My Mothers Rival | Page 5

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