Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: "I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially
taking Carrie's outstretched hand, and kissing her.]
Sophie Kennedy's Experience;
OR
THE STEPMOTHER.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION
AND
Church Book Society
637 BROADWAY.
1856.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by the
GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Clerk of the United States' District Court for
The Southern District of New York.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
PREFACE.
——————
THE following story was written with a view of doing something, if
possible, towards overcoming the prejudice existing in the minds of
children and grown people against Stepmothers. It is the impression
of the writer that that most useful and sorely tried class of women
have hardly received fair play at the hands of authors, from the
times of Cinderella down to the present. No one will deny that it
is a very difficult station. To take at once the whole charge of a
family of children, usually after two or three years of unsettled
habits of indulgence and mismanagement—with an abundance of friends,
relatives, and acquaintances, all watching eagerly the conduct of the
new mamma, and ready to take fire at the first approach to energetic
government,—this is surely enough to tax to the uttermost the
principles and capacity of any woman, particularly when she is young
and inexperienced in the care of children.
It is the serious impression of the Author that about as many
stepmothers err on the side of indulgence as on that of strictness or
severity. Of course, unprincipled and foolish women are to be found
in this class as in every other; and in that case, it is usually hard
to tell which are the greatest sufferers, her own children or her
husband's.
It is the Author's desire that the present little book may make matters
easier for some good women who have assumed the charge of little ones
not their own. She hopes, too, that if it falls into the hands of
any young girl who has a second mother, it may lead her to consider
seriously whether she is not sometimes wanting in the respect and
obedience which her own mother would certainly have exacted. Should it
accomplish either of these ends, the Author's best wishes for it will
be fulfilled.
L. E. G.
ROCHESTER, N. Y., Oct. 10, 1855.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER
I. SCHOOL NEWS.
II. BETSEY.
III. THE NEW MAMMA.
IV. NEW STUDIES.
V. THE BAD COLD.
VI. THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.
VII. SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.
VIII. THE BABY.
IX. GAWKY ANNE.
X. CONCLUSION.
[Illustration: Sophie Kennedy's
EXPERIENCE]
SOPHIE KENNEDY'S
EXPERIENCE.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
SCHOOL NEWS.
IT was recess, and most of the girls in the middle department of Miss
Warner's school were gathered on the steps of the portico, as Laura
Bartlett, who had not been in school the first part of the afternoon,
made her appearance, evidently full of some great piece of information.
Laura was news-carrier in general to the school, and Harriet Reed had
in consequence given her the appellation of the "Daily Gazette." She
was in such a hurry to communicate her tidings that she ran up the
steps without holding up her dress, thereby gaining a serious stumble.
But her ardor was not damped in the least.
"Oh, girls!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I have heard such a piece of
news. What do you think?"
"I think you have torn your dress nicely," said Harriet Reed.
"What is it, Laura, what is it?" exclaimed three or four voices. "Do
tell us what you mean."
"Guess," answered Laura, feeling herself very important. "You shall
guess, but you will never get at it, I know."
"I shall not try," said Harriet. "You will be sure to tell, if you are
let alone."
Harriet was the oldest of the party, except Greta Carroll. She was
a very sensible and steady girl, and had many good qualities. She
was very witty likewise, and amused herself quite too frequently by
laughing at her companions' faults and failings. Laura's eagerness
for gathering and retailing news was a special subject for Harry's
ridicule, and she often provoked her by refusing to listen to or credit
her stories. She was quite right in this instance, for Laura was too
eager to wait for the guesses of her schoolfellows. Out it came.
"Well—but you must never tell. Don't you think, Mr. Kennedy is going to
be married again—in three weeks!"
"What a wonderful piece of news!" exclaimed Harry Reed. "I heard it
three months ago—to Miss Allston."
"No, indeed, Miss Harry, you are out for once, for it is not Miss
Allston. He is not going to marry Miss Allston at all, but a cousin of
his first wife down in Virginia. So Sophie will have a stepmother."
"Poor little thing! It is too bad! So fond of her mother as she was
too!" said several of the girls at once.
"I wonder if she knows it," said Anne Weston.
"I don't suppose she does yet," returned Laura, "but it is certainly
true, and she will feel so bad. I declare it is right hard for her."
"I don't see why it is so hard," said Harriet. "I think it will be very
good for her."
"What is a stepmother, Harry?" asked little Emma Gaylord.
"A stepmother is—if Sophie Kennedy's father marries again, the new Mrs.
Kennedy will be her stepmother. She will not be her very own mother,
you see, but Sophie will have to obey her as if she were, and Mrs.
Kennedy will take care of her just the same."
"Then I should think Sophie would like it," said Emma innocently.
"Just as if she ever could be the same!" said Laura indignantly. "I
think it is too cruel. It shows how much he cared for his first wife,
any way."
"I would not talk so, if I were you, Laura," said Greta Carroll, who
had not spoken before. "I am sure Mr. Kennedy did love his wife, and at
any rate it is no business of—" Greta was going to say "yours," but she
altered her mind and said "ours."
