Four girls of forty years ago

“DAISY, are you asleep?”

“No,” said Daisy, in a smothered voice, lifting a flushed, tear-wet face from the pillow. “I’ve tried and tried, but my eyes won’t stay shut. I thought you might be asleep, though, so I kept as quiet as I could.”

Dulcie sighed, and slipped an arm round her sister.

“I can’t go to sleep either,” she whispered; “I don’t believe I’ve been asleep at all. I’ve been thinking and thinking, till it seemed as if my head would just burst. I’m so glad you’re awake, for I must talk to somebody. We must whisper, though, so as not to wake Molly and Maud.”

“I think it must be the middle of the night,” whispered Daisy. “It seems ages since I heard Grandma lock her door. Oh, Dulcie, hasn’t it been a dreadful day? I’ve been thinking about stepmothers ever since I went to bed. Do you suppose real ones are all as dreadful as the ones in books?”

“I’m afraid they are,” sighed Dulcie. “They may not all be wicked. Grandma isn’t wicked, but I don’t believe she ever made Papa very happy when he was a little boy. I don’t believe Papa would marry a lady who was really cruel, but even if she isn’t, she won’t want us. We shall be the same bother to her we’ve been to Grandma. That’s the dreadful part of it. Oh, how could Papa have done it? He knew we would always stay with him, and take care of him.” Dulcie’s voice broke in a sudden sob.

It had, indeed, been a very sad evening for the four little girls. They had spent it alone, for Grandma had not come home to tea. She had sent a note to say the children were not to wait for her, as she had accepted the invitation of a neighbor to remain to supper, and go to hear a distinguished speaker at the town hall. As for Lizzie, chief cause of all the trouble, she had been driven home by her husband, a very sad and depressed Lizzie, for every one had blamed her for telling the children a piece of news which Mrs. Winslow had strictly forbidden every member of the household to mention. So the children had sat on the piazza in the twilight, after tea, Molly and Maud with their heads on their elder sisters’ laps, and nobody had talked much. There really did not seem anything to say, and it had been a relief to them all when bedtime came. They had undressed in the same quiet, subdued way, and Molly and Maud had soon forgotten their troubles in sleep.

Dulcie cried softly into the pillow for a few minutes, while Daisy soothed and comforted her as best she could, both of them still mindful of their sleeping sisters in the other bed, for, as in the city, the four little girls shared the same room. Then Dulcie pulled herself together again, and began to talk.

“I’ve been thinking of it for hours and hours,” she whispered, “and I’ve made up my mind we’ve got to do something.”

Daisy gasped.

“There isn’t anything we can do,” she protested. “We’ve just got to make the best of it. I’ve been praying a lot, Dulcie dear, and I think perhaps God won’t let the stepmother be so very dreadful, after all. There may be some nice stepmothers, you know, even if we’ve never heard of them.”

“But there is something we can do,” said Dulcie, not without a touch of pride in her tone. “I’ve thought of it. You see, it isn’t as if we were all little as we were when Mamma died. Then, of course, we couldn’t do anything for ourselves, and Papa had to bring us to Grandma, but now you and I are old enough to earn our living, and even Molly could work—wash dishes, you know, and shell peas, and little things like that. Between the three of us we ought to be able to earn enough to take care of Maud.”

“Earn our own living!” repeated Daisy, incredulously. “Why, Dulcie, how could we? Papa wouldn’t let us, or Grandma either. Grandma would say we had disgraced the family, the same as she did when that cousin of hers went away to be an actress.”

Dulcie sniffed scornfully.

“We can’t help what Grandma says,” she said. “Papa won’t think we are a disgrace to the family. Besides, it will all have to happen before he gets home. He may not like it just at first, but I don’t believe he’ll really mind much, because, of course, it will make the stepmother happy not to have any burdens.”

“But—but,” faltered Daisy, “Papa is coming home to-morrow. How can it possibly happen before that?”

