My Mother's Rival by Charlotte M. Braeme
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Charlotte M. Braeme >> My Mother\'s Rival
EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No. 4
Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago
[Illustration]
MY MOTHER'S RIVAL
By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME
Author of "Dora Thorne," "The Belle of Lynn," "The Mystery of Colde
Fell," "Madolin's Lover," "Coralie," Etc., Etc.
CHAPTER I.
I have often wondered if the world ever thinks of what becomes of the
children of great criminals who expiate their crime on the scaffold. Are
they taken away and brought up somewhere in ignorance of who or what
they are? Does some kind relative step forward always bring them up
under another name?
There is great criminal trial, and we hear that the man condemned to
death leaves two daughters and a son--what becomes of them can any one
living say? Who meets them in after life? Has any young man ever been
pointed out to you as the son of Mr. So-and-so, the murderer? Has any
young woman been pointed out to you as his daughter?
It is not long since all England was interested in the trial of a
so-called gentleman for murder. He was found guilty, condemned and
executed. At the time of the trial all the papers spoke of his little
son--a fair-haired little lad, who was as unconscious of all that
happened as a little babe. I have often wondered what became of him.
Does he hear his father's name? Do those with whom he lives know him for
a murderer's son? If he goes wooing any fair-faced girl, will she be
afraid of marrying him lest, in the coming years, she may suffer the
same fate his mother did? Does that same son, when he reads of criminals
and scaffolds, wince, and shudder, and grow sick at heart?
And the daughters, do they grow old and die before their time? Do they
hide themselves under false names in silent places, dreading lest the
world should know them? Does any man ever woo them? Are they ever happy
wives and mothers?
I have thought much on this subject, because I, who write this story,
seem to the world one of the most commonplace people in it, and yet I
have lived, from the time I was a child, in the midst of a tragedy dark
as any that ever saddened this fair land.
No one knows it, no one guesses it. People talk of troubles, of
romances, of sad stories and painful histories before me, but no one
ever guessed that I have known perhaps the saddest of all. My heart
learned to ache as the first lesson it learned in life.
When I think of those unhappy children who go about the world with so
dark a secret locked in their hearts, I think of myself, and what I hold
locked in my heart.
Read for yourself, dear reader, and tell me if you think there have been
many fates in this world harder than mine.
My Name is Laura Tayne, and my home Tayne Abbey, in the grand old
County of Kent. The Taynes were of good family, not very ancient--the
baronetcy is quite a modern one, dating from George the First--but Tayne
Abbey is one of the grandest old buildings in England. Whenever I looked
at it I thought of those beautiful, picturesque, haunted houses that one
sees in Christmas annuals, with Christmas lights shining from the great
windows. I am sorry to say that I know very little of architecture. I
could not describe Tayne Abbey; it was a dark, picturesque, massive
building; the tall towers were covered with ivy, the large windows were
wreathed with flowers of every hue. In some parts of sweet, sunny Kent
the flowers grow as though they were in a huge hothouse; they did so at
Tayne Abbey, for the front stood to the west, and there were years when
it seemed to be nothing but summer.
The great oriel windows--the deep bay windows, large as small rooms--the
carved oaken panels, the finely painted ceilings, the broad corridors,
the beautiful suites of rooms--all so bright, light and lofty--the
old-fashioned porch and the entrance hall, the grand sweep of terraces
one after another, the gardens, the grounds, the park, were all
perfection in their way. To make the picture quite complete, close to
us--joined, indeed, by a subterranean passage, for the existence of
which no one could account--stood the ruins of what had once been the
real Abbey of Tayne--a fine old abbey that, in the time of "bluff King
Hal," had been inhabited by the monks of St. Benedict. They were driven
away, and the abbey and lands were given to the family of De Montford.