"Sophie is so quick-tempered and has so much feeling, that I am afraid
it will not be very easy for her to get on with a stepmother," remarked
Carry Woodford. "I know her own mother had enough to do to manage her,
and of course a stranger I would not have the same patience with her,
nor feel for her the same."
"I know Lydia Mather's mother used to scold her like any thing,"
observed Martha Pierce. "But then she was the greatest torment that
ever was. I am sure she deserved it."
"Well, we shall see," said Laura, not observing that Sophie had come up
and was standing just behind her, "but I am sure Mr. Kennedy's new wife
will have her hands full with Sophie."
Harriet made her a signal to be silent, but it was too late, for
Sophie had caught the words. She was a pale pretty little girl about
twelve years old, with dark hair and large black eyes, and her general
expression was rather sad, not to say a little peevish. She was neatly
enough dressed, but there was a sort of unsuitableness in what she
wore, which showed that she had no older person to guide her choice of
apparel.
As she caught the words, "Mr. Kennedy's new wife," she turned as pale
as death, and would have fallen if Greta had not caught her in her arms.
"See what you have done by your tattling, Laura," said Harriet in a
very sufficiently sharp tone, assisting Greta to support Sophie. "Now
don't begin to cry, child, but run and get some water. Stand away—do,
girls! Let us take her into the dressing-room, Greta."
"I am better now," said Sophie faintly.
She was led and supported into the dressing-room by the two elder
girls, and Laura brought her a glass of water, and a bottle of
smelling-salts which she had borrowed at the next house.
"Thank you, Laura," said Harriet, repenting already of having spoken so
hastily. "Now if you will go up stairs and tell Miss Warner that Sophie
is not very well, and ask if Greta and I shall take her home—"
Laura was gone in a moment, and soon returned with the desired
permission.
Sophie did not speak a word on the way home, and bidding the girls good
night at the gate, she ran up stairs to her own room and locked herself
in. She laid down on the bed and tried to collect her thoughts a little.
"Mr. Kennedy's new wife!" Could it possibly be true? She tried to think
of every thing that could throw any light on the matter, and the more
she considered upon it, the more she felt as if it must be so. She
remembered that the house had been newly papered and painted lately,
and that her mother's room had been fitted up with new furniture and
curtains. She knew that her father had made several journeys lately
and expected to go from home again soon, and she had heard Nancy the
housekeeper speak of several things which must be done before his
return.
The more she thought of it, the more she felt as if it were true.
Sophie remembered her mother very well, for she was eight years old
when she died, and she had been very much with her. Her mother had
taught Sophie herself to read and write, and sew, and many other
things. They used to read the Bible together, and Sophie had been
carefully instructed by her in religious matters. Now she was going to
have a new mother—a stepmother! She felt as if she wanted to die.
Her ideas of stepmothers were derived from certain stories she had
read, and from the talk of the girls at school. Stepmothers, she
thought, were always cruel and hard-hearted. They always tyrannized
over the unfortunate children under their care, and made them work from
morning till night. Perhaps the lady would have daughters of her own,
and would care a great deal more for them than for her. She imagined
a hundred scenes in which she played the part of Cinderella or little
Margaret, and wept very heartily, partly over her coming sorrows and
partly over the memory of her own mother, so that at tea-time she was
ashamed to show her red eyes to her father. However, she bathed them in
rose-water, and washed her face, and then went down stairs, hoping that
her father would not observe that she had been crying.
But she could not keep her voice from trembling as she spoke, and the
evident constraint of her manner, so different from her usual freedom,
immediately attracted her father's attention. He asked her tenderly if
she were not well.
"Quite well, papa," she replied, with difficulty controlling her voice
sufficiently to speak.
"I am sure something is the matter, my love," said Mr. Kennedy
anxiously. "Come round to me, and let us see if we cannot find out the
difficulty." He put his arm round her as he spoke, and drawing her
close to his side kissed her.
Sophie had felt a moment before as if she never could say a word to her
father upon the subject which occupied her mind. But the caress, and
her habit of confiding every thing to him, overcame her reserve. She
burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Oh, papa, are you going to be married?"
"Who told you I was going to be married, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.
"I heard the girls at school talking about it to-day. Oh, papa, is it
true?"
"Quite true, my love," said Mr. Kennedy quietly.
Sophie turned away from her father, and wept more and more bitterly.
Her father tried to persuade her to listen to him quietly and stop
crying, but she would not be pacified, and the more he caressed and
soothed her the more she cried, until she became really hysterical. At
last seriously displeased with her, he called Nancy, and bade her take
Miss Sophie to bed.
Sophie rose and went away without saying a word to her father or
bidding him good night, the first time she had ever done such a thing
in her life. She followed Nancy up stairs and accepted her assistance
in undressing. As soon as she was in bed, Nancy, instead of taking away
the candle as usual, drew a chair and sat down by the side of the bed.
