CHAPTER XII

THE HOUSE ON SPRUCE STREET

IN the drawing-room they found only the two ladies.

Perhaps Mr. Mortimer had asked them to treat the children with more kindliness, and perhaps they themselves concluded they had been too harsh in their judgment, but at any rate, their reception was far less chilly than it had been an hour ago.

Mrs. Mortimer was positively gracious in her demeanor, and even smiled as she gave Marjorie her finger-tips, after the little girl had made her best curtsey.

Kitty followed, and King, though he had to fight down his resentful feelings, behaved with the winsome politeness which always characterized his “good manners.”

The children were consumed with curiosity to know how the Simpsons had been disposed of, but deemed it better to ask no questions. So the conversation was on trivial subjects, and Miss Larkin grew quite amiable, as she realized that, though belated, this was the scene into which she had desired to introduce her guest. The Simpson subject was ignored, until, just before dinner was announced, Mr. Mortimer returned, his eyes twinkling, and his whole expression betokening great amusement.

They went to the dining-room then, and not until the soup had been served, did he satisfy the children’s eager desire to know what had happened.

“I think I owe it to you, Miss Marjorie,” he began, “to tell you what I did with your guests.”

“Oh, if you please, Mr. Mortimer,” said Marjorie, with shining eyes.

“Well, you see, it was a hard nut to crack,” he went on, unable to resist delaying the tale in order to tease them a little bit. “There were six children, all of them hungry, tired, and sleepy. To feed them here, would have been a great tax on your servants, especially as you already had house-guests. I found that this town of yours, progressive as it is, has no orphan asylum, and besides, the Simpsons aren’t orphans, anyway.”

“What _did_ you do?” cried Kitty, unable to conceal her interest.

“Why,” said Mr. Mortimer, slowly, as one who knows he is about to create a sensation, “Why, I put them up at the hotel.”

“What!” cried his wife and Miss Larkin in unison, while Kitty looked incredulous, King shouted in glee, and Marjorie giggled.

“Yes,” went on Mr. Mortimer, “it was really the only thing to do. It was that, or the Police Station—-and I’m not sure there is a police station in Rockwell. It seems to be a very small town, and without some of the institutions of a metropolis. But it boasts a fair-sized hotel, which, fortunately, is not over-crowded at the present time.”

King chuckled at this, for the scarcity of patronage at the “Rockwell House” was a local joke.

“And did you really put them there, as regular customers?” asked Marjorie, unable to believe such a proceeding possible.

“Well, I don’t know about regular customers; indeed, the landlord seemed to think the whole deal a little irregular. But, anyway, they’re there for the night.”

“The Simpson children, at a hotel!” cried King, nearly choking in his attempt to restrain his laughter.

And indeed, so incongruous was the idea, after having seen the young people in question, that even Mrs. Mortimer smiled, while Miss Larkin laughed in spite of herself.

“Oh!” said Kitty, whose vivid imagination pictured the scene, “I _wish_ I had been there! Did you register them?”

This suggestion sent King and Midget into chuckles again, and Mr. Mortimer said, gravely:

“Of course I did; from Samuel down to Mary Eliza. And I fancy those six names will always be pointed to with pride by the worthy proprietor.”

“I hope, sir,” said King, suddenly remembering his position as “man of the house,” “that you directed him to send the bill to my father.”

“I’ll tell you what I did do,” said Mr. Mortimer, with a business-like air that somehow made King feel very manly at being thus addressed: “I told him the circumstances of the case. I told him of your generous offer of hospitality, and of the difficulties in the way of entertaining the whole Simpson family at your own home. I laid before him the fact that the town ought to take some interest in this calamity that has befallen one of its poorer families; and we finally arranged that he was to make his charges as moderate as possible, that Mr. Maynard would be responsible for half the bill, and that the city authorities should be asked to pay the other half. All of this, of course, subject to your father’s sanction; and agreed to by us, in order to meet the emergency.”

“You did fine!” exclaimed King. “Thank you, Mr. Mortimer. I know Father will say you did just right—unless he prefers to pay the whole bill himself.”

“He can do as he likes about that. He can settle the matter with the city authorities. But the hotel man—a mighty sensible chap, by the way—seemed to think the townspeople would stand quite ready to do their share, both individually and as a public measure.”

“I think they will,” said Marjorie, “for I remember when Mr. Simpson first went to the hospital, the town looked after the family, or something—I don’t know just what, but I know we only helped.”

“And so,” concluded Mr. Mortimer, “the small Simpsons are to-night enjoying the luxury of lodging in a hotel, whatever fate may bring them to-morrow.”

“You have been very kind,” said Marjorie, her eyes fairly brimming with gratitude. “I don’t know what we should have done if you hadn’t been here.”

