Late the next morning, Mrs. Gregory was sitting in the parlor with
little Eddie at her side, where he had been enchained for five long
minutes by the charms of a fairy tale. But as some one glided by the
door he bounded away, crying,
“There’s sister Clara! Clara, come and see my new mamma!”
Presently, however, he came back with a dolorous countenance,
complaining,
“She says I have no new mamma, and she does not want to see her either.
But I _have_,” he continued emphatically, laying hold on one of her
fingers with each of his round, white fists, “and you will stay always,
and tell me stories, wont you? Was that all about Fenella?”
“We will have the rest another time, for there is the dinner-bell, and
here comes your father.”
The joyous child ran to his father’s arms, and then assuming a stride of
ineffable dignity led the way to the dining-room.
“Has not Clara yet returned?” asked the doctor, in a tone of some
severity.
“Yes, father,” said her voice behind him; and as he turned she greeted
him, respectfully, yet without her usual affectionate warmth.
Then came her introduction to the step-mother, who greeted her with a
gentle dignity peculiar to her. Clara’s manner, on the contrary, was
extremely dignified, without any special gentleness, ceremonious and
cold. As the family gathered around the table all but one made an
attempt at conversation. But the presence of one silent iceberg was
enough to congeal the sociability of the group. Remarks became shorter
than the intervals between them, and finally quite ceased. Mrs. Gregory,
meanwhile, had time to observe her eldest daughter. She was a handsome,
genteel girl of about seventeen, elegantly dressed. Her fair face was
intelligent, though clouded at this time with an expression of
determined dissatisfaction. The red lips of her pretty little mouth
pressed firmly together, as though to make sure that no word should
escape them; the dark-blue eyes were continually downcast.
Suddenly little Eddie exclaimed, directing his spoon very pointedly
toward Clara,
“What made you say I had no new mamma? There she is!”
The crimson blood rushed to Clara’s temples, as she visited a most
reproving glance on the child, while Alice hastened to relieve the
awkward predicament by suggesting to him the desirableness of more sauce
on his pudding. He was hushed for the moment, but presently broke forth
again, as though a bright thought had flashed upon him.
“She isn’t the same dear mamma I used to have, is she? Say, father, did
you go up to Heaven and bring her back? Oh! why didn’t you let me go
too?”
“No, my child,” said Dr. Gregory very seriously, “I could not go for
your dear mamma, nor would I if I could, for she is with those whom she
loves more than even us. But, perhaps, she has sent you this mother to
love you, and take care of you, till you can go to her, if you are
good.”
“I will be good,” said the child very resolutely, and they rose from the
table.
Alice and her mother lingered talking at the western window, which
commanded a fine sea view.
“She is certainly a delightful woman,” thought Alice, as, after a long
chat, she tripped blithely up to her chamber.
As she opened the door, she discovered Clara thrown upon the bed, her
face hidden in the pillows, sobbing aloud. She hesitated a moment, then
going up to her, said entreatingly--
“Don’t, dear Clara, cry so!”
But her only answer was a fresh burst of tears. So she sat down on the
bed-side and took her mother’s miniature, which Clara clasped between
her hands. It was a picture of rare beauty, as well might be that of a
faultless form, in the first pride of womanhood, glowing with life and
love. Alice gazed on it with mournful fondness, and kissed its small,
sweet face many times.
“Oh, I am wretched, _wretched_!” moaned Clara; “the happiness of my life
is gone forever.”
Alice took her hand in hers, and said softly--
“You know we thought, when mother died, we could never cease to weep, we
could not live at all. Yet we have been even happy since that, though we
love her and think of her just as much as ever. Indeed, I believe I love
her more and more. I think we shall be happy still.”
“Happy! with this strange woman thrust upon me, every day, in my
mother’s stead? I tell you, Alice, it will never, never be. I cannot say
but you may enjoy life as well as ever, but not I. I do not want to be
happy--I will not be happy with a step-mother. Oh, the odious name!”
In her excitement she rose from the bed and paced the floor.
“You can, undoubtedly, be as unhappy as you choose, and you can _hate_
father’s wife if you want to; but I think it would be a great deal
easier to love her,” said Alice. “I am sure, if our own blessed mother
could speak to us, she would bid us treat her very kindly and try to
make her happy with us.”
“There is no danger but she will be _happy_ enough,” retorted Clara.
“Yet she shall lament the day she ever intruded upon us here.”
“Oh, Clara, Clara! you are very wrong. You ought not to speak so or to
feel so,” said Alice, sadly, putting her arm about her sister’s waist
and joining in her walk. “Certainly she had a right to love our father
and to marry him, and I do not see the need of suspecting her of a plot
upon our peace.”
“But what infatuated father to ask her? How could he forget my beautiful
mother so soon!” and Clara threw herself, weeping, into a chair.
“He has _not_ forgotten her,” replied Alice, almost indignantly. “And
you and I have no right to doubt that he loved her even better than we.
But I know not why that should render it impossible for him to
appreciate loveliness in another. He was very desolate, and I am
thankful that he has found such a friend.”
“_Such_ a friend? I see nothing remarkably lovely about her.”
“Why, I think she is very attractive.”
“_Attractive!_ Pray what has attracted you, dear? She is, certainly,
very plain.”
“I do not think she is.”
“She looks as though she meant to rule the world, with her great black
eyes and military form.”
“Her ‘great black eyes’ are soft, I am sure, and I admire her form. Then
she looks so animated when she speaks, and her smile is absolutely
fascinating.”
“Only look at the picture you hold in your hand, Alice, and say, if you
can, that you admire _her_.”
“Nobody is so lovely as mother. But, if you were not determined to find
fault, I know this face would please you. At any rate, you cannot
dislike her manner; she is very ladylike. She dresses, too, in perfect
taste.”
“I suppose she is well-bred, and I have no reason to doubt her
dress-maker’s taste. But once more, Alice, I never shall like her, and I
beg you never to speak to me of her except from necessity. You, of
course, can love her just as well as you have a mind to, but you must
not expect me to. I shall try to be civil to her.”
“Oh, I wish you could see Aunt Mary, I am sure she could convince you
that you are wrong.
“You think that I cannot understand your feelings, and that nothing is
easier for me than to receive a stranger here. But, Clara, you do know
that you love not our precious mother more devotedly than I, nor cherish
her memory more sacredly; I am quite sure that no child could. It was
terrible for me, at first, to think of seeing another here in her place,
of calling another by her consecrated name. It was sacrilege to me. But
Aunt Mary talked to me so kindly, and taught me to think calmly and
reasonably about it, and I became certain that I ought to be an
affectionate, dutiful child to my father’s wife if it were in my power.
And I am sure it will be easy, for she is loveable.
“I am grateful to father for giving me so excellent a friend. I shall
never love her better than Aunt Mary, indeed; but it is so pleasant for
us to be together once more in our own home. Only think--you at
boarding-school, Neddie at grandfather’s, I at Uncle Talford’s, and poor
father here alone. I am sure we shall be vastly happier here together,
if you will only be a good girl.”
“I am not going to be!” said Clara, with a pouting smile.
“Ah! not another word,” cried Alice, with a playful menace. “I shall
call it treason to listen to you. I shall go away so that you may have
nobody to say wicked things to.”
And with the words she ran from the room and shut the culprit in.