“Because it’s got to,” said Dulcie, firmly. “I’ve thought it all out, lying here, and it’s really quite a wonderful plan. Now listen, and don’t interrupt till I get through. We won’t tell the others anything till morning, but we’ll have to get up very early, so as to be away before anybody else is awake. We’ll dress very quietly, and just slip out of the house without anybody’s knowing a thing about it. There’s an old leather bag in the storeroom that I don’t believe Grandma would mind our taking, and we can put a few things in it—just necessary things, you know, like combs and tooth-brushes, and a set of clean clothes for each of us. We’ll walk to the station, and take the first train going up the river. Isn’t it wonderful that Uncle Stephen should have sent us that five dollars for the Fourth of July? I thought we could keep it to buy real birthday presents for Molly and Maud, but we’ll have to spend it this way. We’ll buy four tickets for Peak’s Point. It’s twenty miles off, and nobody knows us there. Papa took me there once on the boat, and I remember it was quite a big place, and there were some lovely houses. We’ll stop at the first house we like the looks of, and ring the door-bell and ask for work. Of course they may not want us at the first one, but we’ll keep right on asking till we find some one who wants some little girls to help with the housework. People often do take little girls, you know. You remember the girl who used to take the Van Arsdale baby out; I’m sure she wasn’t much older than I am. We won’t give our real names; people in books never give their real names when they run away from home. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful plan?”

“No, I don’t,” declared Daisy. “I think it’s the most awful thing I ever heard of in my life. I’m sure Papa would be very angry. It would be dreadful not to be here when he gets home to-morrow.”

Dulcie caught her breath in a quickly suppressed sob.

“I know it,” she choked, “and I feel dreadfully about it, but it can’t be helped. It isn’t as if Papa were coming alone, you know; the stepmother will be here, too. I promised Mamma to take care of you all, and I’ve always known a stepmother was the very worst kind of a ‘step’ there was. Besides, when Papa finds out we’re supporting ourselves, and making money, I think he’ll be rather proud of us. We’ll leave a note, of course—people in books always leave notes—and when we are settled, we’ll let people know where we are. We’ve got to do something, Daisy, we really have. We can’t go on being burdens, and incum—I can’t remember the rest of the word, but you know what Paul told us he heard his mother say we were. It’s a dreadful thing to feel you are a burden, and I just can’t bear it any longer.” And Dulcie burst into such a passionate fit of crying that poor, trembling Daisy was at her wits’ end to comfort her.

It was a long time before either child closed her eyes that night. They talked in whispers, or rather Dulcie talked, for it was she who made all the plans, while Daisy merely listened, and murmured faint, frightened little protests. The whole scheme appeared to her so utterly preposterous and impossible that at first she thought Dulcie was making up one of her famous stories, but Dulcie’s was the stronger nature of the two, and in the end she had her way, as she generally did with her younger sisters. But poor little Daisy’s heart was very heavy. Long after Dulcie had fallen asleep, worn out by excitement, she lay with wide open eyes, staring into the darkness, until tears would not be kept back any longer, and then she cried herself to sleep.

Almost as soon as the first streaks of sunlight had made their way through the closed blinds, and while the birds were still singing their morning chorus, Dulcie was wide awake again, ready for the day’s work. She lay still for a few minutes, listening to the breathing of her sleeping sisters, and then rose softly, and seating herself at the desk, began to write. She wrote steadily for the next ten minutes, and then paused, arrested by a slight rustle from the bed she had left. Daisy was sitting up, watching her anxiously, her blue eyes full of trouble.

“What are you doing?” she inquired, in a tremulous whisper.

“Writing that letter to Papa,” Dulcie answered. “I’m just finishing. You can read what I’ve written, if you want to. I think it’s rather nice.”

Daisy slipped out of bed and tiptoed softly across the room to her sister’s side. Leaning over Dulcie’s shoulder, she read:

“It’s a beautiful letter,” commended Daisy, wiping her eyes. “I don’t see how you always know just the right things to say. Perhaps Papa won’t be angry when he understands, but it does seem a dreadful thing not to be here when he comes.” And Daisy choked back a rising sob.

The next hour was a very busy one for the little Winslows. In the first place, Molly and Maud had to be awakened, and the wonderful plan explained to them. Not an easy task, for at the first mention of the fact that they were to go away before their father’s arrival both children began to cry, and Molly persisted, amid sobs, “that nothing—no, nothing in the world, not even the cruelest stepmother one had ever heard of—would induce her to go anywhere before Papa came home.” But again, as with Daisy, Dulcie ended in having her own way. Indeed, she drew such a terrible picture of stepmothers in general that at last Maud was frightened, and Molly was forced into a half-hearted consent to the plan. Then began the preparations for departure. They had to be very quiet, for Grandma was a light sleeper, but Dulcie crept up-stairs to the storeroom, whence she returned with a shabby leather travelling-bag, and in due time they were ready.

