CHAPTER XVIISTEPMOTHERS
AS the children approached the house they saw that a pony phaeton was standing by the front steps, out of which a lady had just alighted. She was speaking to the groom, who had run up from the stable to take the horse, but at the sound of Barbara’s voice she turned to greet her little daughter, and even at that first glimpse Dulcie and Daisy could see that she had a very sweet face.
“Mamma,” cried Barbara, reaching her mother’s side in a rather breathless condition, “here are two little girls who want to see you. Their names are Delia and Margaret Smith. The biggest one is Delia; she chose her name herself, and the littlest one is Margaret.”
Mrs. Thorne greeted the visitors very kindly.
“I am glad Barbara has found some little friends,” she said. “Suppose we all come into the house. It is rather warm, and I would like to take off my hat before doing anything else.”
We’re—we’re looking for a situation“We’re—we’re looking for a situation.”—Page259.
“We’re—we’re looking for a situation.”—Page259.
“We’re—we’re looking for a situation.”—Page259.
Her voice was so kind and cordial, and her smile so pleasant, that Dulcie and Daisy were both conscious of a sensation of decided relief. Still, thesituation remained an embarrassing one, for it was quite evident that Mrs. Thorne supposed them to be some little neighbors come to make a morning call. However, there was nothing to be done but to follow Barbara and her mother into the house, and then they found themselves in a cool, flower-scented room, and Mrs. Thorne was saying in her bright, friendly voice:
“I am sorry you had such a hot morning for your walk. I hope you did not have far to come.”
“We—we don’t live here,” stammered Dulcie, her cheeks growing suddenly very hot. “We came in the train, and walked up from the station.”
“You came on the train?” Mrs. Thorne repeated, incredulously. “You don’t mean by yourselves?”
“Oh, yes,” said Dulcie. “You see, we had to. We’re—we’re looking for a situation.”
Mrs. Thorne gazed in growing bewilderment from one serious little face to the other.
“A situation,” she gasped. “Why, you are only children.”
“I’m twelve,” said Dulcie, rather tremulously, “and Dais—I mean Margaret, is eleven. Of course we wouldn’t expect to be paid very much at first.”
“But I don’t understand. Why do you want to work at all? You are not poor children.”
That was just what Barbara had said, and Dulcie felt her heart sink. How could they ever explain the situation without telling the whole story?
“We’ve gone away, because we don’t want to be burdens to our stepmother,” put in Daisy, coming to her sister’s relief.
A shadow crossed Mrs. Thorne’s sweet face, and as if instinctively, she slipped an arm round Barbara, who was standing by her side.
“Don’t you love your stepmother?” she asked, gently. “Isn’t she kind to you?”
“We’ve never seen her,” Daisy explained. “She’s only coming to-day. Papa married her in California, and we never knew anything about it till yesterday. We are sure she won’t want us, and we are very tired of being burdens to people, so we came away to earn our own livings.”
Daisy paused abruptly, and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
Mrs. Thorne was really wonderful. She seemed to understand the whole situation at once, without asking another question.
“You poor little chicks,” she said, and her voice was so kind that, instead of checking Daisy’s tears, it caused her to cry all the more. And then somehow, they were all on the sofa together, and Mrs. Thorne had one arm round Daisy, and the other round Dulcie—who had also begun to cry—and Barbara was looking on, with tears of sympathy in her own eyes.
“We love our papa very much indeed,” sobbed Dulcie, “but we think perhaps he will be glad tohave us go away, on account of the stepmother, you know. I promised Mamma before she died that I would always take care of the others, and stepmothers are so very cruel sometimes.”
“There, there, dear,” soothed Mrs. Thorne, “don’t try to talk any more till you feel better. I think I understand everything. You have made a foolish mistake, but it’s going to be all right.”
There was something wonderfully reassuring in that kind, cheerful voice, and in a few minutes the two little girls had dried their tears, and were beginning to feel almost cheerful themselves. But now a new difficulty arose; something that neither of them had ever thought of. In their absorption they had quite failed to notice that the hot sunshine had been suddenly obscured by a dark cloud, until suddenly the rumble of distant thunder fell upon their ears. Daisy was on her feet in a moment.
“There’s going to be a thunder-storm!” she exclaimed. “We must go right after Molly and Maud. Maud hates thunder.”
“Who are Molly and Maud?” inquired Mrs. Thorne, and, as if in answer to her question, there was a sound of little feet on the piazza, and through the open window came an anxious voice.