The De Montfords did not prosper; after some generations the abbey fell
into ruins, and then they sold the abbey to the Taynes, who had long
wished for it on account of the similarity of names. Our ancestors built
the present mansion called Tayne Abbey; each succeeding Tayne had done
something to beautify it--one had built the magnificent picture gallery,
and had made a magnificent collection of pictures, so magnificent,
indeed, as to rob the Taynes for many years afterward of some part of
their revenue. There they stood still, a fortune in themselves. Another
Tayne had devoted himself to collecting gold and silver plate; in no
other house in England was there such a collection of valuable plate as
in ours. A third Tayne had thought of nothing but his gardens, devoting
his time, thoughts and money to them until they were wonderful to
behold. There were no square and round beds of different flowers,
arranged with mathematical precision; the white lilies stood in great
white sheaves, the eucharis lilies grew tall and stately, the grand
arum lily reared its deep chalice, the lovely lily of the valley shot
its white bells; there were every variety of carnation, of sweet
williams, of sweet peas, of the old-fashioned southernwood and pansy;
there grew crocus, snowdrop and daffadowndilly; great lilac trees, and
the white auricula were there in abundance; there, too, stood a sun-dial
and a fine fountain. It was a garden to please a poet and a painter; but
I have to tell the story of the lives of human beings, and not of
flowers.
The first memory that comes to me is of my beautiful young mother; the
mention of her name brings me the vision of a fair face with hair of
bright gold, and deep, large, blue eyes; of soft silken dresses, from
the folds of which came the sweetest perfume; of fine trailing laces,
fine as the intricate work of a spider's web; of white hands, always
warm and soft, and covered with sparkly rings; of a sweet, low voice,
that was like the cooing of a dove. All these things come back to me as
I write the word "mother." My father, Sir Roland Tayne, was a hearty,
handsome, pleasure-loving man. No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or
angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved.
He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me. Every one
said I was the very image of mama. I had the same golden hair and
deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands. I remember that my
mother--that sweet young mother--never walked steadily when she was out
with me. It was as though she could not help dancing like a child.
"Come along, baby darling," she would say to me, "let us get away from
them all, and have a race."
She called me "baby" until I was nearly six--for no other came to take
my place. I heard the servants speak of me, and say what a great heiress
I would be in the years to come, if my father had no sons; but I hardly
understood, and cared still less.
As I grew older I worshipped my beautiful mother, she was so very kind
to me. I always felt that she was so pleased to see me. She never gave
me the impression that I was tiresome, or intruded on her. Sometimes her
toilet would be finished before the dinner-bell rang, then she would
come to the nursery and ask for me. We walked up and down the long
picture gallery, where the dead, and gone Ladies Tayne looked at us from
the walls. No face there was so fair as my mother's. She was more
beautiful than a picture, with her golden hair and fair face, her
sweeping dresses and trailing laces.
The tears rise even now, hot and bitter, to my eyes when I think of
those happy hours--my intense pride in and devoted love for my mother.
How lightly I held her hand, how I kissed her lovely trailing laces.
"Mamma," I said to her, one day, "it is just like coming to heaven when
you call me to walk with you."
"You will know a better heaven some day," she said, laughingly; "but I
have not known it yet."
What was there she did not do? She sang until the music seemed to float
round the room; she drew and painted, and she danced. I have seen no one
like her. They said she was like an angel in the house; so young, so
fair, so sweet--so young, yet, in her wise, sweet way, a mother and
friend to the whole household. Even the maids, when they had done
anything wrong and feared the housekeeper, would ask my mother to
intercede for them.
If she saw a servant who had been crying, she did not rest until she
knew the cause of the tears. If it were a sick mother, then money and
wine would be dispatched. I have heard since that even if their love
affairs went wrong, it was always "my lady" who set them right, and many
a happy marriage took place from Tayne Abbey.
It was just the same with the poor on the estate; she was a friend to
each one, man, woman or child. Her face was like a sunbeam in the
cottages, yet she was by no means unwise or indiscriminate in her
charities. When the people had employment she gave nothing but kind
words; where they were industrious, and could not get work, she helped
them liberally; where they were idle, and would not work, "my lady"
lectured with grave sweetness that was enough to convert the most
hardened sinner.
Every one sought her in distress, her loving sweetness of disposition
was so well known. Great ladies came from London sometimes, looking
world-worn and weary, longing for comfort and sympathy. She gave it so
sweetly, no wonder they had desired it.
It was the same thing on our own estate. If husband and wife quarreled,
it was to my mother they appealed--if a child seemed inclined to go
wrong, the mother at once came to her for advice.
Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when
every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good?
CHAPTER II.
Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women
in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different
little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her
husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.
As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had
their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When
Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book
of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from
Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her:
"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the
inevitable."
"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who
have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"
"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven,"
and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.
"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be
patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you
do?"
"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient,
Isabel."
"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with
indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the
presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?"
"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that
case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I
should die."
"Die--nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "What is the use of dying?--the
very thing they want. I will not die;" but my mother had laid her fair
head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue
sky. Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice?
"I am not as strong as you, Isabel," she said, gently, "and I love Sir
Roland with my whole heart."
"I loved my husband with my whole heart," sobbed the beautiful woman,
"and I have done nothing in this world to deserve what I have suffered.
I loved him with a pure, great affection--what became of it? Three days
after we were married I saw him myself patting one of the maids--a
good-looking one, you may be sure--on the cheek."
"Perhaps he meant no harm," said my mother, consolingly; "you know that
gentlemen do not attach so much importance as we do to these little
trifles."
"You try, Beatrice, how you would like it; you have been married ten
years, and even at this date you would not like Sir Roland to do such a
thing?"
"I am sure I should not; but then, you know, there are men and men. Sir
Roland is graver in character than Lord Conyngham. What would mean much
from one, means little from the other."
So, with sweet, wise words, she strove to console and comfort this poor
lady, who had evidently been stricken to the heart in some way or
another. I often thought of my mother's words, "I should die," long
after Lady Conyngham had made some kind of reconciliation with her
husband, and had gone back to him. I thought of my mother's face, as she
leaned back to watch the sky, crying out, "I should die."
I knew that I ought not to have sat still; my conscience reproached me
very much; but when I did get up to go away mamma did not notice me.
From that time it was wonderful how much I thought of "husbands." They
were to me the most mysterious people in the world--a race quite apart
from other men. When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S----'s
husband, to me he became a wicked man at once. Some were good; some bad.
Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than
otherwise at them. I studied intently all the different varieties of
husbands. I heard my father laugh often, and say:
"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens."
He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my
mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not
like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they
should wonder why the subject interested me.
Once, when I was with my mother--we were walking up and down the picture
gallery--I did venture to ask her:
"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?"
How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain
in her eyes altogether.
"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very
surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all
husbands are good."
"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not--I heard
her say so."
"I am sorry you heard it--you must not repeat it; you are much too young
to talk about husbands, Laura."
Of course I did not mention then again--equally of course I did not
think less of this mysterious kind of beings.
My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland--she
loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said
he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met
with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none
so perfect as he was then.
"You do not know what trouble means, dear Lady Tayne." "With a husband
like yours, life is all sunshine." "You have been spoiled with
kindness!"
All these exclamations I used to hear, until I became quite sure that my
father was the best husband in the world.
On my tenth birthday my father would have a large ball, and he insisted
that I should be present at it. My mother half hesitated, but he
insisted; so, thanks to him, I have one perfectly happy memory. I
thought far more of my beautiful mother than myself. I stood in the
hall, watching her as she came down the great staircase, great waves of
shining silk and trailing laces making her train, diamonds gleaming in
her golden hair, her white neck and arms bare; so tall, slender and
stately, like the picture of some lovely young queen. Papa and I stood
together watching her.
"Let me kiss her first!" I cried, running to her.
"Mind the lace and diamonds, Laura," he cried.
"Never mind either, my darling," she said laughingly. "One kiss from you
is worth more than all."
Sir Roland kissed her and stood looking at her with admiring eyes.
"Do you know, Beatrice," he said, "that you grow younger and more
beautiful? It is dead swindle! I shall be a gray-bearded old man by the
time you have grown quite young again."
My sweet mother! she evidently enjoyed his praise; she touched his face
with her pretty hand.
"Old or young, Roland," she said, lovingly, "my heart will never change
in its great love for you."
They did not know how intensely I appreciated this little scene.
"Here is a good husband," I said to myself, like the impertinent little
critic I was; "this is not like Lady Conyngham's husband!"--the truth
being that I could never get that unfortunate man quite out of my mind.
