CHAPTER XI

A FRIEND IN NEED

NOW, while the Simpsons’ cottage had been burning, the occupants of the Maynard house had been in a state of great consternation. Miss Larkin and her two guests from Boston had arrived shortly after five o’clock, and Sarah met them at the door with a scared look on her face.

“Are the children with you, ma’am?” she said, as Miss Larkin stepped across the threshold.

“With me, Sarah? No, indeed. I left them in the drawing-room.”

“Well, they’re not there, ma’am; and they’re not in the house. I thought as how they must have run out to meet the carriage. Master King’s cap and the little girls’ hats is in their places, so they haven’t gone far.”

“Oh, I suppose they’re hiding, to tease us,” said Miss Larkin, in an annoyed tone. “They’ll probably jump out of the guest-room wardrobe, or something like that. Mrs. Mortimer, you must be prepared for childish pranks. The little Maynards are the most mischievous children I ever saw.”

Mrs. Mortimer smiled, and said nothing, but her expression seemed to indicate little tolerance for juvenile misbehavior. She had no children of her own, and so had not learned patience and forbearance as mothers have to.

But Mr. Mortimer was by nature more sympathetic with childish ways.

“Good for the kiddies!” he cried. “I like little folks with some fun in them. If they jump out of a cupboard at me, they’ll catch a rousing reception.”

He smiled broadly, and looked about for some laughing faces to appear suddenly.

“It’s nice of you to be so indulgent,” said Miss Larkin, but she herself was far from pleased. She had hoped to present four demure and prettily-dressed children, whose manners should seem above reproach even to exacting Mrs. Mortimer.

However, there was no sight or sound of the Maynard quartette, so the guests were shown to their rooms by Sarah, while Miss Larkin laid aside her own wraps, and then went to the kitchen to see that dinner was progressing properly.

“Where do you suppose the children are, Ellen?” she asked of the cook.

The good-natured face of the Irishwoman looked a little anxious, as she replied:

“Shure, I dunno, ma’am. I’m thinkin’ it’s not hidin’ they do be, fer they’d be fer bowsin’ out afore this. No, Miss Larkin, they must ’ave went out to meet the kerridge, an’ thin, their attintion bein’ divarted, they’ve wint som’ers else.”

“Oh, nonsense, Ellen; they wouldn’t go off like that, without hats, and with their best clothes on.”

“It’s no sayin’ what them childher wud or wuddent do, ma’am. There’s nothin’ I’d put past ’em; nothin’ at all, ma’am!”

“Well, but, Ellen—if they’re not in the house—if they’ve wandered away, we ought to send some one after them. It’s dark now, and they should be at home.”

“An’ where wud ye be sindin’ to, ma’am? Shure they might be over to Mis’ Spencer’s—I jist thought o’ that.”

“I’ll telephone over and find out. Meanwhile, go on with the preparations for dinner, Ellen; I still think they’re hiding in the house, the naughty little rascals.”

Greatly annoyed at the troublesome situation, Miss Larkin telephoned to Mrs. Spencer, and to one or two other neighbors, but could get no word of the children.

Then, hearing her guests coming downstairs, she returned to the drawing-room to receive them.

“I can’t understand it,” she said, as they came in; “if the children were hiding, they would appear by this time. They are not the kind to keep still very long. The cook thinks they are not in the house, but Sarah and I think they must be.”

“Jolly little scamps!” said Mr. Mortimer, rubbing his hands in glee. “When I was a child, I always loved to play practical jokes myself.”

“I didn’t,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she seated herself stiffly on the satin sofa. “I think it very bad manners, and I’m surprised that Helen Maynard encourages such ways in her children.”

“Well, I must say it isn’t Helen’s fault,” said Miss Larkin, eager to do her friend justice; “Helen is really pretty strict with them, in her gentle way. But they are everlastingly inventing some new kind of mischief that no one ever heard of before. Like as not, they are out on the roof, or in some such crazy place.”

“The roof!” gasped Mrs. Mortimer, raising her hands in horror. “Won’t they fall off?”

“Oh, they’re not really there,” said Miss Larkin, “and they wouldn’t fall off if they were. But I don’t know exactly what to do. I can’t help feeling worried about them. Suppose they’ve all been kidnapped.”

“Kidnappers don’t often take four at a time,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling. “I fancy they’re all right, wherever they are.”

It was at this moment the doorbell rang.

It did not occur to Miss Larkin that the children might be outside, and seating herself primly, she waited while Sarah admitted the guest, whoever it might be.

So Sarah opened the front door, and at sight of the four untidy-looking children, and the nondescript group behind them, she gave an uncontrollable shriek, and fell back, half-dazed, as what seemed like an endless procession of people marched in.

