Patsy Ann Meriweather would have told you that her father, or more
properly her "pappy," was a "widover," and she would have added in her
sad little voice, with her mournful eyes upon you, that her mother had
"bin daid fu' nigh onto fou' yeahs." Then you could have wept for Patsy,
for her years were only thirteen now, and since the passing away of her
mother she had been the little mother for her four younger brothers and
sisters, as well as her father's house-keeper.
But Patsy Ann never complained; she was quite willing to be all that she
had been until such time as Isaac and Dora, Cassie and little John
should be old enough to care for themselves, and also to lighten some of
her domestic burdens. She had never reckoned upon any other manner of
release. In fact her youthful mind was not able to contemplate the
possibility of any other manner of change. But the good women of
Patsy's neighbourhood were not the ones to let her remain in this
deplorable state of ignorance. She was to be enlightened as to other
changes that might take place in her condition, and of the unspeakable
horrors that would transpire with them.
It was upon the occasion that little John had taken it into his infant
head to have the German measles just at the time that Isaac was slowly
recovering from the chicken-pox. Patsy Ann's powers had been taxed to
the utmost, and Mrs. Caroline Gibson had been called in from next door
to superintend the brewing of the saffron tea, and for the general care
of the fretful sufferer.
To Patsy Ann, then, in ominous tone, spoke this oracle. "Patsy Ann, how
yo' pappy doin' sence Matildy died?" "Matildy" was the deceased wife.
"Oh, he gittin' 'long all right. He was mighty broke up at de fus', but
he 'low now dat de house go on de same's ef mammy was a-livin'."
"Oom huh," disdainfully; "Oom huh. Yo' mammy bin daid fou' yeahs, ain't
she?"
"Yes'm; mighty nigh."
"Oom huh; fou' yeahs is a mighty long time fu' a colo'd man to wait; but
we'n he do wait dat long, hit's all de wuss we'n hit do come."
"Pap bin wo'kin right stiddy at de brick-ya'd," said Patsy, in loyal
defence against some vaguely implied accusation, "an' he done put some
money in de bank."
"Bad sign, bad sign," and Mrs. Gibson gave her head a fearsome shake.
But just then the shrill voice of little John calling for attention drew
her away and left Patsy Ann to herself and her meditations.
What could this mean?
When that lady had finished ministering to the sick child and returned,
Patsy Ann asked her, "Mis' Gibson, what you mean by sayin' 'bad sign,
bad sign?'"
Again the oracle shook her head sagely. Then she answered, "Chil', you
do' know de dev'ment dey is in dis worl'."
"But," retorted the child, "my pappy ain' up to no dev'ment, 'case he
got 'uligion an' bin baptised."
"Oom-m," groaned Sistah Gibson, "dat don' mek a bit o' diffunce. Who is
any mo' ma'yin' men den de preachahs demse'ves? W'y Brothah 'Lias Scott
done tempted matermony six times a'ready, an' 's lookin' roun' fu' de
sebent, an' he's a good man, too."
"Ma'yin'," said Patsy breathlessly.
"Yes, honey, ma'yin', an' I's afeared yo' pappy's got notions in his
haid, an' w'en a widower git gals in his haid dey ain' no use
a-pesterin' wid 'em, 'case dey boun' to have dey way."
"Ma'yin'," said Patsy to herself reflectively. "Ma'yin'." She knew what
it meant, but she had never dreamed of the possibility of such a thing
in connection with her father. "Ma'yin'," and yet the idea of it did not
seem so very unalluring.
She spoke her thoughts aloud.
"But ef pap 'u'd ma'y, Mis' Gibson, den I'd git a chanct to go to
school. He allus sayin' he mighty sorry 'bout me not goin'."
"Dah now, dah now," cried the woman, casting a pitying glance at the
child, "dat's de las' t'ing. He des a feelin' roun' now. You po',
ign'ant, mothahless chil'. You ain' nevah had no step-mothah, an' you
don' know what hit means."
"But she'd tek keer o' the chillen," persisted Patsy.
