My Mother's Rival by Charlotte M. Braeme
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Charlotte M. Braeme >> My Mother\'s Rival
My mother said nothing. It must be just as my father pleased. But when
he added that Miss Reinhart thought it the best thing possible, she
turned away her face and said no more.
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 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.
CHAPTER X.
When this unfortunate state of affairs in our household first became
public property, I cannot tell. I saw the servants, some grow
dissatisfied and leave, some grow impertinent, while some kind of
mysterious knowledge was shared by all.
"Miss Laura," said my good nurse, Emma, to me one day, "I want to talk
to you very seriously. You are fifteen, and you are no longer a child. I
want to impress this much upon your mind--never say anything to your
mamma about Miss Reinhart, and if my lady asks any questions, try to say
as little as possible--do you understand?"
I looked at her. Of what use was concealment with this honest, loving
heart?
"Yes," I said; "I quite understand Emma. You mean that I must never tell
mamma anything about papa and--Miss Reinhart?"
"Heaven bless the child!" cried the startled woman; "you could not have
understood better or more had you been twenty years old."
"It is love for mamma that teaches me that and everything else," I
answered.
"Ah, well, Miss Laura, since you speak frankly to me, so will I to you.
I would not say one word against Sir Roland for all the world. Before
she came he was the kindest and most devoted of husbands; since she has
been here he has changed, there is no doubt of it--terribly changed. My
lady does not know all that we know. She thinks he is tired of always
seeing her ill. She only suspects about Miss Reinhart, she is not sure,
and it must be the work of our lives to keep her from knowing the
truth."
"Emma," I ventured to interrupt, "do you think it is the truth?"
"Yes, I fear so; and, Miss Laura, you must bear one thing in mind, if
ever my lady knows it to be the truth it will kill her. We must be most
careful and always wear the brightest faces before her, and never let
her know that anything is going wrong."
"I will do it always," I said, and then, looking up, I saw that my nurse
was sad and grave. "How will it end, Emma?" I asked.
"Only God knows, miss," she replied. "One thing, I hope, is this--that
my lady will never find it out."
Something was telling upon my dear mother every day; she grew thinner
and paler; the sweet smile, sweet always, grew fainter; her face flushed
at the least sound. Last year my father would have been devoured by
anxiety; now his visits were short and cold. If I said one word my
mother would interrupt me. "Hush! my Laura," she would say, gently;
"gentlemen are not at home in a sick-room. Dear papa is all that is
kind, but sitting long in one room is like imprisonment to him; I love
him far too much to wish him to do it."
Then I would take the opportunity of repeating some kind word that I had
heard my father say of her. But do as we would, the shadow fell deeper
and darker every day.
The sense of degradation fell upon me with intolerable weight. That our
household was a mark for slander--a subject of discussion, a blot on
the neighborhood, I understood quite well; that my father was blamed and
my mother pitied I knew also, and that Miss Reinhart was detested seemed
equally clear. She was very particular about going to church, and every
Sunday morning, whether Sir Roland went or not, she drove over to the
church and took me with her. When I went with my mother I had always
enjoyed this hour above all others. All the people we knew crowded
around us and greeted us so warmly--every one had such pleasant things
to say to us. Now, if a child came near where we stood, silent and
solitary, it was at once called back. If Miss Reinhart felt it, she gave
no indication of such feeling; only once--when three ladies, on their
way to their carriages, walked the whole round of the church-yard rather
than cross the path on which she stood--she laughed a cynical laugh that
did not harmonize with the beauty of her face.
"What foolish, narrow-minded people these country people are!" she said.
"How do you measure a mind?" I asked, and she answered, impatiently,
that children should not talk nonsense.
The worst seemed to have come now. Some of our best servants left. Three
people remained true to my mother as the needle to the pole--myself,
Emma and Patience; we were always bright and cheerful in her presence. I
have gone in to see her when my heart has been as heavy as death, and
when my whole soul has been in hot rebellion against the deceit
practiced upon her, when I have shuddered at every laugh I forced from
my lips.
She had completely changed during the last few months. All her pretty
invalid ways had gone. There was no light in her smiles--they were all
patience. She had quite ceased to ask about papa; where he was, what he
was doing, or anything about him. He went to her twice a day--once in
the morning and again at night. He would bend down carelessly and kiss
her forehead; and tell her any news he had heard, or anything he fancied
would interest her, and after a few minutes go away again. There was no
more lingering by her couch or loving dislike to leaving her--all that
was past and gone.
