A VISITOR
People dined earlier in 1880 than they do nowadays. The Winslows’
dinner hour was six o’clock, and by seven the table had been cleared,
and the family settled down in the dining-room, where they usually
spent their evenings. The children’s bedtime was eight, and that hour
after dinner always seemed to them the longest hour of the whole day.
Mrs. Winslow had a theory that families should spend their evenings
together, and so they were never allowed to wander off and find
amusements for themselves. She also had another theory, that young
people should never speak except when addressed by their elders,
and as neither she nor her daughter were at all fond of the society
of children, the little girls were seldom encouraged to join in the
conversation. Dulcie had once remarked that Grandma only talked when
she had something to scold about, and Aunt Kate spent a great deal
of time knitting caps for sailors, and was so busy counting stitches
that she was apt to forget the presence of any one else in the room.
Aunt Kate was considered among her friends to be a very charitable
woman. She was on the Board of any number of societies for improving
the condition of the poor, and was constantly attending “Meetings,” but
it was seldom that she troubled herself to think of the four little
girls who lived in the big front room on the top floor, and who, if not
objects of charity, would certainly have been better and happier for a
little mothering now and then.
Grandma was very fond of playing solitaire, and as soon as the
dinner-table was cleared, she generally got out the cards, and that
meant that she was not to be disturbed by any one, even her daughter.
Dulcie could often find amusement in a book, or even in the evening
paper, but to the three younger ones that hour between dinner and
bedtime was decidedly tiresome.
On this particular January evening things seemed, if possible, even
duller than usual. The children had been in the house all day, and
were, in consequence, feeling particularly wide awake, and anxious for
some kind of active exercise. When Aunt Kate requested Molly to wind
some wool for her, the little girl jumped up with such alacrity that
she knocked over a chair, and received a severe reproof from Grandma.
“Careless child,” scolded the old lady, looking up from her cards with
a frown; “can’t you move without breaking the furniture?”
Molly, who was rather sensitive, blushed scarlet, and murmured an
apology. But even winding wool is more interesting than doing nothing
at all, so she soon cheered up, and ventured a timid attempt at
conversation.
“It’s going to be a pretty cap,” she remarked politely. “If I were a
sailor I think I should like it.”
“Should you?” said Miss Kate, sarcastically. “It is rather a pity you
are not a sailor, then, isn’t it?”
Aunt Kate had a way of saying things in that sarcastic tone, and Molly
instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence. Dulcie was glancing over
the front page of the _Evening Post_, being very careful not to rattle
the paper, because the rattling of a newspaper made Grandma nervous.
Maud stifled a yawn, and began surreptitiously rubbing her eyes. Maud,
being the youngest, was sometimes permitted to go to bed before her
sisters, but to-night Grandma was absorbed in her solitaire, and did
not notice the yawn. Daisy kept her eyes fixed on the clock. Twenty
minutes to eight. Only twenty more minutes, and then they would all be
free. They would hurry and get undressed, and when they were in bed
perhaps Dulcie would tell them stories about Mamma. She often did after
they had said their prayers, and the light was out, and it was all very
cozy and pleasant. Mamma had talked to Dulcie just before she died,
and told her she must be a little mother to the others, and always be
good to them and never let them forget their prayers. Molly had once
said that perhaps Mamma was looking down on them from heaven, and that
when they were in bed, and Dulcie was talking about her, she came to
them, and loved them, although, of course, they could not see her.
Daisy and Maud had thought this a beautiful idea, and had been much
surprised to hear Dulcie sigh, and say rather sadly:
“I hope she doesn’t know about things.”
“Why not?” Molly had demanded in astonishment. “I should think you
would love to think that perhaps Mamma came to see us.”
“I wouldn’t like to have her unhappy about us,” Dulcie answered,
gravely, “and I’m afraid she would be unhappy if she knew about
Grandma. You can’t remember Danby, and how happy we were there, but I
can, and I know how different everything was when Mamma was here.”
Daisy wished that she could remember that happy time, too, but the
memories were all very dim and indistinct.
