My Step-Mother | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · May 15, 1879

My Step-Mother.

"I WONDER what papa has gone to Glenville so soon again for. Do you know, Mrs. Allen?" I asked of the lady who had acted as housekeeper in our family for the four years we three children had been written "motherless."

"I did not ask him," she replied.

Her evasive answer increased my suspicions, and after twirling my napkin for a moment, I said:—

"Well, we sometimes know the reason of things, and therefore are not obliged to ask for information." After a moment's silence she replied:—

"No, Nellie; I do not know for what purpose your father visits Glenville."

"But you strongly suspect," I persisted, "and so do I. Do you not?"

"If so, I do not think best to say anything about it."

Two days after, papa returned, and after tea, we gathered in the parlor, for papa is a lawyer and did not stay in his office evenings. Mrs. Allen took her knitting, Florie was embroidering, and I took up a magazine, but not to read. I had told Florie that the next time papa asked me to sing I should sing the piece called, "I cannot call her mother," and as I was momentarily expecting such a request, I was trying to get up courage to do so. But papa sat in his easy chair, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. I stole a look at him and whispered to Florie, "Doubtless papa is thinking of the fascinating lady who is to be the future Mrs. Gordon." Before Florie could reply, papa opened his eyes and asked me to play, and I arose with a little fluttering of the heart to do so. I took up a pile of music in order to gain time, and looked it over, then laying it down upon the music stand I struck the first note of the prelude of the piece I had said I would play. Before I began the words Mrs. Allen left the room. She knew what it was, and thought it might lead to remarks that she would not like to hear. My voice never once faltered as I sang it with as much feeling as I could throw into the words. When I had finished there was a perfect silence in the room. I finally began a lively march, but papa interrupted me, and said in a pleasant tone:—

"You need not play any more this evening, Nellie, for me. I hope you did not sing those verses because they expressed your sentiments, did you?"

"I do not know what difference it can make to any one whether those lines express our feelings or not," I replied rather coldly.

"It will make some difference with your future happiness," he continued. "I am to be married soon, and of course it will make the lady your mother. Are you not prepared to receive as such any one I may select, and give her the affection of a daughter?"

Florie burst into tears, and though I felt a choking sensation in the throat, I replied with some spirit:—

"Of course I shall treat the future Mrs. Gordon with respect, if she shall command it; but I have a mother, though she is in her grave, whom I cannot forget, if others can, with such apparent ease."

"Nellie, you forget yourself if you mean to insinuate that I have forgotten your mother. I have not, nor never shall; you could not understand my feelings if I were to explain them; therefore I will say no more. You can act your own pleasure about loving her, but you must not forget that she will be mistress of the house. How is it with you, my daughter?" turning to Florie, and his voice had a tenderer tone than when he spoke to me, "do you share your sister's feelings?"

"Oh, papa! I do not want a new mamma."

"Why do you care, Florie?"

"Because she will spoil all our plans, and make us do just as we do not wish to do, and watch us all the time, and—and—"

"Who told you that, my dear?"

"Nellie."

"Why, Nellie, I thought you had too much sense to talk to a younger sister in such a way as that!"

"Well," I replied rather angrily, "I would like to know if there ever was a step-mother who was not cross, and disagreeable, and hateful as she could be. I never heard of one."

"By what means did you become so extensively informed on the subject of step-mothers?" asked papa, ironically.

"Well, there is a description of one in 'Claudine's Trials,' and one in 'Mercy Merton,' besides, I have known two young ladies who have been blessed with such usurpers at home, and gained some of my extensive information from them."

"So from the overdrawn pictures of trashy novels, and the sensation stories of school misses, you judge of the whole. If your mind is prejudiced, it will take a more able advocate than myself to show you upon what a flimsy base your opinions are constructed; therefore we will say no more about it."

The evening came upon which papa and his wife—how my lip curled as I spoke the word—were expected. I had just said to Florie, "'What can't be cured must be endured,' but she will soon learn what frigid politeness means, from me, and I hope from you too. I'll own I'm anxious to see her, I cannot exactly determine what course to pursue till I do."

"I wanted to ask papa how she looked, but I didn't dare to after you sang that song to him," returned Florie, when we heard the carriage at the door.

"Smooth your hair now and pin your collar straight," I hastily exclaimed. "Don't let Mrs. Gordon think you are a young heathen, to whom she is to act the part of missionary."

We had taken tea and were in the parlor. I had taken mamma's portrait and hung it in the room Florie and I occupied. We had one there then, but I remarked to Florie, as I carried it up stairs, "Ain't I good to save Mrs. Gordon all the trouble possible? Now we can have one apiece."