“Dulcie, Daisy, where are you? There’s a horrid thunder-storm coming up.”
“They are our two little sisters,” explained Dulcie. “We left them out on the road. We wereafraid people wouldn’t take us if they saw how many there were. Would you mind very much if they came in, just till the shower is over? Maud is so afraid of thunder-storms.”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Thorne, who was beginning to look very much amused. “Run and bring the little girls in, Barbara.”
Away flew hospitable Barbara, closely followed by Dulcie and Daisy, and in another moment they were back again, accompanied by Molly and Maud, who both looked very red and uncomfortable.
“It was all Maud’s fault,” Molly was whispering apologetically to Dulcie. “I wanted to wait, but the minute she heard the thunder she was frightened, and she cried so hard I had to let her come to find you.”
“It was beginning to thunder,” Maud was at the same moment explaining to the sympathetic Barbara. “Dulcie and Daisy stayed away so long, and I was so thirsty. I thought I was going to like cake for breakfast, but I didn’t; it left such a funny taste afterwards.”
“Dulcie and Daisy,” repeated Barbara; “why, I thought their names were Delia and Margaret.”
Maud looked blank, and Dulcie, blushing furiously, but still with a desperate attempt to keep up their assumed characters, hastened to explain.
“Dulcie and Daisy are our home names,” she said. “Daisy’s real name is Margaret.”
“And your real name is Delia, I suppose,” said Mrs. Thorne, smiling; “Delia Smith, I think you said.”
Dulcie was silent. She was a truthful child, and not even for the honor of the Winslow family could she bring herself to tell a deliberate lie. Mrs. Thorne seemed to understand, for she smiled again, and her voice was very kind.
“Barbara darling,” she said, “suppose you take Molly and Maud into the dining-room, and get them each a glass of milk. Maud says she is thirsty, and cake is hardly a substantial breakfast. Ask Jane to boil some eggs, and warm some oatmeal, and we will all come in a few minutes. Now, my dear little girls,” she added in a graver tone, when the three younger children had left the room, “I want you to tell me your real names, and where you live. I must let your family know where you are as soon as possible. They are probably frightened to death about you already.”
Dulcie clasped her hands in despair, as she saw the last hope of carrying out her wonderful plan of independence fading from her grasp. But there was an air of gentle determination about Mrs. Thorne that convinced her of the uselessness of a refusal. She answered meekly:
“My name is Dulcie Winslow and my sister is really Margaret, but every one calls her Daisy. We live at Tarrytown with our grandmother, and——”
“You don’t mean to tell me you are old Dr. Winslow’s grandchildren!” interrupted Mrs. Thorne, in a tone of genuine astonishment.
Dulcie nodded, and Daisy asked timidly:
“Did you know our grandfather?”
“I used to see him often when I was a little girl. We were neighbors in New York, and his son Jim was a great friend of mine.”
“Why, that’s our papa!” cried Dulcie, shame and disappointment alike forgotten in the excitement of this discovery. “How wonderful to think you knew Papa. Perhaps you knew Mamma, too.”
“No, I never saw your father after he went to college, but we were great friends as children. He was a very nice boy.”
“He’s the loveliest man in the world,” declared Daisy, with shining eyes.
Mrs. Thorne smiled.
“Is he indeed?” she said. “One would hardly think you were so fond of him when you have been trying to run away from him.”
“Oh, we weren’t running away from Papa,” cried Dulcie, quite horrified at the suggestion. “We love him better than any one else in the world, and we were so happy when we knew he was coming home from China, but then we heard about the stepmother, and I thought—I was afraid——” Dulcie paused in hopeless confusion.
“We didn’t want to be incumbrances,” said Daisy. “Aunt Julia Chester said we were incumbrances to Grandma. Dulcie looked up the word in the dictionary, and it means the same thing as being a burden. Dulcie thought we might be able to work for our living, even if we were only little girls, and so——”
“And so you ran away, like two very foolish children, and took your younger sisters with you. I suppose it never occurred to you how unhappy you would make your father.”
At this awful suggestion both little girls began to cry.
“I—I thought he would be proud of us,” sobbed Dulcie. “I wouldn’t make Papa unhappy for the whole world.”
“There, there, dear, don’t cry; I knew you wouldn’t.” And Mrs. Thorne put a kind arm round the trembling child. “You thought you were doing something very fine, and now you are going to do something much finer, by going home again, and showing your papa that you trust him, and feel sure he would not do anything to make you unhappy. As for the stepmother; all stepmothers are not wicked. There are many who love their stepchildren dearly. Perhaps your stepmother is longing to know you, and to make you love her. I doubt very much that she has ever thought of you as incumbrances. Now I think breakfast must beready, so dry your eyes, and we will join the others in the dining-room.”