For five minutes the only sounds to break the stillness of the room
were the ticking of the clock and the click of Aunt Kate’s knitting
needles. Then the newspaper rustled, and Grandma looked up from her
cards for the second time.
“Leave that paper alone, Dulcie,” she said, impatiently. “You know the
rustling of a newspaper is very unpleasant to me.”
“Excuse me, Grandma,” apologized Dulcie. “I’ll try not to do it again.
I was so interested in something I was reading, I turned over the sheet
to finish it.”
“What were you reading?” Grandma inquired suspiciously.
“About a man who was killed. They think he was murdered. They found his
body----”
“Good gracious, child!” cried Grandma, quite forgetting to shuffle her
cards in her dismay. “Don’t you know you are not to read such things?
Put that paper down at once, and don’t let me see you touch a newspaper
again until you are old enough to know what to read, and what to leave
alone.”
Dulcie blushed.
“Miss Hammond says everybody ought to read the newspaper,” she began.
“It’s very interesting about that man. Won’t you please let me finish
it, Grandma?”
“Certainly not, and don’t argue. Such things are not proper reading for
a child of your age. Your father would be very angry if he ever heard
of your reading such disgusting stories.”
“Would he?” said Dulcie, and she instantly put down the paper. There
was no one in the world whom Dulcie loved as she loved her father.
“Of course he would,” said Mrs. Winslow. “Remember, you are not to look
at a newspaper again until I give you permission. What are you rubbing
your eyes in that way for, Maud?”
“I’m sleepy,” said Maud. Maud was less afraid of Grandma than any of
the others, and if Mrs. Winslow had a favorite among her stepson’s
children, it was little curly-headed Maud, who was scarcely more than a
baby when the family had arrived from the West five years ago.
Grandma glanced at the clock.
“Nearly five minutes to eight,” she said; “you may as well all go to
bed.”
Four little girls sprang from their chairs with so much alacrity that,
if Grandma had been a real grandmother, instead of “only a step,” as
Dulcie called her, her feelings might have been hurt. But Mrs. Winslow
had no objection to the children’s evident dislike of her society. She
meant to do her duty to her husband’s grandchildren, but she never
thought of them in any other light than as a troublesome incumbrance.
They each gave her a sedate “duty kiss,” and murmured a polite
“Good-night, Grandma,” and she heaved a sigh of relief that another day
was over. As for Aunt Kate, she frankly confessed that she hated to be
kissed, and the children never dreamed of troubling her in any such way.
“Oh, it is nice to get up here again, all by ourselves, isn’t it?”
cried Daisy, with a happy little skip, as they entered their own big
nursery, and Dulcie lighted the gas. “I feel sometimes as if I couldn’t
breathe down there with Grandma and Aunt Kate. Let’s hurry to bed, and
then you’ll talk to us about Mamma, won’t you, Dulcie?”
Dulcie nodded rather absently. She was still thinking about the
newspaper story that Grandma had interrupted.
“Hark!” exclaimed Maud, eagerly. “There’s the singing lady.”
They all paused to listen, and, sure enough, from somewhere that
sounded as if it came from within the wall, could be distinctly heard
the notes of a piano, and of a sweet voice singing. The walls in the
old house were rather thin, and by pressing their ears against the
party wall, which divided the Winslows’ from the house next door, they
could even distinguish the words of the song.
“It’s ‘Robin Adair,’” said Molly. “Isn’t it pretty? I think I like it
best of all the songs she sings.”
“I like ‘Darby and Joan’ best,” affirmed Daisy; “it always makes me
think of such nice, comfortable things. I do wish we knew her. I’m sure
she must be nice; she’s got such a lovely voice.”
“Grandma would never let us go to see her,” said Dulcie, with
conviction. “She says it isn’t proper to call on people she doesn’t
know.”
“Perhaps it’s more interesting not to know her,” said cheerful Daisy.
“It’s so exciting to make up stories about her. She must be rather poor
to live away up on the top floor of that boarding-house. I wish we
could see her in the street sometimes.”
