THERE are few positions in social life of greater trial andresponsibility than that of a step-mother; and it too rarely happensthat the woman who assumes this position, is fitted for the rightdischarge of its duties. In far too many cases, the widower isaccepted as a husband because he has a home, or a position to offer,while the children are considered as a drawback in the bargain. Butit sometimes happens, that a true woman, from genuine affection,unites herself with a widower, and does it with a loving regard forhis children, and with the purpose in her mind of being to them, asfar as in her power lies, a wise and tender mother.
Such a woman was Agnes Green. She was in her thirty-second year whenMr. Edward Arnold, a widower with four children, asked her to becomehis wife. At twenty-two, Agnes had loved as only a true woman canlove. But the object of that love proved himself unworthy, and sheturned away from him. None knew how deep the heart-trial throughwhich she passed--none knew how intensely she suffered. In part, herpale face and sobered brow witnessed, but only in part; for manysaid she was cold, and some even used the word heartless, when theyspoke of her. From early womanhood a beautiful ideal of manlyexcellence had filled her mind; and with this ideal she had investedone who proved false to the high character. At once the green thingsof her heart withered and for a long time its surface was a barrenwaste. But the woman was yet strong in her. She must love something.So she came forth from her heart-seclusion, and let her affections,like a refreshing and invigorating stream, flow along many channels.She was the faithful friend, the comforter in affliction, the wisecounsellor. More than once had she been approached with offers ofmarriage, by men who saw the excellence of her character, and feltthat upon any dwelling, in which she was the presiding spirit, wouldrest a blessing. But none of them were able to give to the evenpulses of her heart a quicker motion.
At last she met Mr. Arnold. More than three years had passed sincethe mother of his children was removed by death, and, since thattime, he had sought, with all a father's tenderness and devotion, tofill her place to them. How imperfectly, none knew so well ashimself. As time went on, the want of a true woman's affectionatecare for his children was more and more felt. All were girls exceptthe youngest, their ages ranging from twelve downward, and this madetheir mother's loss so much the more a calamity. Moreover, hisfeeling of loneliness and want of companionship, so keenly felt inthe beginning, instead of diminishing, increased.
Such was his state of mind when he met Agnes Green. The attractionwas mutual, though, at first, no thought of marriage came into themind of either. A second meeting stirred the placid waters in thebosom of Agnes Green. Conscious of this, and fearful lest theemotion she strove to repress might become apparent to other eyes,she assumed a certain reserve, not seen in the beginning, which onlybetrayed her secret, and at once interested Mr. Arnold, who nowcommenced a close observation of her character. With every newaspect in which this was presented, he saw something that awakenedadmiration; something that drew his spirit nearer to her as onecongenial. And not the less close was her observation.
When, at length, Mr. Arnold solicited the hand of Agnes Green, shewas ready to respond. Not, however, in a selfish and self-seekingspirit; not in the narrow hope of obtaining some great good forherself, was her response made, but in full view of her woman'spower to bless, and with an earnest, holy purpose in her heart, tomake her presence in his household indeed a blessing.
"I must know your children better than I know them now, and theymust know me better than they do, before I take the place you wishme to assume," was her reply to Mr. Arnold, when he spoke of anearly marriage.
And so means were taken to bring her in frequent contact with thechildren. The first time she met them intimately, was at the houseof a friend. Mary, the oldest girl, she found passionate andself-willed; Florence, the second, good-natured, but careless andslovenly; while Margaret, the third, was in ill health, andexceedingly peevish. The little brother, Willy, was a beautiful,affectionate child, but in consequence of injudicious management,very badly spoiled. Take them altogether, they presented rather anunpromising aspect; and it is no wonder that Agnes Green had manymisgivings at heart, when the new relation contemplated, and itstrials and responsibilities, were pictured to her mind.
The earnestly-asked question by Mr. Arnold, after this firstinterview,--"What do you think of my children?"--was not an easy oneto answer. A selfish, unscrupulous woman, who looked to theconnection as something to be particularly desired on her ownaccount, and who cared little about duties and responsibilities,might have replied, "Oh, they are lovely children!" or, "I amdelighted with them!" Not so Agnes Green. She did not replyimmediately, but mused for some moments, considerably embarrassed,and in doubt what to say. Mr. Arnold was gazing intently in herface.