"Sich tekin' keer of 'em ez hit 'u'd be. She'd keer fu' 'em to dey
graves. Nobody cain't tell me nuffin 'bout step-mothahs, case I knows
'em. Dey ain' no ooman goin' to tek keer o' nobody else's chile lak
she'd tek keer o' huh own," and Patsy felt a choking come into her
throat and a tight sensation about her heart while she listened as Mrs.
Gibson regaled her with all the choice horrors that are laid at the door
of step-mothers.
From that hour on, one settled conviction took shape and possessed Patsy
Ann's mind; never, if she could help it, would she run the risk of
having a step-mother. Come what may, let her be compelled to do what she
might, let the hope of school fade from her sight forever and a day--but
no step-mother should ever cast her baneful shadow over Patsy Ann's
home.
Experience of life had made her wise for her years, and so for the time
she said nothing to her father; but she began to watch him with wary
eyes, his goings out and his comings in, and to attach new importance to
trifles that had passed unnoticed before by her childish mind.
For instance, if he greased or blacked his boots before going out of an
evening her suspicions were immediately aroused and she saw dim visions
of her father returning, on his arm the terrible ogress whom she had
come to know by the name of step-mother.
Mrs. Gibson's poison had worked well and rapidly. She had thoroughly
inoculated the child's mind with the step-mother virus, but she had not
at the same time made the parent widow-proof, a hard thing to do at
best. So it came to pass that with a mysterious horror growing within
her, Patsy Ann saw her father black his boots more and more often and
fare forth o' nights and Sunday afternoons.
Finally her little heart could contain its sorrow no longer, and one
night when he was later than usual she could not sleep. So she slipped
out of bed, turned up the light, and waited for him, determined to have
it out, then and there.
He came at last and was all surprise to meet the solemn, round eyes of
his little daughter staring at him from across the table.
"W'y, lady gal," he exclaimed, "what you doin' up at 'his time?"
"I sat up fu' you. I got somep'n' to ax you, pappy." Her voice quivered
and he snuggled her up in his arms.
"What's troublin' my little lady gal now? Is de chillen bin bad?"
She laid her head close against his big breast, and the tears would come
as she answered, "No, suh; de chillen bin ez good az good could be, but
oh, pappy, pappy, is you got gal in yo' haid an' a-goin' to bring me a
step-mothah?"
He held her away from him almost harshly and gazed at her as he queried,
"W'y, you po' baby, you! Who's bin puttin' dis hyeah foolishness in yo'
haid?" Then his laugh rang out as he patted her head and drew her close
to him again. "Ef yo' pappy do bring a step-mothah into dis house, Gawd
knows he'll bring de right kin'."
"Dey ain't no right kin'," answered Patsy.
"You don' know, baby; you don' know. Go to baid an' don' worry."
He sat up a long time watching the candle sputter, then he pulled off
his boots and tiptoed to Patsy's bedside. He leaned over her. "Po'
little baby," he said; "what do she know about a step-mothah?" And Patsy
saw him and heard him, for she was awake then, and far into the night.
In the eyes of the child her father stood convicted. He had "gal in his
haid," and was going to bring her a step-mother; but it would never be;
her resolution was taken.
She arose early the next morning and after getting her father off to
work as usual, she took the children into hand. First she scrubbed them
assiduously, burnishing their brown faces until they shone again. Then
she tussled with their refractory locks, and after that she dressed them
out in all the bravery of their best clothes.
Meanwhile her tears were falling like rain, though her lips were shut
tight. The children off her mind, she turned her attention to her own
toilet, which she made with scrupulous care. Then taking a small
tin-type of her mother from the bureau drawer, she put it in her bosom,
and leading her little brood she went out of the house, locking the door
behind her and placing the key, as was her wont, under the door-step.
Outside she stood for a moment or two, undecided, and then with one
long, backward glance at her home she turned and went up the street. At
the first corner she paused again, spat in her hand and struck the
watery globule with her finger. In the direction the most of the spittle
flew, she turned. Patsy Ann was fleeing from home and a step-mother,
and Fate had decided her direction for her, even as Mrs. Gibson's
counsels had directed her course.
