My Mothers Rival | Page 2

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?