I felt really nervous when the carriage stopped at the door, but I did not follow Ned and Florie as they rushed into the hall to meet them. They did not come into the parlor until after they had been to the dining-room and partaken of some refreshments. As papa presented his "eldest daughter" to his wife, I rose and coldly offered my hand. The lady who was hereafter to occupy my dear mother's place in the household was about thirty years of age, medium height, good looking, and a pleasant smile lighted up her face as she held my hand a moment and "hoped I was well." Later in the evening she expressed a desire to hear me play. I did not rise immediately, but when she said, "do not unless it is perfectly agreeable to you," I replied, "Most certainly it is," and selected the one, "I Sit and Weep by my Mother's Grave," as the most inappropriate one I could find. I sang it with pathos, for my heart was full of grief, and my eyes of unshed tears. I rose from the piano and glanced at papa and his new wife. Her eyes were full of tears, as she said to me in a low tone:—

"You sing with much feeling, Nellie, probably more so because you sympathize with the author, and I can sympathize with both—I have no mother, and I too have loved—

*"To sit and weep Beside dear mother's grave."*

This was so different from what I expected that I could not reply, and merely bowed my head. As we entered the breakfast room the following morning, Mrs. Gordon took the head of the table, and, foolish child that I was, I felt the angry blood rush to my face. I had occupied that place six months—ever since I had donned long dresses—and, I thought, "she takes mamma's place and mine too."

After papa had gone down town, and Mrs. Gordon, Florie, and myself were left at home, she chatted so pleasantly with us that I had almost regretted the part I had determined to act, but when the gardener came in, and directing his remarks to me, asked if he should take up all the dahlia roots for winter, I grew angry again and said, "you can ask Mrs. Gordon; I shall not direct any more about the flowers." I did not look at her to notice the effect of my words, but Florie said her face colored. However, her voice was calm as she said: "I will go in the garden in a moment and tell you," and taking a shawl she passed out, leaving me ashamed that I did not speak in a less ungracious manner.

I need not mention every little act of hers that slowly undermined the prejudices against step-mothers which I had imbibed from early childhood. Shortly after she became a member of our household she tapped at my chamber door, and after coming in and sitting a few moments, which were passed in pleasant conversation, she said to me:—

"Was not one of those portraits of your mother taken from the parlor, Nellie?

"The one over the table was," I replied.

"I hung it here a few weeks ago."

"Well, if you are willing," she continued, "I will replace it, so that all the family can have the same pleasure as you do. I think your forehead resembles hers very much," she added, as she stepped into a chair and took it down.

I had not a word to utter. I felt that I was killed by kindness; and yet, after this, I endeavored to maintain that reserve of manner that I had determined should ever characterize my deportment toward her. The time for the closing of school came, and I asked papa to get me an expensive set of coral and gold ornaments to wear. "I will think of it," he returned, but when we were alone he said to me:—

"Ellen, if you will call my wife mother I will get those things for you. I do not like to hear you call her 'Mrs. Gordon,' especially before strangers."

"Very well," I returned, "I can do without them, they are not absolutely necessary to my happiness."

The morning of the exhibition day came, and as I was leaving the institution, I saw Mrs. Gordon come out of the jeweler's and walk hastily toward home. I followed, vexed and almost angry. I said to myself, "If I call her 'mother' at dinner, papa will notice it and get me the ornaments while I am dressing; I can wear them to the exhibition this afternoon, and the party this evening. I wonder what Emma Andrews would say if I should, as I told her I never would while I lived, and I won't, so that's decided."

Dinner over, I went up to my room to dress, for the exercises were to commence at two. As I stood by the table, I noticed a small kid case, with a slip of paper on it. I opened the paper, which bore my name on the outside, and read, "Will Nellie accept this from her friend, Alice Gordon?" In the box lay the long coveted ornaments on their satin bed. This last act of forbearance and love was more than even I could endure, and I sobbed bitterly while conscience upbraided me for the past. I did not wish to go down, and as Florie was dressed, I wrote on a slip of paper, "Accept the thanks of your daughter, Ellen," and sent it to mother, as I then determined to call her.

In a few moments I heard footsteps approaching, and turning I laid my head upon her shoulder, and murmured, "Forgive me, mother."

Gently she smoothed back the heavy braids of hair from my forehead. "I did not do this to buy your love, Nellie," she said. "I hope you would have given me that without this testimony of my affection."

From that day the most perfect confidence existed between us, and I ever found her a true friend—a faithful adviser. And now, though a decade of years have passed away, I still remember the look of satisfaction that rested on her face, at the result of her labor of love, when I yielded to the dictates of my better nature, and gave her a daughter's love and respect. A little child, whose lips have just learned to speak that sweetest of words, mamma—is sleeping in her tiny couch at my side; and when I think of the future of that little one God has committed to my care, I pray to the Great Disposer of human events, that if I be called to leave her, while her feet are in the thorny paths of childhood and youth, that she may find as faithful a friend, though a step-mother, as she whom in my early years I learned to call by that name.

The wide and unfounded prejudice against the class referred to has caused much unhappiness in many families.

Let all who have the care of children do all in their power to disabuse their young minds of such a feeling. Experience has taught me that one may find a true, faithful and loving friend, even in the person of a step-mother.—Sel.