Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. My Mother's Rival by Charlotte Mary Brame (pdf ebook reader .txt) 📖
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bear to do it themselves."
"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried: "I must follow him!"
Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She stretched out her hands--into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring sudden life.
"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.
"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so."
He rang the bell.
"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and for the doctor!"
"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face.
"I am afraid so," he replied.
They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the rector drew me to her.
"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck and speak to her."
I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my beautiful young mother--as I held her there a vision came to me of her, as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet.
"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor child, come away."
"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked--"dead?"
"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear child, she could not have lived and borne this--she would have suffered a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must have died even as she fell."
Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my lips.
"Oh, mother--mother!"
And then Heaven was merciful to me, too--a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.
When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining--the birds singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.
I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands--a sweet smile was on her lips.
The rector stood there with me.
"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word--murdered."
"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin? The sweetest flower that grows."
"No; I do not know."
"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so."
After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my mother in Heaven I will tell her why.
She was buried. No news came from my father. Tayne Hall was closed, and I went to live with my mother's cousin.
That is the story of the sin; this is the punishment:
Some years afterward Sir Roland brought his wife back to England--he married her when my mother died---but no one would receive them. They were banished from all civilized society, and to compensate herself for that, my mother's rival mixed with the fastest and worst set in England. The end of it was that, after completely ruining him, she ran away from him and left him as he had left my mother.
His death redeemed his life. He was found dead on my mother's grave, and I loved him better in death than in life.
That is what one wicked woman can do. There is one prayer that should never leave man's lips, and it is: "Lead us not into temptation."
THE END.
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"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried: "I must follow him!"
Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She stretched out her hands--into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring sudden life.
"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.
"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so."
He rang the bell.
"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and for the doctor!"
"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face.
"I am afraid so," he replied.
They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the rector drew me to her.
"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck and speak to her."
I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my beautiful young mother--as I held her there a vision came to me of her, as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet.
"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor child, come away."
"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked--"dead?"
"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear child, she could not have lived and borne this--she would have suffered a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must have died even as she fell."
Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my lips.
"Oh, mother--mother!"
And then Heaven was merciful to me, too--a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.
When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining--the birds singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.
I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands--a sweet smile was on her lips.
The rector stood there with me.
"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word--murdered."
"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin? The sweetest flower that grows."
"No; I do not know."
"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so."
After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my mother in Heaven I will tell her why.
She was buried. No news came from my father. Tayne Hall was closed, and I went to live with my mother's cousin.
That is the story of the sin; this is the punishment:
Some years afterward Sir Roland brought his wife back to England--he married her when my mother died---but no one would receive them. They were banished from all civilized society, and to compensate herself for that, my mother's rival mixed with the fastest and worst set in England. The end of it was that, after completely ruining him, she ran away from him and left him as he had left my mother.
His death redeemed his life. He was found dead on my mother's grave, and I loved him better in death than in life.
That is what one wicked woman can do. There is one prayer that should never leave man's lips, and it is: "Lead us not into temptation."
THE END.
Imprint
Publication Date: 09-17-2010
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