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?