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 G.o.d 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.