The child had no idea where she was going. She knew no one to whom she
might turn in her distress. Not even with Mrs. Gibson would she be safe
from the horror which impended. She had but one impulse in her mind and
that was to get beyond the reach of the terrible woman, or was it a
monster? who was surely coming after her. On and on she walked through
the town with her little band trudging bravely along beside her. People
turned to look at the funny group and smiled good-naturedly as they
passed, and one man, a little more amused than the rest, shouted after
them, "Where you goin', sis, with that orphan's home?"
But Patsy Ann's dignity was impregnable. She walked on with her head in
the air, the desire for safety tugging at her heart.
The hours passed and the gentle coolness of morning turned into the
fierce heat of noon, and still with frequent rests they trudged on,
Patsy ever and anon using her divining hand, unconscious that she was
doubling and redoubling on her tracks. When the whistles blew for twelve
she got her little brood into the shade of a poplar tree and set them
down to the lunch which, thoughtful little mother that she was, she had
brought with her. After that they all stretched themselves out on the
grass that bordered the sidewalk, for all the children were tired out,
and baby John was both sleepy and cross. Even Patsy Ann drowsed and
finally dropped into the deep slumber of childhood. They looked too
peaceful and serene for passers-by to bother them, and so they slept and
slept.
It was past three o'clock when the little guardian awakened with a
start, and shook her charges into activity. John wept a little at first,
but after a while took up his journey bravely with the rest.
She had just turned into a side street, discouraged and bewildered, when
the round face of a coloured woman standing in the doorway of a
whitewashed cottage caught her eye and attention. Once more she paused
and consulted her watery oracle, then turned to encounter the gaze of
the round-faced woman. The oracle had spoken and she turned into the
yard.
"Whaih you goin', honey? You sut'ny look lak you plumb tukahed out. Come
in an' tell me all 'bout yo'se'f, you po' little t'ing. Dese yo' little
brothas an' sistahs?"
"Yes'm," said Patsy Ann.
"W'y, chil', whaih you goin'?"
"I don' know," was the truthful answer.
"You don' know? Whaih you live?"
"Oh, I live down on Douglas Street," said Patsy Ann, "an' I's runnin'
away f'om home an' my step-mothah."
The woman looked keenly at her.
"What yo' name?" she said.
"My name's Patsy Ann Meriweather."
"An' is yo' got a step-mothah?"
"No," said Patsy Ann, "I ain' got none now, but I's sut'ny 'spectin'
one."
"What you know 'bout step-mothahs, honey?"
"Mis' Gibson tol' me. Dey sho'ly is awful, missus, awful."
"Mis' Gibson ain' tol' you right, honey. You come in hyeah and set down.
You ain' nothin' mo' dan a baby yo'se'f, an' you ain' got no right to be
trapsein' roun' dis away."
Have you ever eaten muffins? Have you eaten bacon with onions? Have you
drunk tea? Have you seen your little brother John taken up on a full
bosom and rocked to sleep in the most motherly way, with the sweetness
and tenderness that only a mother can give? Well, that was Patsy Ann's
case to-night.
And then she laid them along like ten-pins crosswise of her bed and sat
for a long time thinking.
To Maria Adams about six o'clock that night came a troubled and
disheartened man. It was no less a person than Patsy Ann's father.
"Maria! Maria! What shall I do? Somebody don' stole all my chillen."
Maria, strange to say, was a woman of few words.
"Don' you bothah 'bout de chillen," she said, and she took him by the
hand and led him to where the five lay sleeping calmly across the bed.
"Dey was runnin' f'om home an' dey step-mothah," said she.
"Dey run hyeah f'om a step-mothah an' foun' a mothah." It was a tribute
and a proposal all in one.
When Patsy Ann awakened, the matter was explained to her, and with
penitent tears she confessed her sins.
"But," she said to Maria Adams, "ef you's de kin' of fo'ks dat dey mek
step-mothahs out o' I ain' gwine to bothah my haid no mo'."
_Fifteen_