Amanda Douglas - A Little Girl in Old Washington

"You are beginning early, young man. Next time you let my especial horse alone. Well, I'm glad it's no worse. But I won't have you turning out a horse jockey."

They had reached the stables, where two or three old men and half a dozen negro boys were making a pretense of being busy, but they rushed to welcome the squire. Cato and Jerry were both interviewed, and when the master emerged with a pleasant face and scattered a handful of coppers for the small fry to chase about, Louis felt quite relieved, for, truth to tell, he had had several rather wretched days about his father's favorite.

The squire ordered up the carriage, and Julius came down with missy's commands.

Annis had followed her mother up the broad staircase to the large, light room where a slim young colored girl was putting away various articles in drawers and closets. The small wardrobe had been increased during the brief time spent in Baltimore, but was not very extensive yet.

When Randolph Mason had gone to Baltimore to settle the estate of one of his wife's cousins, as he had been named executor, he found Patricia Bouvier mentioned among the heirs. He recalled the pretty, attractive girl his wife had taken such an interest in, who had married an enthusiastic young French Huguenot, and some time after joined a colony of emigrants to the "New Countries," as the Middle West was then called.

"She was left a widow some years ago," said one of the relatives. "She did write about coming back, but it is a long journey for a woman and a little child. Latterly we have not heard. I dare say she is married again."

There was a company going out to settle some boundary question and make surveys, and on the spur of the moment the squire's adventurous blood was roused and he joined them. They had magnificent summer weather, and his enjoyment was intense. He found the little settlement and Mrs. Bouvier, who had known varying fortunes since her husband's death. She had been kindly cared for, and more than one man would gladly have married her, but her heart yearned for her own people. To take the journey alone seemed too venturesome, and she well knew the perils of frontier travel. So she had waited with a longing soul for some deliverance. She would go back gladly.

There was no difficulty in disposing of her claim in the settlement. She bade good-by to the grave it had been a sad, sweet pleasure to tend, and with her little girl and her delightful guide and convoy set out on the journey.

Before they reached Baltimore a new tie had sprung up between them. True, Squire Mason had thought occasionally during the last year of marrying again. His sister Catharine had said to him before her departure:

"The best thing you can do, Randolph, is to marry soon. The girls will need someone to supervise them and see that they make proper marriages. Mrs. Keen would be admirable, as she has no children. And there are the Stormont girls; any of them would be suitable, since even Anne is not young. I wish I had taken this in hand before."

"I wish you were not going away, Catharine. My girls ought to be nearer to you than Mr. Conway's," he said ruefully.

"I will still do what I can for them. There is excellent society at Williamsburg, and I can give them pleasant visits. But I never saw a man more in need of a wife than Mr. Conway. It's a good thing clergymen wear a surplice, for I am sure he never could tell whether he was decent or not. Surely it is a plain duty."

"And you leave me in the lurch?"

"But, you see, a clergyman needs a person well fitted for the position, which, I must say, every woman is not," with an air of complacency.

"And you think anyone will do for me!"

"How foolish you are, brother! I think no such thing. You certainly have sense enough to make a wise choice."

But he had not chosen, and now he thought he should like this sweet, sorrowful, tender Patricia. How bright he could make her life!

He was so strong, so sincere and cheerful. He made friends with shy Annis, who sat on his knee and was intensely interested in his girls – he always called them little. And before they reached Baltimore he had asked Patricia to marry him, and Annis had consented to be his little girl. Mrs. Bouvier's small patrimony was to be settled on the child. But, then, she could not have imagined Mr. Mason being mercenary.

Word had been sent to the household of the marriage. They had not thought of objecting. In the great drawing room there was a portrait of their mother in a white satin gown, with pearls about her neck. It had been painted during a visit to London. They all went and looked at it, and wondered if the cousin Patricia would be anything like that!

"I don't believe she is as beautiful," declared Jaqueline.

There had been several delays on the latter part of the journey, and it was evening when the travelers reached home. The welcome had been a hearty one, and when supper was over Annis was nodding. It was past Varina's bedtime. Charles had already stolen off.

"Take the children to bed, Phillis," said the master. "They're to be sisters, so they may as well begin by sharing the same room. You won't feel lonesome, little Annis?"

"I'll go with her," said the mother in her soft voice.

"Nay." Randolph Mason put his hand on his wife's arm and kept her a prisoner. "Phillie is the best of mammies. And you belong in part to me. You have had a hard time, and now there is someone to wait upon you and ease you up. Good-night, little ones."

He kissed both children. Annis wanted to cling to her mother, for even through these three days of her married life her mother had heard her little prayer and put her to bed, so she had not felt really separated. But when Philly took her hand it came with a sudden wrench. She dared not cry out in the face of them all. But, oh, was her own dear mother not hers any more? Did she truly belong to father Mason? And all these large children? Had she given herself away when father Mason had put a ring on her finger and called her his wife?

She was out in the hall – being led upstairs, and Phillis' hand was as soft as a crumpled rose leaf. Her voice was soft and sweet too. There were two small white-covered beds, and when they were undressed and within them Phillis crooned a low melody, and the little girl, being very tired and sleepy, forgot her sorrows.

Then in the morning Phillis came and dressed them both and curled Annis' soft, light hair. Jaqueline seized on her the moment she entered the breakfast room.

"I hardly had a look at you last night," she began. "I do hope you won't feel strange and that you will like us all. And there are ever so many other relations. Did you never have any brothers or sisters?"

"No," answered Annis, with a kind of wistful regret, raising her eyes shyly.

"We have another lot out at the Pineries. It's queer, but we don't call them uncles and aunts, except Aunt Jane, because she is married and the oldest. And we always dispute – it's very funny and queer. Grandfather is a Federal – well, a sort of Tory, too – and father's a Republican. People who live in a republic ought to be Republicans. That's what we fought for."

Annis stared. "Out home – there," indicating the West with her head, "they fought the Indians."

"Well – it is all about the same thing, only there are not many Indians around here. And we don't fight each other."

"I don't know about that!" and the young man who was toying with the ears of an English hound laughed.

Then had come the puzzling question, and Annis Bouvier wondered what side she must take and was sadly mystified.

Annis ran and threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her fervently.

"Are you glad to come here and do you like them all?" she asked when she found her breath. "And it is so queer, with all the black people and the great house and – and everything!"