STEPMOTHERS
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.”
[Illustration: “WE’RE--WE’RE LOOKING FOR A SITUATION.”--_Page 259._]
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, the situation 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 to have 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 were afraid 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 be ready,
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 us herself. 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.”
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 an hour,” 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.”