CHAPTER IIITHE LADY ARRIVES
Itwas about four o’clock when Miss Larkin arrived. Mindful of their newly-acquired dignity, the children awaited her in the drawing-room.
But when Sarah opened the hall door for the guest, a great commotion was heard.
“Yes,” said Miss Larkin’s high, shrill voice; “that trunk must be put in my bedroom; also these two suit-cases, and this hold-all. Oh, yes, and this travelling-bag. That other trunk may be put in your trunk-room if you have one—or attic, if you haven’t. I sha’n’t want it for several weeks yet. This basket, take to the kitchen—be careful with it—and these other things you may put anywhere for the present. Where are the babies? the dear babies?”
“Oh, King, she’s fairly moving in!” said Marjorie, in a whisper, as she saw James, the coachman, carrying a rocking-chair through the hall, and Sarah’s arms piled with wraps and bundles.
But encumbered as she was, Sarah managed to usher Miss Larkin into the drawing-room.
“Oh, here you are, little dears!” exclaimed the visitor, as she rushed rapidly from one to another, and, disregarding their polite curtseys, kissed each child heartily on the cheek. “My poor, orphaned babies! Don’t grieve for your parents. I will be to you all that they could be. Come to me with your little troubles. I will soothe and comfort you.”
“Yes, Miss Larkin,” said Marjorie, rather bewildered by this flood of conversation. “Mother said you would look after us. And now, would you like to go to your room, and have some tea sent up?”
Miss Larkin stared at her in amazement.
“Tea!” she said; “why, bless my soul, child, yes, of course, I should like tea; but I supposed I should order it myself. What do you know about tea, little one?”
It suddenly dawned on Marjorie that Miss Larkin looked upon them all as helpless infants, and had no realization that they were not all of Rosy Posy’s age. She suppressed a smile, and said:
“Why, Mother said you were to have it when you came; either down here, or in your room, as you wish.”
Still Miss Larkin seemed unable to take it in.
“Yes, dear,” she said, “I’ll have it upstairs, whilst I rest, and unpack some of my things. But I came here to be housekeeper for you, not to have you look after me.”
“All right, Miss Larkin,” said King, pleasantly. “You can housekeep all you like. Midget isn’t very good at it. Now, if you’re going to your room, we’ll all go, too, and see how you like it.”
“Ess, Miss Larky,” put in Rosy Posy. “Come on—see booful f’owers and pitty welcome flag.”
“What’s a welcome flag?” inquired Miss Larkin, but her question was not answered, as the children were already leading the way upstairs.
They were followed by two or three of the servants, who were carrying up the astonishing amount of luggage which the guest had brought. Marjorie thought they had never had a visitor with so many bags and boxes; but then their visitors didn’t often stay so long as six weeks.
The children pranced into the room first, and waited in delighted impatience to hear Miss Larkin’s words of approval.
“What are you doing here?” she inquired, pleasantly. “Having a fair of some sort? Is this your playroom?”
“No, Miss Larkin,” explained Marjorie. “This is your room. We decorated it on purpose for you. We want you to feel welcome.”
The lady looked around at the bewildering array of greens and pink flowers.
It was a trying moment, for Miss Larkin’s tastes were inclined toward the Puritanical, and she liked a large room almost bare of furniture, and scrupulously prim and tidy.
Had she followed her inclinations, she would have said to Sarah, “Sweep all this rubbish out”; but as she saw the children’s expectant faces, evidently waiting for her to express her appreciation, her tactfulness served her just in time.
“For me!” she exclaimed; “you did all this for me! Why, you dear, dear children!”
They capered round her in glee. It was a success, then, after all.
“Yes,” cried Marjorie, “it’s all for you, and we’re so glad you like it. That is, the ‘Welcome’ is for you; the other sign, with the flags on it, is for Mother and Father—in their memory, you know.”
“Yes,” said Miss Larkin, though her lips were twitching, “yes, I know.”
“The ribbons, of course, we will take back,” explained careful Kitty; “for they’re our sashes and hair-ribbons. But they can stay all the time you’re here—unless we need some of them—and the flowers you can take home with you, if you like. They’re only paper, you see.”
