different aspect; it was an
insolent rebellion against proper authority, and my father resented it
very much.
"Unless you had told me yourself, I would not have believed it, Miss
Reinhart."
"It is quite true," she replied, calmly, looking, in her exquisite
morning dress, calm, sweet and unruffled as an angel.
I believe, honestly, that from that time she tried to make things worse.
Every day the feud increased, until the whole household seemed to be
ranged one against the other. If the housekeeper said one thing, Miss
Reinhart at once said the opposite. Then an appeal would be made to Sir
Roland, who gradually became worn and worried of the very sound of it.
"You will do no good," said Miss Reinhart to my father, "until you have
pensioned that old housekeeper off. Once done, you will have perfect
peace."
Constant dripping wears away a stone. My father was so accustomed to
hearing she must go that at last the idea became familiar to him. I am
quite sure that Miss Reinhart had made this her test; that she had said
to herself--if she had her own way in this, she should in everything
else. It was her test of what she might do and how far she might go.
It came at last. The blow fell on us, and she won. My father spoke
seriously to my mother. He said Mrs. Eastwood could have a cottage on
the estate, and he should allow her a sufficient income to live upon.
She could come to the Abbey when she liked to call on my mother, and
might be as happy as possible. It was not just to the other servants, or
even to themselves, he said, to keep one in such a position who was
really too old to fulfill the duties.