Chapter 5 No.5

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.

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