"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 grandd.u.c.h.ess 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 circ.u.mstances," 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 cl.u.s.ter 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:

"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."

"G.o.d 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 bal.u.s.trade admiring the magnificent view. There was a restless, disconsolate expression mixed with her admiration, and I knew quite well the thoughts pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 compa.s.sion 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.