“Of course,” said Miss Larkin. “One couldn’t expect real roses at this time of year, and anyway paper ones are so much more lasting.”
“Yes, and they smell good, too,” said Marjorie, “for I sprayed them with the cologne atomizer.”
“Where are you going to put all your things?” asked Kingdon, with interest, as the servants continued to bring in luggage.
“Well,” said Miss Larkin, thoughtfully, “I don’t know. I brought this rocking-chair, because I never go anywhere without it. It’s my favorite chair. But I thought we could take out one of your chairs to make room for it. I don’t like much furniture in my room.”
“Of course,” said Marjorie, politely. “King, won’t you put that wicker rocker in Mother’s room? Then Miss Larkin’s chair can be by the window.”
“Good boy,” said the visitor, with an approving smile, as King took away the wicker chair.
“And now,” she went on, as he returned, “if you’ll just take away also that small table, and those two chairs over there, and that sewing-screen, and that large waste-basket, and that tabouret and jardiniere, I’ll be much obliged.”
“Whew!” said King; “I think I’ll ask Thomas to come up and help me. Are you sure you want all those taken out, Miss Larkin?”
“Yes, child. The room is too full of useless furniture. I can’t stand it.”
“Well, Miss Larkin,” said Marjorie, “I’m sure Mother would like you to have things just as you want them. But I don’t believe we children can help you fix them. I think we’d better go downstairs and be out of your way. Then you tell Sarah and Thomas what you want, and they’ll do it.”
“Very well,” said Miss Larkin, with a preoccupied air. She was trying her rocking-chair as she spoke, now at one window and now at another, and seemed scarcely to hear Marjorie’s words.
Just then, Sarah appeared with the tea-tray, and so Midget told her to await Miss Larkin’s orders, and to call Thomas, if necessary, to help her move the furniture.
Then the four children went downstairs, and after giving Rosamond over to the care of Nurse Nannie, they held a council of war.
“She’s crazy,” said Marjorie, with an air of deep conviction.
“I knew it!” declared King. “You know I called her Loony Larky. You needn’t frown at me, Midge; I’m not calling her that now. I’m just reminding you.”
“Well, I believe she is. Did you ever hear of a guest cutting up so?”
“I don’t believe she liked the decorations,” said Kitty, thoughtfully.
“She said she did,” observed King.
“Yes; but that was just so she wouldn’t hurt our feelings,” went on Kitty. “I saw her look when she first got into the room, and I thought she looked disgusted. Then, to be nice to us, she said they were lovely.”
“Then she’s deceitful,” said Marjorie, “and that’s a horrid thing to be.”
“’Most always it is,” argued patient Kitty; “but it’s sometimes ’scusable when you do it to be polite. She couldn’t very well tell us she hated our greens and roses—but I know she did.”
“I know it, too,” said King, gloomily. “We had all that trouble for nothing.”
“Well,” said Marjorie, after thinking a moment; “even if she didn’t like the welcome and garlands, she must have ’preciated the trouble we took, and she must have understood that we meant to please her.”
“’Course she did,” said Kitty, “and that’s why she seemed pleased about it. Now, I think, we’d better go up and tell her that if she wants to, she can have all that stuff carted out.”
“Oh, Kit!” cried Midge, reproachfully. “It’s so pretty, and we worked so hard over it.”
“I know it, Mops, but if she doesn’t want it there, it’s a shame for her to have to have it.”
“You’re right, old Kitsie,” said King; “you’re right quite sometimes often. Mops, sheisright. Now let’s go up and inform the Larky lady—I mean Larkin lady, that we won’t feel hurt if she makes a bonfire of our decorations in her honor.”
“I shall,” said Marjorie, pouting a little.
“Oh, pshaw, Mops; don’t be a silly. A nice hostess you are, if you make a guest sleep in a jungle, when she likes a plain, bare room.”
Marjorie’s brow cleared. A sense of responsibility always called out her better nature, and she agreed to go with the others to see Miss Larkin. Upstairs they tramped, King between his two sisters, and as the Maynards rarely did anything quietly, they sounded like a small army pounding up the steps.
“Whatisthe matter?” exclaimed Miss Larkin, flying to her door as they approached.