That was a wonderful morning; the children never forgot it. To Molly and Maud it was a morning of pure delight, and even their elder sisters, in spite of several causes for anxiety, could not help enjoying themselves, whenever they forgot to think about the future. Mrs. Thorne was very kind to them all, and Barbara proved a delightful little hostess. The shower was a very slight one, and by the time they had finished breakfast, the sun was shining once more. Mrs. Thorne went out in the pony phaeton again, and Dulcie and Daisy had an uncomfortable conviction that her errand was in some way connected with their affairs. Nothing, however, was said about their going home at once, and Barbara took them all out to inspect the rabbits. When it grew too hot in the sun, they came indoors again, and Barbara took them up to her nursery—a room so full of beautiful toys that Molly and Maud felt as if suddenly transported to fairyland.
“What do you suppose is going to happen?” Daisy whispered to Dulcie, on the way up-stairs. “Are we to stay here till somebody comes to take us home?”
“I don’t know,” Dulcie answered mournfully; “Mrs. Thorne is attending to everything, and I don’t like to ask her any questions. The thing I’m most afraid of is that Grandma may come for usherself. It would be dreadful to have to go all the way home in the train with Grandma.”
At one o’clock Mrs. Thorne called them all down to luncheon, and it was just as they were finishing that meal that the telegram arrived. The waitress brought it in on a tray, and handed it to Mrs. Thorne, who opened it, and read aloud:
“Please send children home by next train. They will be met at the station.”
“Please send children home by next train. They will be met at the station.”
There was a moment of dead silence, and then Mrs. Thorne said quietly:
“The telegram is from your grandmother, in answer to one I sent her this morning.”
“We thought it was,” said Dulcie, meekly. “How soon does the next train go?”
Mrs. Thorne left the room to consult a time-table, and Barbara began to express her entire disapproval of the whole affair.
“I don’t see why you can’t stay,” she protested; “there’s plenty of room. It would be so nice to have you stay all summer, and we could have such fun all together. Wouldn’t you like to stay?”
“It would be lovely,” said Dulcie, politely, “but your mother doesn’t think it would be right. She is afraid Papa wouldn’t like it.”
“Our papa is coming home to-day,” chimed in Molly, “and we haven’t seen him for more than a year.”
“Papas are pretty nice,” Barbara admitted, “but of course they’re not like mammas. I don’t think I could possibly leave Mamma, even to go to the nicest place in the world. Mamma says perhaps you can come to see us again some day. I’m so glad your name isn’t Delia Smith, Dulcie; Dulcie Winslow is ever so much prettier, and I think I like Daisy better than Margaret, too. I suppose your papa would be disappointed if you were away when he came. Haven’t you any mamma?”
“No,” said Dulcie, with a sigh; “she died when we were very little. I am the only one who can remember her.”
Barbara looked interested.
“My first mamma died when I was a little baby,” she said; “I can’t remember her a bit.”
The four little Winslows nearly dropped their spoons into the ice-cream, so great was their astonishment at this amazing announcement.
“Your—your what?” gasped Dulcie.
“My first mamma,” repeated Barbara, calmly. “I’ve got her picture on my bureau, and I always kiss her good-night. Mamma says she loved me very much, but I’m sure she loves me just as much herself, because she says I’m the preciousest thing in the world.”
At that moment Mrs. Thorne returned, with a time-table in her hand.
“The next down train leaves here in half anhour,” she said; “I’m afraid we shall have to hurry a little. I have sent word to James to harness the ponies, and will drive you to the station myself.”
“Mrs. Thorne,” said Dulcie, regarding her hostess with big, astonished eyes, “I hope it isn’t a rude question, but I’ve got to ask. Are you—are you Barbara’s stepmother?”
Mrs. Thorne laughed merrily.
“So you have found out,” she said. “Yes, I am, but that doesn’t make any difference in our love for each other, does it, Barbara darling?” And she stooped to kiss the little girl, who responded by flinging both arms round her neck.
“No, indeed it doesn’t,” she cried, heartily. “I wouldn’t change you for all the mammas in the world.”
“And we thought all stepmothers were wicked and cruel,” said Dulcie, slowly. “O dear! I’m afraid we’ve been dreadfully silly, and I guess we’d better go home just as soon as we possibly can.”