“You would have had more room in your own house,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling.

But Miss Larkin said, “Indeed we wouldn’t have put those children in our pretty guest rooms.”

“I don’t know,” said Kitty; “I think we would have had to do so. For I’m sure it never would have occurred to us to take them to the hotel!”

Again King shook with laughter.

“I’d like to see them,” he said; “imagine those scared-to-death youngsters, sitting up in the hotel dining-room!”

“Is there anybody to look after them?” asked Miss Larkin. “A matron, or anybody?”

“Well, of course, it isn’t a juvenile asylum,” said Mr. Mortimer; “but I persuaded the landlord’s wife to take an interest in the poor little scraps of humanity. They really seemed very lonesome and forlorn.”

“I don’t think they need to,” observed Kitty. “They’re much more comfortable, by this time, than they’ve ever been before in their lives. I don’t believe they ever have enough to eat, except when we take them Christmas dinners or Thanksgiving baskets.”

“Poor things!” exclaimed Miss Larkin, who was exceedingly sympathetic, now that her dinner party was no longer interfered with. “To-morrow, we must see what we can do for them.”

“Do,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “I’m sorry for them, I’m sure. But now let’s talk of more agreeable matters.”

It seemed to Marjorie that the Boston lady was a bit heartless, but as the children were not expected to take much part in the conversation anyway, they behaved beautifully during the rather lengthy dinner, and thought out little plans of their own, while their elders were talking.

After dinner, they were excused, and, rather relieved at not being expected to go in the drawing-room again, they went upstairs.

They congregated for a few moments in the playroom, before going to bed, and discussed hastily some plans for the next day.

“I do think Mr. Mortimer was just lovely,” said Midget. “He makes up for his wife. She hasn’t any heart at all, I don’t b’lieve she’d have cared if this house had burned up, ’stead of the Simpsons’!”

“Never mind her, Mopsy,” put in King; “’tisn’t polite to jump on guests that way! But I tell you, girls, to-morrow we’ll stir up the town. I didn’t know that they ought to look after people that get burned out, but we’ll see that they do.”

“How?” queried Kitty, who loved to plan.

“Well, we’ll go and see that landlord man at the hotel, first. He’ll tell us what to do, I guess. You know, we oughtn’t to bother Mr. Mortimer any further in the matter.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, yawning; “and I’m awful sleepy, King. Let’s settle it all in the morning.”

“All right; good-night, girls,” and with a brotherly tweak at their curls, being careful not to pull their “dress-up” hair-ribbons, he was off to his own room.

Next morning, Marjorie came downstairs, ready for action.

It was Saturday, so there was no school, and the three Maynards decided to devote the day to seeing what they could do in aid of the Simpson family.

Mr. Mortimer smiled, when they thanked him over and over for his kindness of the night before, and then excused him from any further responsibility in the matter.

“Oho!” said he, “am I to be left out of this picnic?”

“It isn’t exactly a picnic,” said Kitty, “and we thought you’d rather be left out.”

“You’ve already done so much,” said King, “I’m sure we couldn’t expect you to do anything more. Besides, Miss Larkin says you’re all going driving this morning.”

“Yes, we are,” said his hostess. “I want to show you round this part of the country. Some of the drives are beautiful.”

Mr. Mortimer made a comical face at the children, as if to say he was not master of his fate, and must do as he was bid, and then they all went to breakfast.

While at the table, Marjorie was called to the telephone.

Mr. Adams, the father of Dorothy, talked to her, and told her that Mr. Jennings, of the hotel, had told him the whole story.

“And, Marjorie,” he said, “I am quite willing to let the Simpsons have that cottage of mine round on Spruce Street for a few months, anyway. It isn’t large, but it’s in good repair, and they’re welcome to the use of it for a time.”

“Oh, how good you are!” exclaimed Midget. “And what about furniture, Mr. Adams?”

“Well, my wife, and a few other ladies, are already talking that matter over. They think that many of our citizens will contribute some beds, chairs, and tables; and so, if you have any discarded things like that in your attic, you may donate them. But don’t give anything your mother might want to keep.”

“All right,” returned Marjorie. “I’ll go over to see Mrs. Adams after breakfast, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Midget felt very grown up at being consulted by Mr. Adams, and it was with an air of importance that she returned to the breakfast table. She told of Mr. Adams’ kindness in letting the Simpsons use his vacant house, which was really a pretty little cottage on a pleasant street.

“Whew!” said King, “they’ll have to brace up if they’re going to live in a house like that. Why, it’s an awful jolly little place.”

“It may be a good thing for them,” said Mr. Mortimer. “Teach them self-respect, and help them to try to keep their heads up.”