"They do not seem to have made a favourable impression," said he,speaking with some disappointment in his tone and manner.
A feeble flush was visible in the face of Agnes Green, and also aslight quiver of the lips as she answered:
"There is too much at stake, as well in your case as my own, towarrant even a shadow of concealment. You ask what I think of yourchildren, and you expect me to answer truly?"
"I do," was the almost solemnly-spoken reply.
"My first hurried, yet tolerably close, observation, has shown me,in each, a groundwork of natural good."
"As their father," replied Mr. Arnold, in some earnestness ofmanner, "I know there is good in them,--much good. But they haveneeded a mother's care."
"When you have said that, how much has been expressed! If the gardenis not cultivated, and every weed carefully removed, how quickly isit overrun with things noxious, and how feeble becomes the growth ofall things good and beautiful! It is just so with the mind. Neglectit, and bad habits and evil propensities will assuredly be quickenedinto being, and attain vigorous life."
"My children are not perfect, I know, but--"
Mr. Arnold seemed slightly hurt. Agnes Green interrupted him, bysaying, in a mild voice, as she laid her hand gently upon his arm:
"Do not give my words a meaning beyond what they are designed toconvey. If I assume the place of a mother to your children, I takeupon myself all the responsibilities that the word 'mother'involves. Is not this so?"
"Thus I understand it."
"My duty will be, not only to train these children for a happy anduseful life here, but for a happy and useful life hereafter."
"It will."
"It is no light thing, Mr. Arnold, to assume the place of a motherto children who, for three years, have not known a mother'saffectionate care. I confess that my heart shrinks from theresponsibility, and I ask myself over and over again, 'Have I therequisite wisdom, patience, and self-denial?'"
"I believe you have," said Mr. Arnold, who was beginning to see moredeeply into the heart of Agnes. "And now," he added, "tell me whatyou think of my children."
"Mary has a quick temper, and is rather self-willed, if myobservation is correct, but she has a warm heart. Florence isthoughtless, and untidy in her person, but possesses a happy temper.Poor Maggy's ill health has, very naturally, soured her disposition.Ah, what can you expect of a suffering child, who has no mother?Your little Willy is a lovely boy, somewhat spoiled--who can wonderat this?--but possessing just the qualities to win for him kindnessfrom every one."
"I am sure you will love him," said Mr. Arnold, warmly.
"I have no doubt on that subject," replied Agnes Green. "And now,"she added, "after what I have said, after showing you that I amquick to see faults, once more give this matter earnestconsideration. If I become your wife, and take the place of a motherto these children, I shall, at once,--wisely and lovingly, Itrust,--begin the work of removing from their minds every noxiousweed that neglect may have suffered to grow there. The task will beno light one, and, in the beginning, there may be rebellion againstmy authority. To be harsh or hard is not in my nature. But a senseof duty will make me firm. Once more, I say, give this matterserious consideration. It is not yet too late to pause."
Mr. Arnold bent his head in deep reflection. For many minutes he satin silent self-communion, and sat thus so long, that the heart ofAgnes Green began to beat with a restricted motion, as if there wasa heavy pressure on her bosom. At last Mr. Arnold looked up, hiseyes suddenly brightening, and his face flushing with animation.Grasping her hands with both of his, he said:
"I have reflected, Agnes, and I do not hesitate. Yes, I will trustthese dear ones to your loving guardianship. I will place in yourhands their present and eternal welfare, confident that you will beto them a true mother."
And she was. As often as it could be done before the time appointedfor the marriage, she was brought in contact with the children.Almost from the beginning, she was sorry to find in Mary, the oldestchild, a reserve of manner, and an evident dislike toward her, whichshe in vain sought to overcome. The groundwork of this she did notknow. It had its origin in a remark made by the housekeeper, who,having learned from some gossipping relative of Mr. Arnold that anew wife was soon to be brought home, and, also, who this new wifewas to be, made an imprudent allusion to the fact, in a moment offorgetfulness.