Nancy was a colored woman about fifty years old. She was tall and
large, and always dressed herself very neatly in a figured gingham or
calico, with a white apron, and a gay-colored handkerchief tied round
her head instead of a cap. She had come from Virginia with Sophie's
mother when she was married, and had always remained in the family.
Nancy was an excellent servant and a good Christian, and had taken care
of Sophie ever since she was born.
"Well, Miss Sophie," said she quietly, "now I should like to know what
all this is about. You seem to feel very bad about something, but I
haven't found out what it is. Maybe I can help you if I knew."
"No, you cannot, Nancy," said Sophie sobbing; "no one can help me."
"I'm not so sure of that," answered Nancy; "any way, I can try."
"Do you know what is going to happen, Nancy?" asked Sophie mournfully.
"Well—yes. I know something that is going to happen. Maybe it isn't the
same though."
"Papa is going to be married, Nancy!" with a fresh burst of grief.
"Well," said Nancy, "and why should you cry about that? I expect, Miss
Sophie," she continued, "you have been hearing the girls at school
talking some nonsense or other about stepmothers. Now, dear, don't you
go to believe a word of it. I know all about it. I have seen a good
deal of such things, and my belief is that stepmothers are oftener
too indulgent than not kind enough. I know how it was with your dear
grandma, my old Missus."
"Why, Nancy, was grandmamma a stepmother?"
"To be sure, child; didn't you know it? She married the old judge, your
grandpa, when your mamma was about six years old. And though she was as
good a woman as ever lived, she regularly spoiled her at first. It was
not till she got so there was no living with her, that she governed her
at all, and it came mighty hard at first I can tell you."
"I don't want any one to spoil me," said Sophie, "but I thought
stepmothers were always unkind to children."
"That's all nonsense," answered Nancy. "Do you suppose your good papa,
after being so kind to you all your life, and doing every thing in the
world for you, is going to turn cruel all at once, and bring some one
here on purpose to make you miserable? For shame, Miss Sophie!"
Sophie was silent for a few moments, and then said, "But, Nancy, my own
mamma is in heaven, and I don't want to forget her. I remember just how
she used to look and speak, and how she talked to me when she was sick,
and—" Sophie wept afresh at the remembrance of her mother.
And Nancy wiped the tears from her own eyes as she answered—
"Nobody wants you to forget her, child. You ought always to remember
her as long as you live. But that need not hinder you from loving your
new mamma, and trying to please her. She will be the last person that
will want you to forget her, I am sure."
"Do you know my new mamma, Nancy," asked Sophie.
"I haven't seen her since she was seventeen years old," said Nancy. "I
used to know her very well then. She is your mamma's own cousin, and
used to look very much like her, only her hair was darker and thicker,
and she was half a head taller. She used to play and sing beautifully,
and she could draw too, and paint beautiful large pictures."
"Perhaps she will teach me," said Sophie, to whom prospects seemed to
brighten decidedly.
"I expect she will teach you a great deal if you are willing to learn.
And besides, as I was going to tell you, she is your godmother, and you
were named after her."
"But I don't remember any thing about her, Nancy, and I always thought
I was named for my cousin Sophie."
"Well, so you are. She is your cousin and you were named for her. And
it would be strange if you did remember her, when you have not seen her
since you were six weeks old. I hope now, Miss Sophie," she continued
after a pause, "that you will be more reasonable, and not go into such
a fit another time. And above all, I hope you will be sorry that you
were so undutiful to your papa as not to bid him good night."
Nancy now took the candle and left the room, leaving Sophie to her
own reflections. They were of rather a mixed nature. She was greatly
comforted by the picture Nancy had drawn of her dreaded stepmother, and
surprised and delighted to learn, that she was the same as her cousin
Sophie—her dear godmamma, who had sent her a Bible and Prayer Book. She
was ashamed too to think how ungrateful she had allowed herself to be
in her thoughts and her conduct towards her kind father.
Then she remembered that she had not yet said her prayers. When her
mother lived, she had been very particular about her prayers and
reading the Bible, but since her death she had been left much to
herself, and had become, I am sorry to say, very negligent in such
matters. She got up to say her prayers now, however, with a feeling
that she really needed help and protection from her Heavenly Father, as
well as forgiveness for her sins. Just as she had finished, she heard
her father come into his room.
Hastily slipping on her shoes and her little dressing-gown, she went
softly and tapped at his door. He opened it, and stood still, looking
somewhat surprised at seeing Sophie, for it was now quite late.
"Is any thing the matter, Sophie?" he asked.
"No, papa," said Sophie softly; "I only came to say good night."
"Good night, my daughter," said Mr. Kennedy kindly. He bent to kiss
her, and as he did so, she whispered in his ear, "I am very sorry,
papa."
"We will talk about the matter to-morrow, Sophie," replied her father.
"It is time you were asleep now. Good night, my love."
Sophie crept back to her bed with her heart much lighter, and was soon
fast asleep.