“Maybe we do see her,” said Dulcie; “we haven’t any idea what she looks
like. Now, hurry and get undressed, children. It’s pretty cold up here;
I think the furnace must be very low.”
Daisy and Molly began unfastening their dresses, but Maud still
remained with her ear glued to the wall.
“Come, Maud, don’t dawdle,” commanded Dulcie, a little impatiently.
“I’ll help you undress.”
“I want to listen to the singing lady,” objected Maud. “I love music.”
“You can listen in bed just as well, and if you stay up in this cold
room, you may get another sore throat, and you wouldn’t like that, you
know. My goodness! there’s the door-bell. Who can it be at this time of
night?”
Evening visitors were not frequent at the Winslows’, and Molly was
dispatched to peep over the banister.
“Perhaps it’s that minister who comes to see Aunt Kate,” said Dulcie,
and this opinion was rather strengthened when Molly reported having
heard a gentleman’s voice speaking to Mary.
Aunt Kate’s visitors were not interesting to the children, and they
had almost forgotten the incident of the door-bell, when there came an
unexpected tap at the nursery door.
“Children,” called Mary’s voice, rather breathless from the three long
flights of stairs, “your grandma says you’re to come down right away.
Your uncle’s here.”
There was a simultaneous exclamation of astonishment from four very
excited little girls.
“Our uncle! What uncle? Oh, Mary, do tell us quick.” And the door was
flung open, revealing four children in various stages of undressing.
“His name is Maitland,” said Mary, “and he’s a youngish gentleman. I
never saw him before.”
“It must be Uncle Stephen; Mamma’s brother from California,” said
Dulcie. “I think he’s the only uncle we’ve got. Oh, isn’t it exciting?
Hurry, children, do please hurry!”
“I can’t go down with my boots unbuttoned,” complained Daisy. “O dear!
where’s the shoe buttoner? Fasten your dress, Molly, and take those
curlers off Maud’s hair.”
“I’ll help you,” said Mary, good-naturedly. “I’m glad you’ve got an
uncle to look after you. You’d better tell him a few things before he
goes away again.”
“What sort of things?” inquired Daisy, innocently.
Mary laughed.
“Oh, I guess you know as well as I do,” she said, evasively. “If you
don’t, so much the better.”
“Did our uncle ask for Grandma?” Dulcie wanted to know.
“Oh, yes, and she’s in the parlor with him now. So’s Miss Kate.”
Dulcie’s face fell.
“There isn’t much use in our going down, then,” she said, with a sigh.
“Grandma won’t let us talk. She never does when there’s company.”
“Perhaps she will this time, because it’s our uncle,” said Daisy, who
was always hoping pleasant things were going to happen. “Anyhow, it
will be lovely to see somebody belonging to Mamma. I remember Papa told
us about Uncle Stephen. He’s lived in California ever since he was
twenty, and none of us has ever seen him. There! my boots are done. Now
I can help Maud, if you’ll button Molly’s dress, Mary.”
Four little hearts were beating rather quickly, as the children hurried
down-stairs to the parlor, from whence the sound of voices could be
heard.
“Grandma’s talking in her ‘company voice,’” whispered Dulcie. “She must
like Uncle Stephen or she wouldn’t sound so polite.”
Grandma and Aunt Kate were both smiling when the children entered the
parlor, and their companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, rose
from the sofa, and came forward to meet them.
“So these are Ethel’s little girls,” he said, and Grandma answered,
still in her “company voice”:
“Yes, here they are, all four. Children, this is your Uncle Stephen
from California.”
“I know,” said Dulcie, holding out her hand, with her most grown-up
air; “Papa told us all about you. I think you were very kind to take
the trouble to come to see us. I’m Dulcie, the eldest, and this is
Daisy. Her real name is Margaret, after Grandma Maitland, but everybody
calls her Daisy. These others are Molly and Maud. Molly’s named for
Mamma’s sister, who died, and Maud is just a name Mamma liked in a
book.”