"Your new mother will soon put you straight, my little lady," saidshe, one day, to Mary, who had tried her beyond all patience.
"My new mother! Who's she, pray?" was sharply demanded.
"Miss Green," replied the unreflecting housekeeper. "Your father'sgoing to bring her home one of these days, and make her your mother,and she'll put you all right--she'll take down your fine airs, mylady!"
"Will she?" And Mary, compressing her lips tightly, and drawing upher slender form to its full height, looked the image of defiance.
From that moment a strong dislike toward Miss Green ruled in themind of Mary; and she resolved, should the housekeeper's assertionprove true, not only to set the new authority at defiance, but toinspire, if possible, the other children with her own feelings.
The marriage was celebrated at the house of Mr. Arnold, in thepresence of his own family and a few particular friends, Agnesarriving at the hour appointed.
After the ceremony, the children were brought forward, and presentedto their new mother. The youngest, as if strongly drawn by invisiblechords of affection, sprung into her lap, and clasped his littlearms lovingly about her neck. He seemed very happy. The others werecold and distant, while Mary fixed her eyes upon the wife of herfather, with a look so full of dislike and rebellion, that no onepresent was in any doubt as to how she regarded the new order ofthings.
Mr. Arnold was a good deal fretted by this unexpected conduct on thepart of Mary; and, forgetful of the occasion and its claims, spoketo her with some sternness. He was recalled to self-possession bythe smile of his wife, and her gently-uttered remark, that reachedonly his own ear:
"Don't seem to notice it. Let it be my task to overcome prejudices."
During the evening Mary did not soften in the least toward herstep-mother. On the next morning, when all met, for the first time,at the breakfast table, the children gazed askance at the calm,dignified woman who presided at the table, and seemed ill at ease.On Mary's lip, and in her eye, was an expression so like contempt,that it was with difficulty her father could refrain from orderingher to her own room.
The meal passed in some embarrassment. At its conclusion, Mr. Arnoldwent into the parlour, and his wife, entering at once upon herduties, accompanied the children to the nursery, to see for herselfthat the two oldest were properly dressed for school. Mary, who hadpreceded the rest, was already in contention with the housekeeper.Just as Mrs. Arnold--so we must now call her--entered the room, Maryexclaimed, sharply:
"I don't care what you say, I'm going to wear this bonnet!"
"What's the trouble?" inquired Mrs. Arnold, calmly.
"Why, you see, ma'am," replied the housekeeper, "Mary is bent onwearing her new, pink bonnet to school, and I tell her she mustn'tdo it. Her old one is good enough."
"Let me see the old one," said Mrs. Arnold. She spoke in a verypleasant tone of voice.
A neat, straw bonnet, with plain, unsoiled trimming, was broughtforth by the housekeeper, who remarked:
"It's good enough to wear Sundays, for that matter."
"I don't care if it is, I'm not going to wear it today. So don'tbother yourself any more about it."
"Oh, yes, Mary, you will," said Mrs. Arnold, very kindly, yetfirmly.
"No, I won't!" was the quick, resolute answer. And she gazed,unflinchingly, into the face of her step-mother.
"I'll call your father, my young lady! This is beyond allendurance!" said the housekeeper, starting for the door.
"Hannah!" The mild, even voice of Mrs. Arnold checked the excitedhousekeeper. "Don't speak of it to her father,--I'm sure she doesn'tmean what she says. She'll think better of it in a moment."
Mary was hardly prepared for this. Even while she stood withunchanged exterior, she felt grateful to her step-mother forintercepting the complaint about to be made to her father. Sheexpected some remark or remonstrance from Mrs. Arnold. But in thisshe was mistaken. The latter, as if nothing unpleasant had occurred,turned to Florence, and after a light examination of her dress, saidto the housekeeper:
"This collar is too much soiled; won't you bring me another?"
"Oh, it's clean enough," replied Florence, knitting her brows, andaffecting impatience. But, even as she spoke, the quick, yet gentlehands of her step-mother had removed the collar from her neck.