That night, certainly the very happiest of my life, my father danced
with me. Heaven help me! I can remember my pride as I stood by the tall,
stalwart figure, just able with the tips of my fingers to touch his arm.
Mamma danced with me, too, and my happiness was complete. I watched all
the ladies there, young and old; there was not one so fair as my mother.
Closing my eyes, so tired of this world's sunlight, I see her again as I
saw her that night, queen of the brilliant throng, the fairest woman
present. I see her with her loving heart full of emotion kissing my
father. I see her in the ballroom, the most graceful figure present.
I remember how every half-hour she came to speak to me and see if I were
happy, and once, when she thought I was warm and tired, she took my hand
and led me into the beautiful cool conservatory, where we sat and talked
until I had grown cool again. I see her talking with queenly grace and
laughing eyes, no one forgotten or neglected, partners found for the
least attractive girls, while the sunshine of her presence was
everywhere. She led a cotillion. I remember seeing her stand waiting the
signal, the very type of grace and beauty.
Oh, my darling, if I were with you! As I saw her then I never saw her
more.
I was present the next morning when my father and mother discussed the
ball.
"How well you looked, Beatrice," said my father.
"How well I felt," she replied. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I enjoy
dancing far better now than I did before I was married. I should like
dancing parties a little oftener; they are much more amusing than your
solemn dinner parties."
But, ah me! the dancing feet were soon to be stilled; all the rest of
that summer there was something mysterious--every one was so solicitous
about my mother--they seemed to think of nothing but her health. She was
gay and charming herself, laughing at the fuss, anxiety and care. Sir
Roland was devoted to her; he never left her. She took no more rides now
on her favorite Sir Tristam, my father drove her carefully in the
carriage; there were no more balls or parties; "extreme quiet and
repose" seemed to be the keynote. Mamma was always "resting."
"She cannot want rest," I exclaimed, "when she does nothing to tire her!
Oh, let me go to her!" for some foolish person had started a theory that
I tired her. I who worshiped her, who would have kept silence for a year
rather than have disturbed her for one moment! I appealed to Sir Roland,
and he consulted her; the result was that I was permitted to steal into
her boudoir, and, to my childish mind, it seemed that during those days
my mother's heart and mine grew together.
CHAPTER III.
It was a quiet Christmas at Tayne Abbey; we had no visitors, for my
mother required the greatest care; but she did not forget one person in
the house, or one on the estate. Sir Roland laughed when he saw the
preparations--the beef, the blankets, the clothing of all kinds, the
innumerable presents, for she had remembered every one's wants and
needs. Sir Roland laughed.
"My dearest Beatrice," he said; "this will cost far more than a houseful
of guests."
"Never mind the cost," she said; "it will bring down a blessing on us."
A quiet, beautiful Christmas. My father was in the highest of spirits,
and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe. He went out
to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though
she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing,
the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to
read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the
child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn. I
read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it. She
loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the
herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.
She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other,
interested her so greatly.
I knew afterward.
It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow
and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint
perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.
I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had
been most loving to me. She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir
all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a
great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her. She looked
very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her
good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.
What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten
them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back
when I had reached the door to say good-night again--twice I went back
and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I
was frightened.
"Mamma, darling," I asked, "are you very ill?"
"Why, Laura?" she questioned.
"Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here. You never move
about or dance and play as you used to do."
"But I will, Laura. You will see, the very first game we play at hare
and hounds I shall beat you. God bless my darling child!"
That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence.
What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the
doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the
galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven
even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my
mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no
nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face
pale, her eyes swollen with tears.
"What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it
has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?"
"No, my dear," she replied.
But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me.
"Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was
startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their
wickedness."
"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the
truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast
here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you."
"How is mamma?" I asked.
"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.
"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."
"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.
And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not
say my mother was better.
My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy,
and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.
When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the
house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound--no
bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma
loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang
over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart
grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more
of my fears to Emma.
She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for
me, and left me there.
I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round
his neck--looking eagerly in his face.
Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of
yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had
shed many tears.
"My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell
you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night."
"Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!"
"Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in
an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed
to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear--
"Mamma is dead."
Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.