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.