My mother never reproached him--unless her faithful love was a reproach.
One thing I shall always hope and believe; it is this, that she never
even dreamed in those days of the extent of the evil. The worst she
thought was that my father encouraged Miss Reinhart in exceeding the
duties of her position; that he had allowed her to take a place that did
not belong to her, and that he permitted her to act in an intimate
manner with him. She believed also that my father, although he still
loved her and wished her well, was tired of her long illness, and
consequently tired of her.
That was bad enough; but fortunately that was the worst just then--of
deeper evil she did not dream; only we three, who loved her faithfully
and well, knew that.
But matters were coming to a crisis. I was resting in the nursery one
afternoon--my head had been aching badly--and Emma said an hour's sleep
would take it away. She drew down the blinds and placed my head on the
pillow.
There was deeper wrong with my heart than with my head.
My eyes closed, and drowsy languor fell over me. The door opened, and I
saw Alice Young, a very nice, respectable parlor maid, who had not been
with us long, enter the room.
"Hush!" said my nurse, "Miss Laura is asleep."
I was not quite, but I did not feel able to contradict them. What did it
matter?
"I will not wake missie, but I want to speak to you," she said. "I am in
great trouble, Emma. I have had a letter from my mother this morning,
and she says I am to leave this place at once, that it is not
respectable, and that people are talking of it all over the county. What
am I to do?"
"Go, I suppose," said Emma.
The girl grew nearer to her.
"Do you think it is true?" she asked. "I saw him driving her out
yesterday, and three days ago I saw his arm around her waist; but,
still, do you really think it is true, Emma?"
"It does not matter to us," said Emma.
"Yes, it does matter," persisted the other. "If it is really true, this
is no place for us; and if it be untrue, some one ought to put an end to
it. I have nothing but my character, and if that goes, all goes. Now, I
ask you to tell me, Emma, ought I to go or stay?"
My nurse was silent for some few minutes, then she said:
"You had better go. While missie and my lady stop here, I shall stay,
and when they go, I go. My duty is to them."
Then I raised my white, miserable face from the pillow.
"Do not say any more," I cried. "I am not asleep, and I understand it
all."
"Law, bless the dear young lady!" cried Alice, aghast. "I would not have
spoken for the world if I had known"--
But I interrupted her.
"It does not matter, Alice," I said. "You meant no harm, and I am old in
misery, though young in years."
The girl went away, and Emma flung herself on her knees before me.
"I am so sorry, Miss Laura," she began, "but I had not patience to
listen--my heart was full of one thing."
"Emma," I said, "tell me, do you think mamma really knows or suspects
any of these things?"
"No," was the quiet reply, "I do not. I will tell you why, Miss Laura.
If my lady even thought so, she would not allow Miss Reinhart to remain
in the house another hour with you."
"I am going to papa now, and I shall ask him to send my governess away,"
I said. "She shall not stop here."
CHAPTER XI.
My father had always been kind to me--he had never used a harsh word to
me. My heart was full--it was almost bursting--when I went to him. The
shame, the degradation, the horror, were full upon me. Surely he would
hear reason. I dared not stop to think. I hastened to him. I flung my
arms round his neck and hid my face upon his breast. My passionate sobs
frightened him at first.
"My dearest Laura, what is the matter?" he asked.
"Papa, send Miss Reinhart away," I cried; "do send her away. We were so
happy before she came, and mamma was happy. Can you not see there is a
black shadow hanging over the house? Send it away--be as you were before
she came. Oh, papa, she has taken you from us."
When I told him what I had heard he looked shocked and horrified.
"My poor child! I had no idea of this."
He laid me on the couch while he walked up and down the room.
"Horrible!" I heard him say. "Frightful! Poor child! Alice shall go at
once!"
He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had
overheard, and sent for the housekeeper. I heard the whispering, but not
the words--there was a long, angry conversation. I heard Sir Roland say
"that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of
conversations should leave." Then he kissed me.
"Papa," I cried to him, "will you send Miss Reinhart away? No other
change is of any use."
"My dear Laura, you are prejudiced. You must not listen to those stupid
servants and their vile exaggerations. Miss Reinhart is very good and
very useful to me. I cannot send her away as I would dismiss a
servant--nor do I intend."