King and Marjorie, as ringleaders, went straight up to Miss Larkin.

“We brought these people home with us,” explained Marjorie, simply. “They are the Simpsons. Their house burned down, and their father is in the hospital, and they have no home to cover their heads, and so we brought them here. Father and Mother always look out for them and——”

But Marjorie quailed at last before the flush of anger on Miss Larkin’s face, and the look of frozen horror on the countenance of the strange lady, who, she knew, must be Mrs. Mortimer.

Suddenly she realized her own shocking appearance, and the dreadful spectacle of the crowd behind her.

But Kingdon rose to the occasion.

“And so, Miss Larkin,” he went on, slipping his comforting hand into Midget’s, “as Mopsy and I have to take Father and Mother’s place while they’re away, we invited Mrs. Simpson and her children to come here for a few days, until they get another home.”

“Here! A few days!” repeated Miss Larkin, and, looking helplessly about, she sank back into the chair from which she had risen, and, closing her eyes, seemed about to faint away.

“Ugh! how appalling!” said Mrs. Mortimer, in the tone one might use at seeing a dozen boa constrictors suddenly turned loose in one’s vicinity.

But there was also a note of contempt in her voice, which touched Marjorie’s self-respect. At any rate, she must not forget her own manners, whatever Miss Larkin’s guest might do. She turned to the strange lady, and curtseyed prettily.

“How do you do, Mrs. Mortimer?” she said; “I can’t shake hands until I’m tidied up.”

“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mortimer, with a slight shudder, but Marjorie, having made her greetings, turned to the other guest.

She was about to speak to him in the same formal manner, when he grasped her hand, and said, cordially:

“How do you do, Miss Marjorie? You have evidently had an adventure. Can I help you in any way?”

His genial tones as well as his actual words were such a comfort to Marjorie, that she regained at once her rapidly-disappearing composure, and felt that she had found, most unexpectedly, a helpful friend.

King, too, appreciated the gentleman’s good-will, and after a few words of greeting, felt his own courage fortified, and went over to where Miss Larkin sat, with her eyes still closed to the dreadful sight before her. “Now, look here, Larky,” he whispered, “you’re making it all worse by acting like that. Brace up to the ’casion, and let’s see what we can do.”

“What we can _do_!” echoed Miss Larkin, as she opened her eyes to treat Kingdon to an angry glare. “There’s nothing to do! You have disgraced me forever.”

“Indeed you have,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who seemed to resent the invasion quite as much as if she were, herself, in authority. “I have heard you children were mischievous, but I never could have dreamed of such a high-handed performance as this.”

“But it had to be high-handed,” urged Kitty, who took the guest’s speech very seriously. “There was no time for anything but a high-handed performance. Why, you know how fast a fire burns——” she said, turning to Mr. Mortimer, as to the one friend in sight.

“Indeed, I do,” he responded, heartily. “And now, that this rather unexpected event has occurred, some of its minor details must be attended to.”

The Maynards, despite their anxiety and worry, looked at Mr. Mortimer with open-eyed curiosity. They were not surprised at the attitudes of Miss Larkin and Mrs. Mortimer, but for a complete stranger to enter so into the spirit of their own intent, and, moreover, to have a lurking twinkle in his eye, that spoke well for his sense of humor, was, indeed, cheering.

“Yes, sir; that’s just it,” said Kitty, delighted to find some one who appreciated the need for immediate action. “We’ve asked these people here, and now we must provide for them.” She clasped her sooty little hands, as she looked confidently up into the kind face that smiled quizzically at her.

“Yes, that is so,” Mr. Mortimer agreed. And then he turned to Miss Larkin, who was still unable to cope with the situation.

“It seems to me,” he said, looking at his wife and his hostess, who were both fairly helpless with indignation, “that, if you will permit me, Miss Larkin, I will advise and assist the Maynard children in this rather trying matter. I am not surprised that you are a little overcome, and so at risk of seeming presumptuous, I am going to do all I can to bring about a more satisfactory state of affairs.”

“James,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “I think you are overstepping all bounds of propriety. I think that neither you nor Miss Larkin are called upon to interfere in this dreadful escapade of Mrs. Maynard’s children. Summon the servants, and let them do whatever may be necessary.”

Marjorie flushed crimson. She felt that a guest of Miss Larkin had no right to talk so about other guests who had been invited to the Maynard house by the Maynards themselves. But she also knew that a little girl must not express views contrary to those of a grown-up lady, so she said nothing.

