My Mother's Rival Part 11

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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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.

Miss Reinhart would not be there yet, she said, and it would be better for me to go out now with my lady and to attend to my books afterward.

It struck me that every one seemed in a hurry to get us out of the house. Patience King was not to be seen, and Emma did not like to come near us because of her tear-stained face. Just as we were leaving the house my mother turned to the footman, who was at the back of her chair:

"John," she said, "go and ask Sir Roland if he will come with us."

I saw the man's face flush crimson, but he went away and returned in a few minutes, saying that his master was not in.

My mother repeated the words in some wonder.

"Have you seen papa this morning, Laura?"

"No; Emma brought my breakfast to me."

"I have not seen him either," she said. "He has not been to say good-morning to me yet. John, leave word that when Sir Roland comes in we shall be on the gra.s.s plot near the sun-dial!"

Why did they all look at us with such scared faces, with such wondering eyes? And I felt sure that I heard one say to the other:

"I have sent for the rector."

We went--as unconscious of the doom that hung over us as two children--went my mother's rounds. She looked at all the flowers, but turned to me once or twice and said, uneasily:

"I wonder where Sir Roland is? It seems strange not to have seen him."

We talked about him. There was nothing she liked more than speaking of him to me. We were out, I should think, at least three hours, and then my mother felt faint, and we went back.

The good rector met us and shook hands very kindly with us, but he was pale and agitated, not like himself in the least. Patience was there, and Emma; the other servants were huddled in groups, and I knew something very terrible had happened--something--but what?

The rector said Lady Tayne was tired, and must have some wine. My mother took it, and was placed upon her couch once more. She turned to the footman and asked if my father had returned. The answer was--no. Then the rector said he wished to speak to her alone. He held a letter in his hands, and his face was as pale as death. She looked up at him and said, quickly:

"Is it bad news?"

"Yes," he answered, gravely; "it is very bad news. Laura, go away and leave your mother with me."

But my mother clung to me.

"No, if I have anything to suffer," she cried, "let Laura stay with me--I can bear anything with her."

"Let me stay?" I asked.

He covered his face with his hands, and was silent for some minutes. I wonder if he was praying Heaven to give him strength--he had to give my mother her death blow. I can never remember how he told her--in what language or fas.h.i.+on--but we gathered the sense of it at last; my father had left home, and had taken Miss Reinhart with him!

The blow had fallen--the worst had come. Oh, Heaven! if, sleeping or waking, I could ever forget my mother's face--if I could close my eyes without seeing its white, stony horror! The very tone of her voice was changed.

"Doctor Dalkeith!" she asked, "is this horrible thing true--true?"

"Unhappily, Lady Tayne," he replied.

"You say that my husband, Sir Roland has left me, and has gone away--with--this person?"

"I am afraid it is but too true," he replied.

"Has he ceased to love me, that he has done this?"

"My dear Lady Tayne, I know nothing but the facts--nothing else. Your servants sent for me to break it to you, for they could not bear to do it themselves."

"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoa.r.s.e voice, my mother cried: "I must follow him!"

Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She stretched out her hands--into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring sudden life.

"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.

"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so."

He rang the bell.

"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and for the doctor!"

"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face.

"I am afraid so," he replied.

They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the rector drew me to her.

"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck and speak to her."

I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my beautiful young mother--as I held her there a vision came to me of her, as I had seen her, with s.h.i.+ning eyes and flying feet.

"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor child, come away."

"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked--"dead?"

"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear child, she could not have lived and borne this--she would have suffered a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must have died even as she fell."

Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my lips.

"Oh, mother--mother!"

And then Heaven was merciful to me, too--a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.

When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was s.h.i.+ning--the birds singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had pa.s.sed since my mother died.