"Let her go, that we may be happy as we were before. Oh, papa! she does
not love mamma. She is not good; every one dislikes her. No one will
speak to her. What shall we do? Send her away!"
"This is all a mistake, Laura," he said; "a cruel--I might say
wicked--mistake. You must not talk to me in this way again."
Perhaps more might have been said; it might even have been that the
tragedy had been averted but for the sudden rap at the door and the
announcement that the rector wished to see Sir Roland.
"Ask him to step in here," said my father, with a great mark of
discomposure. "Laura, run away, child, and remember what I have said. Do
not speak to me in this fashion again."
I learned afterward that the rector had called to remonstrate with
him--to tell him what a scandal and shame was spreading all over the
country side, and to beg of him to end it.
Many hours elapsed before I saw my father again. I saw him ride out of
the courtyard and did not see him return. When I had gone to his room in
the morning I had taken with me one of my books, and I wanted it for my
studies in the morning.
It was neither light nor dark. I went quietly along the broad corridors
to my father's study. I never gave one thought to the fact that my
father might be there. I had not seen him return. I went in. The study
was a very long room with deep windows. Quite at the other end, with the
firelight shining on his face, stood my father, and by his side Miss
Reinhart, just as I had seen him stand with my beautiful mother a
hundred times; one arm was thrown round her, and he was looking
earnestly in her face.
"It must be so," he said; "there is no alternative now."
She clung to him, whispering, and he kissed her.
I stole away. Oh! my injured, innocent mother. I do not remember exactly
what I did. I rushed from the house out into the great fir wood and wept
out my hot, rebellious anger and despair there. At breakfast time the
next morning just a gleam of hope came to me. Miss Reinhart said that,
above everything else, she should like a drive.
Whether it was my pleading and tears or the rector's visit which had
made my father think, I cannot tell, but for the first time he seemed
quite unwilling to drive her out. The tears came into her eyes and he
went over to her and whispered something which made her smile. He talked
to her in a mysterious kind of fashion that I could neither understand
nor make out at all--of some time in the future.
An uneasy sense of something about to happen came over me. I could feel
the approach of some dark shadow; all day the same sensation rested with
me, yet I saw nothing to justify it. At night my mother called me to her
side.
"Laura, you do not look so cheerful this evening. What makes my daughter
so sad?"
I could not tell her of that scene I had witnessed; I could not tell her
of what was wrong.
On the morning following this, to me, horrible day, I could not help
seeing that there was quite a new understanding between my father and
Miss Reinhart. I overheard him say to her:
"It would have been quite impossible to have gone on; the whole country
would have been in an uproar."
All that day there seemed to me something mysterious going on in the
house; the servants went about with puzzled faces; there were
whisperings and consultations. I heard Patience say to Emma:
"It is not true. I would not believe it. It is some foolish exaggeration
of the servants. I am sure it is not true."
"Even if it should be I do not know what we could do," said Emma. "We
cannot prevent it. If he has a mind to do such a bad action, he will do
it, if not at one time, surely at another."
What was it? I never asked questions now.
One thing I remember. When I went into his room that evening to say
good-night, my father's traveling flask lay there--a pretty silver flask
that my mother had given him for a birthday present. He bade me
"good-night," and I little thought when or how we should meet again.
CHAPTER XII.
I do not judge or condemn him. I do not even say what I should say if he
were any other than my father. His sin was unpardonable; perhaps his
temptation was great; I cannot tell. The Great Judge knows best. I will
tell my miserable story just as it happened.
The day following--another bright, sunny, warm morning, all sunshine,
song and perfume, the birds singing so sweetly and the fair earth
laughing. It was so bright and beautiful that when I went out into the
grounds my troubles seemed to fade away. I hastened to gather some
flowers for my mother; the mignonette was in bloom, and that was her
favorite flower. I took them to her, and we talked for a few minutes
about the beauty of the day. She seemed somewhat better, and asked me to
get through my studies quickly, so that we might go through the grounds.
I hastened to the school-room. Miss Reinhart was not there. I took my
books and sat down by the window waiting for her. As I sat there, one
after another the servants looked in the room, as though in search of
something, then vanished. At last I grew tired of waiting, and rang to
ask if Miss Reinhart was coming to give me my lessons. Emma came in
reply.