“Why, we came to tell you,” began Marjorie, somewhat out of breath, “that—that——”
“That if you’d rather not have that racket of ‘Welcome’ stuff in your room, you can pitch it out,” continued King.
“Just tell Thomas,” went on Kitty, in her soft, cooing way, “and he’ll carry it all away for you.”
“But why shouldn’t I like it?” said Miss Larkin, who hadn’t quite grasped the rapid speech of the children.
“Oh, ’cause itistrumpery,” said King. “And we think that you just hate it——”
“And that you said it was nice, so not to ’fend us,” went on Kitty, “and so, we’ll freely forgive you if you don’t want it. But we do want our ribbons back.”
“And we may as well keep the ‘Welcome’ and the mournful signs,” added Marjorie; “for you see, our next guest might be of a more—more gay and festive nature.”
“Oh, I’m gay and festive,” said Miss Larkin, with her funny little giggle, which somehow always irritated the children; “but since you insist, I believe I will have these greens taken away. The scent of evergreens is a little overpowering to my delicate nerves. I shouldn’t have dreamed of suggesting it, but since you have done so—ah, may I ring for Thomas at once?”
Sarah answered Miss Larkin’s bell, and Thomas was sent for.
Then the lady seemed to forget all about the children, and returned to her tea and bread-and-butter.
Feeling themselves dismissed, they went downstairs again.
“Goodness, gracious, sakes alive!” said King, slowly; “have we got to live six weeks withthat?”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” said Marjorie, remembering her father’s words, “but I do think she’s just about the worst ever.”
“We’ve got to have her here,” said Kitty, “so we may as well make the best of it.”
“Oh, Kittums,” groaned King, “you’d make the best of a lame caterpillar, I do believe.”
“Well, you might as well,” protested Kitty, stoutly. She was used to being chaffed about her optimism, but still persisted in it, because it was innate with her.
“All right,” said King, “let’s forget it. What do you say to ‘Still Pond; no moving’?”
This was a game that greatly belied its name, for though supposed to be played in silence, it always developed into a noisy romp.
But for this very reason it was a favorite with the Maynard children, and by way of cheering their flagging spirits, they now entered into it with unusual zest.
“Do you s’pose Miss Larkin is playing this same game with Thomas and Sarah?” asked Marjorie, as during a lull in their own game they heard as much, if not more noise in the room above.
“’Spect she’s still moving furniture,” said King, after listening a moment. “Hope she doesn’t take a fancy to my new chiffonier.”
“We ought to have told her what time dinner is,” said Marjorie.
“You’re a gay old hostess, aren’t you, Mops?” teased her brother.
But Kitty said, “Oh, she’ll ask Sarah. Don’t let’s think any more about her till dinner time.”
This was good advice, and was promptly acted upon.
And so it was half-past six before the young Maynards saw their guest again.
Miss Larkin had asked the dinner hour of Sarah, and promptly to the minute she came downstairs, attired in a black silk dress, quite stiff with jet ornaments.
“I am your guest to-night, my dears,” she said, as she patted each one’s head in turn; “but to-morrow I shall myself take up the reins of government, and all household cares. I have a letter, left for me by your dear mother, in which she bids me do just as I think best in all matters. She tells me to order such things as I wish, and to command the servants as I choose. I’m sure I need not tell you I shall do my best to make you all comfortable and happy.”
Miss Larkin beamed so pleasantly on the children, that it was impossible not to respond, so they all smiled back at her, while Marjorie said, “I’m sure you will, Miss Larkin.”
“And now,” the lady went on, “I have here a little gift for each of you. I brought them to show my love and affection for you all.”
Then she gave to each of the quartette a small box, and sat beaming benignantly as the children tore open the wrappings.
Cries of delight followed, for the gifts were lovely, indeed.
Marjorie’s was a narrow gold bangle, set all round with tiny half-pearls.
Kitty’s was a gold ring, with a turquoise setting.
King’s, a pair of pretty sleeve-links, and Rosy Posy’s a pair of little gold yoke pins.
“Oh, Miss Larkin!” exclaimed Marjorie, over-whelmed by the beauty and unexpectedness of these gifts.