“There, there, Hester,” said her husband, “don’t put your finger in this pie. One of our family is enough, and I propose to do all the interfering myself. Now, Kingdon and Marjorie, as I know nothing of your household, I’ll have to ask a few questions. Where did you propose to put these guests of yours to sleep to-night?”

“I don’t know what Midget thought,” said King, “and I hadn’t quite settled it in my own mind; but I thought Ellen or James would help us out. There’s an extra room in the attic that Mrs. Simpson could use, and then—I thought maybe James could fix some bunks somewhere for the children.”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, “there’s a big loft over the carriage-house——”

“But that’s too cold,” objected Kitty. “I thought they could sleep in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in that tone of biting sarcasm that was even more irritating than Miss Larkin’s dumb despair.

Meantime the household servants, though they had not been summoned, were hovering round in the hall.

Ellen, at risk of endangering the fine dinner she was preparing, had come to see if she could help her beloved young people in any way. Nannie, seeing Rosy Posy’s plight, had carried her off to the nursery, and Sarah, wringing her hands in dismay, was consulting in whispers with Thomas, as to what could be done to help Miss Marjorie and Master King out of this scrape.

As for the Simpsons themselves, they, of course, had no part in the discussion. Mrs. Simpson, in a sort of apathy, sat with her head drooped, and a baby in her arms; while two others, scarcely more than babies, clutched at her dress and hid their faces if any one looked at them. The other four stood behind their mother’s chair, wriggling awkwardly, and uncertain whether to cry or to feel pleased at being guests of the great house, even though of doubtful welcome.

“No, Miss Kitty, dear,” said Ellen, coming to the doorway of the drawing-room, “ye can’t be afther usin’ my kitchen fer bedrooms. But the pore woman can have my bed fer the night, an’ I’ll shlape on the flure or annywhere, so I will.”

“An’ I will, too,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes, for her warm heart sympathized with the anxiety of the children she loved.

“An’ I’ll see to some few of ’em,” said Thomas, from the background, “though I’m sure, Miss Marjorie, they’d all catch pewmonia a-sleepin’ in the carriage-loft.”

“Now, I’ll make a suggestion,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Ellen, do you think you could make Mrs. Simpson and that smallest baby comfortable for the night?”

“I’m shure I cud, sor.”

“Very well. Take her away at once. Give her a cup of tea, and some supper, and then send her to bed. The poor soul is quite worn out, and no wonder.”

Realizing the authority of the strange gentleman, Ellen took Mrs. Simpson’s arm, and without another word, the two went away, the mother carrying with her the youngest child.

“Now,” went on Mr. Mortimer, “I next dismiss the three Maynards to a liberal use of soap and water. Don’t spare the soap; use sand, if necessary. But get yourselves clean and—I suppose you have other clothes?”

“Yes, sir,” serious Kitty assured him.

“Then get them on, as expeditiously as possible. And with the assistance of Thomas, I will assume the management of these six remaining Simpsons. Run away, now, ask no questions, but leave all to me.”

King and Midget felt as if a weight were lifted from their shoulders. It did not seem like ignobly shifting a responsibility, for Mr. Mortimer left them no choice in the matter. He gave commands evidently with the intention of having them obeyed.

And so, with a very earnest squeeze of his hand, Marjorie obeyed his decree, and went upstairs, with King and Kitty on either side of her.

“Well, if he isn’t a trump!” she cried, as they reached the upper hall.

“Brick!” declared King.

“Yes, he is,” agreed Kitty, thoughtfully. “Except Father, nobody could be as nice as he is.”

“Nobody!” echoed the other two.

“And now,” said Marjorie, “let’s do the best we can to get dressed quick, and get downstairs in time for dinner. Let’s put on our best clothes, and our best manners, and perhaps that crosspatch lady will like us a little better.”

“She never will!” sighed Kitty, with conviction. “She hates us.”

“Oh, let’s get round her,” said King hopefully. “If we’re lovely and sweet and pleasant, she’ll have nothing to growl at.”

“And clean,” supplemented Kitty. “If you look in the mirror, you’ll see one reason why she was so disgusted.”

“Yes,” laughed King; “and if you girls look in the mirror, you’ll see two reasons!”

Midge and Kitty were truly scandalized when they saw their mirrored selves, and were glad of Nurse Nannie’s helpful hands to restore tidiness.

Rosy Posy was already bathed and tucked in her crib, where she sat up against a pillow, eating bread and milk with a sleepy disregard of the afternoon’s excitement.

And so, it was not more than half an hour later when three spick and span Maynards went downstairs again, in fresh attire, from hair-ribbons to slipper-bows, though, of course, King didn’t wear hair-ribbons.