“Now we must go down-stairs on tiptoe,” commanded Dulcie, who, from the beginning, had taken command of the expedition. “The front door is locked, but it’s morning, so there can’t be any harm in leaving it unfastened till Mary and Bridget come down. They’ll only think we got up early, and went for a walk. We did it once last summer, you know. Now, is everybody ready?”

“Where shall we get our breakfast?” Maud inquired, anxiously.

“We shall have to wait till we get to Peak’s Point. There are plenty of stores there, and we can buy something at a baker’s. It will be like a picnic, you know. O dear! I didn’t think this bag would be so heavy! I’m afraid we’ve taken too many things.”

“It doesn’t seem as if we were taking much,” said Daisy. “I thought we ought each to have an extra dress, but the bag wouldn’t shut when I tried to put them in. I really don’t believe we can get on with any less, Dulcie; we’ve got to be clean, you know.”

But Dulcie—who had made an attempt to lift the heavy valise—shook her head resolutely.

“We shall have to get on somehow,” she said, and promptly began removing the superfluous articles her younger sisters had so carefully packed.

Daisy sighed, but submitted to the inevitable, and after taking out some of the heaviest of their possessions, Dulcie declared she could easily carry the bag, with a little occasional help from the others. They were a rather pathetic little procession, as they softly opened their door and tiptoed down-stairs. Dulcie carried the valise, and each of the other three was provided with a package as well. Daisy was carrying the family Bible, carefully wrapped in paper; Molly was entrusted with their mother’s photograph, in its gilt frame, and Maud hugged to her bosom her favorite rag doll, which no amount of persuasion could induce her to leave behind. As they reached the lower hall, the big clock on the stairs struck six.

“It’s very early,” whispered Molly. “Do you suppose there will be any trains?”

“Of course there will,” Dulcie reassured her; “there are always trains. Now, step very softly on the piazza. I’m so afraid Grandma may hear us and get up to look out of the window.”

After all, there was nothing very alarming about the adventure, and Molly and Maud had not taken many steps in the fresh morning air before their spirits began to rise. But Daisy cried softly all the way to the station, and Dulcie’s face was very stern and set.

“I think it’s rather fun,” Maud whispered to Molly, “only I wish we could have had our breakfast before we started. Just listen to that robin. I don’t believe robins ever sing like that after breakfast.”

“Miss Leslie wrote that she loved to go out early in the morning and study the birds,” said Molly. “I can’t see what there can be about birds to study, but she said it was very interesting.”

Maud came to a sudden pause.

“We’ve forgotten Miss Leslie’s wedding presents,” she exclaimed, in dismay. “We’ll have to go back for them.”

But Dulcie would not hear of going back, even for the precious wedding presents, but she promised Maud they would write Miss Leslie all about everything, and she would surely understand.

“For you know Miss Leslie is a very understanding person,” finished Dulcie, “and I’m sure she won’t blame us for running away from a stepmother, when we’ve had nothing but steps ever since we can remember.”

It was only a short walk down the hill to the station, but when they reached it, they found the waiting-room still locked up, and not a human being in sight.

“I knew it was too early for trains,” fretted Maud. “Now we’ll have to go home again.”

“No, we won’t,” declared Dulcie, with assumed cheerfulness. “We’ll just wait here till the first one comes along.”

So they all sat down on a bench to wait, and it was very still, with nothing but the twittering of the birds to disturb the morning silence.

For a few minutes nobody spoke, and then Maud inquired wonderingly:

“What makes it so solemn? It feels like church.”

“I guess it’s because we’re all feeling rather solemn ourselves,” Molly answered.

“Hush,” cried Dulcie, suddenly; “I hear a whistle, and it’s coming from the right direction, too.”

They all listened, with bated breath, and soon the whistle sounded again, much nearer this time, and then came the sound of an approaching train. It was an accommodation train, too, not one of the expresses, which frequently rushed by the little station without stopping, and as it pulled up to the platform, the four little girls rose from their seats. In another moment they had all stepped on board.

“We want four tickets for Peak’s Point,” Dulcie told the conductor, who was regarding them curiously, and she produced her purse, with the air of an accustomed traveller. But when she had paid the fares and the conductor had given her back the change, her face had lost a little of its cheerful confidence.

“I had no idea it would cost so much,” she told Daisy, in an anxious whisper. “It was almost two dollars. That only leaves three to live on till we find a situation.”