"Do you think it clean enough now?" said she, as she placed thesoiled collar beside a fresh one, which the housekeeper had brought.
"It is rather dirty," replied Florence, smiling.
And now Mrs. Arnold examined other articles of her dress, and hadthem changed, re-arranged her hair, and saw that her teeth wereproperly brushed. While this was progressing, Mary stood a littleapart, a close observer of all that passed. One thing she did notfail to remark, and that was the gentle firmness of her step-mother,which was in strong contrast with the usual scolding, jerking, andimpatience of the housekeeper, as manifested on these occasions.
By the time Florence was ready for school, Mary's state of mind hadundergone considerable change, and she half regretted the exhibitionof ill temper and insulting disobedience she had shown. Yet was shein no way prepared to yield. To her surprise, after Florence was allready, her step-mother turned to her and said, in a mild, cheerfulvoice, as if nothing unpleasant had occurred,
"Have you a particular reason for wishing to wear your new bonnet,this morning, Mary?"
"Yes, ma'am, I have." The voice of Mary was changed considerably,and her eyes fell beneath the mild, but penetrating, gaze of herstep-mother.
"May I ask you the reason?"
There was a pause of some moments; then Mary replied:
"I promised one of the girls that I'd wear it. She asked me to. Shewanted to see it."
"Did you tell Hannah this?"
"No, ma'am. It wouldn't have been any use. She never hears toreason."
"But you'll find me very different, Mary," said Mrs. Arnold,tenderly. "I shall ever be ready to hear reason."
All this was so far from what Mary had anticipated, that her mindwas half bewildered. Her step-mother's clear sight penetrated to hervery thoughts.
Taking her hand, she drew her gently to her side. An arm was thenplaced lovingly around her.
"My dear child,"--it would have been a hard heart, indeed, thatcould have resisted the influence of that voice, "let us understandeach other in the beginning. You seem to look upon me as an enemy,and yet I wish to be the very best friend you have in the world. Ihave come here, not as an exacting and overbearing tyrant, but toseek your good and promote your happiness in every possible way. Iwill love you; and may I not expect love in return? Surely you willnot withhold that."
As Mrs. Arnold spoke thus, she felt a slight quiver in the hand shehad taken in her own. She continued:
"I cannot hope to fill the place of your dear mother, now in heaven.Yet even as she loved you, would I love you, my child." The voice ofMrs. Arnold had become unsteady, through excess of feeling. "As shebore with your faults, I will bear with them; as she rejoiced overevery good affection born in your heart, so will I rejoice."
Outraged by the conduct of Mary, the housekeeper had gone to Mr.Arnold, whom she found in the parlour, and repeated to him, with acolouring of her own, the insolent language his child had used. Thefather hurried up stairs in a state of angry excitement. No littlesurprised was he, on entering the nursery, to see Mary sobbing onthe breast of her step-mother, whose gentle hands were softlypressed upon the child's temples, and whose low, soothing voice wasspeaking to her words of comfort for the present, and cheerful hopefor the future.
Unobserved by either, Mr. Arnold stood for a moment, and then softlyretired, with a gush of thankfulness in his heart, that he had foundfor his children so true and good a mother.
With Mary there was no more trouble. From that hour, she came whollyunder the influence of her step-mother, learning day by day, as sheknew her better, to love her with a more confiding tenderness.Wonderful was the change produced on the children of Mr. Arnold in asingle year. They had, indeed, found a mother.
It is painful to think how different would have been the result, hadthe step-mother not been a true woman. Wise and good she was in hersphere; loving and unselfish; and the fruit of her hand was sweet tothe taste, and beautiful to look upon.
How few are like her! How few who assume the position ofstep-mother,--a position requiring patience, long-suffering, andunflinching self-denial,--are fitted for the duties they so lightlytake upon themselves! Is it any wonder their own lives are made, attimes, miserable, or that they mar, by passion or exacting tyranny,the fair face of humanity, in the children committed to their care?Such lose their reward.
THE END.
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