Dulcie paused, rather breathless from her long speech. The three
younger children gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Under no
combination of circumstances could any one of them have dared to make
such a wonderful speech, and in Grandma’s presence, too. The visitor
smiled, and they all thought he had a very pleasant smile indeed.
“Of course I wanted to come to see you,” he said in a voice that was
as pleasant as his smile. And, instead of taking Dulcie’s outstretched
hand, he bent and kissed her.
That broke the ice, for of course, all the others had to be kissed,
too, and in a very few minutes Maud was perched on Uncle Stephen’s
knee, and the other three were sitting beside him on the sofa. If
Grandma and Aunt Kate were displeased with this state of affairs, they
did not show it. Grandma continued to talk in her “company voice,” and
Aunt Kate smiled as her needles flew.
Mr. Maitland explained that he had come east on a business trip, and
was only spending a few days in New York.
“Indeed, I am starting back to California to-morrow night,” he said,
“but I couldn’t leave without having a glimpse of Ethel’s children.
Jim stopped to see me in San Francisco, on his way to Hong Kong, and I
asked for your address, thinking I might be in this part of the world
sometime.”
“Papa’s coming home next year,” ventured Maud, who suddenly felt very
safe in Grandma’s presence, for was not Uncle Stephen’s kind arm around
her, and had he not said that she had eyes like Mamma’s? “When he
comes home we’re going to have a little house of our own, and perhaps
Lizzie----”
Maud paused, admonished by a warning nudge from Dulcie. Grandma had
forbidden the mention of Lizzie’s name.
“We had a letter from Papa last week,” put in Dulcie, quickly, hoping
that Grandma had not noticed Maud’s slip. “He tells us such funny
things about China. Does he ever write to you, Uncle Stephen?”
“Yes, occasionally. I heard from him about a month ago.”
“Did he tell you about the Chinese people eating rats and mice?”
inquired Molly. “We used to worry for fear Papa might have to eat them,
but he says he doesn’t.”
Uncle Stephen laughed, and even Grandma and Aunt Kate looked amused,
but just then Grandma gave the little warning cough, which always meant
“children should be seen and not heard,” and Molly instantly relapsed
into embarrassed silence.
Altogether, the call was a trifle disappointing. Aunt Kate talked about
missions, but Uncle Stephen didn’t seem particularly interested in
that subject, and in about twenty minutes he took out his watch, and
remarked that he was afraid he must be going.
“I have an engagement with a business friend at nine,” he said, “but
I want to see these little nieces of mine again before I leave New
York. To-morrow is Saturday, and I expect to finish all my business by
noon. My train doesn’t leave till half-past six. May I have these young
people to spend the afternoon with me? I will promise to take good care
of them.”
That was a tremendous moment. Would Grandma consent? That was the
question that four little eager girls were asking themselves. Daisy
ventured to give the old lady a pleading glance. Dulcie and Molly
clasped their hands nervously. There was a moment of breathless
suspense, and then, to everybody’s surprise, Grandma answered quite
pleasantly:
“I am sure they would enjoy it very much, and I see no objection, if
you really want to be troubled with them.”
“I want them very much,” said Uncle Stephen, with his kind, pleasant
smile. “I will call for them at about noon, and we will lunch at the
Fifth Avenue, where I am staying, and do something together in the
afternoon. Now I must be off, as I see it is getting near the time for
my appointment, so good-night, chicks. Be sure to be ready for me at
twelve to-morrow.”
“I never believed she’d let us,” declared Daisy, when they were talking
things over in the nursery, ten minutes later. “My heart just stood
still; I was so sure she was going to say no.”
“Perhaps she didn’t dare,” suggested Molly. “He’s our uncle, you know.
Oh, aren’t uncles lovely? I never had any idea they were so nice.”
“We didn’t know anything about them,” said Daisy. “We don’t know much
about any relations except fathers. Now let’s hurry to bed, and get to
sleep as quick as we can, so it won’t seem so long till to-morrow.”