“Won’t it be fun to fix it up for them!” exclaimed Marjorie. “I shall give them my old bureau cover—my new one is nearly finished.”

“Ho!” said King; “they need lots of things much more than a bureau cover. Let’s ask Mr. Smith, the grocer, to give them a barrel of flour.”

“Don’t strike too high,” advised Mr. Mortimer; “ask him for a sack of flour, and you’re more likely to get it. Why don’t you children canvass the town? I’m sure you could wheedle more charity out of the shopkeepers and other citizens than all the city authorities together.”

“I’d like to,” said Marjorie, dubiously, “but I don’t know whether Father would approve of that. Once we were a Village Improvement Society, and we got into an awful fuss!”

“But that was quite different,” urged Kitty. “This is for charity—a noble cause. I’d just as lieve go round with a basket, and collect things for them.”

“Not literally a basket, my child,” advised Mr. Mortimer, “but surely it would do no harm to ask contributions from the people you know well.”

“I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed King. “Let the whole Jinks Club do it. We never have done anything charitable in the Club, and this is a good time to begin.”

“Well,” said Marjorie, “I think it would be fine. But let’s go and ask Mrs. Adams about it first. I guess she’s at the head of the Poor Society, and she’ll tell us what to do.”

So, after breakfast, the three Maynard “Jinkses” started out. They gathered in Delight on the way, and while the girls went to Dorothy’s house, King ran over for Flip Henderson.

Mrs. Adams not only approved their plan, but offered to loan a big wagon, a pair of horses, and a driver to transport any furniture or clothing that might be donated.

Then such fun as the Jinks Club had! They called on everybody they knew, and some that they didn’t know. They collected a fine lot of second-hand furniture, and clothing, as well as a liberal supply of provisions. Two or three kind-hearted people donated coal and wood; and though many of the contributors sent their gifts themselves, yet some had no means of doing so, and Mrs. Adams’ wagon carried many loads to the cottage on Spruce Street.

The Maynards went home to luncheon, jubilant.

“Such fun!” they cried, as they bounded in at the front door. “We’ve loads of things already in the house, and what do you think, Miss Larkin—the bureau that Mrs. Chester gave, exactly fits my bureau cover! Isn’t that fine?”

So enthusiastic were the children at luncheon, that Miss Larkin and Mrs. Mortimer were interested before they knew it.

“I’d like to go over and see the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, at last. “I really think you young people have done wonders.”

“Oh, we didn’t do it all,” said Midget. “Mrs. Adams and half a dozen other ladies have been working all the morning, too. And Mrs. Spencer sent a lot of lovely things. Why, the house is ’most full of furniture.”

“I never heard of such a town,” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing. “I think, James, it would be a fine place to live.”

“Yes,” Mr. Mortimer agreed; “if you’re sure to be burned out of house and home.”

The village people did, indeed, prove themselves generous. In the afternoon the enthusiasm spread to such an extent, that curtains were being put to the windows, and kerosene poured into the lamps. Some of the more impetuous ones wanted to move the family in that night, but it was deemed better to wait until Monday. Marjorie was allowed to tell Mrs. Simpson what had been done for her.

“My gracious land!” exclaimed the poor woman. “I can’t take it in, Miss Marjorie! A whole house! all furnished—for me? Oh, it’s too much! You’re too good! I don’t deserve it.”

“It’s because we’re so sorry for you, Mrs. Simpson,” said Midget. “Mr. Simpson has been in the hospital so long, I wonder how you ever got along at all. But now, with this house for a start, you can manage, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Marjorie; I’m thinkin’ Sam can get a job of some sort this spring. And I can do washin’ now, for Hannah can mind the babies. Oh, Miss Marjorie, it’s too good you are! You’re just like your father and your dear mother.”

And then, for the first time since the fire, Marjorie felt an absolutely clear conscience. She realized that she hadn’t done wrong—at least, not intentionally; and though the circumstances had greatly annoyed Miss Larkin, and had disturbed one of her guests, yet now, the whole affair had turned out all right.

Indeed, the matter was practically taken out of Marjorie’s hands; and though the Jinks Club did their full share of assisting, it was the grown-up citizens of Rockwell who escorted Mrs. Simpson and her children to their new home on Monday.

The house, though not lavishly, was completely furnished; the pantry was well stocked; so were the coal-bin and wood-box.

And though most of the Simpson children were too young to appreciate the kindness that had given them all this, poor, hard-working Mrs. Simpson showed gratitude true and deep enough to satisfy the most exacting.

“And while I humbly thank all you kind ladies,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, “I can’t forget that but for Marjorie Maynard, I’d have been in the poorhouse now!”

“Hooray for our Mopsy!” cried Flip Henderson, which turned into gay laughter what had threatened to be a tearful climax to the occasion.