“It’s just like Christmas,” declared King, and Kitty, too pleased for words, went slowly up to Miss Larkin and kissed her.
The baby was scarcely old enough to be really appreciative, but the other three were delighted with their presents, and said so with enthusiasm.
“I’m glad you like them,” said Miss Larkin, “and now let us go to dinner.”
Marjorie felt a little shy as she took her place at the head of the table, and she asked Miss Larkin if she wished to sit there.
“No, my dear; your mother wrote in her note that she wished you to have that seat. I shall, of course, exercise a supervision over your manners, and tell you wherein I think they may be improved.”
This speech made Marjorie feel decidedly embarrassed, and she wondered why she liked Miss Larkin one minute and didn’t like her the next.
Then she smiled to herself as she realized that she liked her when she presented pearl bracelets, and didn’t like her when she proposed discipline!
This was a fine state of affairs, indeed!
And so compunctious did it make Marjorie feel, that she said, “I hope you will correct me, when I need it, Miss Larkin; for my manners are not very good.”
King and Kitty stared at this. What had come over wilful, headstrong Midget to make her talk like that?
But Miss Larkin only smiled pleasantly, and made no comment on Marjorie’s manners as a hostess, all through dinner.
As the two sisters were going to bed that night, Kitty said:
“I can’t make her out. I think she’s real nice, and then the next minute she does something so queer, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“I think she’s what they call eccentric,” said Marjorie. “And I do believe if we let her alone a good deal, she’ll let us alone. She seems awfully wrapped up in her own affairs. If she doesn’t interfere too much, I think we’ll get along all right. But I wish Mother was home.”
“So do I. Oh, Mops, there isn’t one day gone yet! Out of forty-two!”
“Well, skip into bed; the time flies faster when you’re asleep.”
“So it does,” agreed Kitty; “good-night.”
CHAPTER IVTHE IDES OF MARCH
Somehow, the days managed to follow each other much at their usual rate of speed. Life held a great variety of interests for the little Maynards, and though at times they greatly missed their parents, yet at other times they were gaily absorbed in their work or play, and were happy and bright as usual. Miss Larkin proved to be rather an uncertain quantity. Sometimes she ruled the household with a rod of iron, laying down laws and issuing commands with great austerity. And then, again, she would seem to forget all about the Maynards and become absorbed in her own affairs, even neglecting to give orders for dinner!
But the children didn’t care. So long as she left them free to pursue their own important occupations, she was welcome to amuse herself in any way she chose. And with good-natured, large-hearted Ellen in charge of the kitchen, there was no danger of any one going hungry for long.
Instead of going to school, as King and Kitty did, Marjorie went every day across the street to Delight Spencer’s, where Miss Hart, Delight’s governess, taught both girls. Miss Hart’s methods of teaching were unusual, but exceedingly pleasant.
Often the girls had no idea as to what lessons would be taught until they came to the schoolroom.
And so, as Marjorie and Delight, with their arms about each other, came into Miss Hart’s presence one morning, they saw on the schoolroom wall a placard bearing this legend:
“The Ides of March are come.”
“The Ides of March are come.”
“The Ides of March are come.”
“The Ides of March are come.”
“The Ides of March are come.”
“What does that mean, Miss Hart?” asked Marjorie, always interested by something she did not understand.
“That’s our subject for to-day,” said Miss Hart, smiling. “Have you no idea what it means?”
“Not the leastest bit,” replied Marjorie. “Have you, Delight?”
“No,” said Delight, shaking her golden head very positively. “Unless you meantideas, Miss Hart, and spelled it wrong on purpose.”
“No,” said Miss Hart, smiling; “that’s not the idea at all. Well, girlies, to begin with, here’s a little present for each of you.”
Then Miss Hart handed them each a thin, flat volume, which proved to be a pretty edition of Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.”
Opening it, Marjorie was glad to see it contained many pictures, besides a lot of rather grown-up looking reading.
“To begin with,” said Miss Hart, “the Ides of March are really come. To-day is the fifteenth, which, as I will explain to you, is what was called in the Roman Calendar, the Ides.”
Then Miss Hart went on to explain how the Roman Calendar was originally made up, and how it has been modified for our present use, all of which, described in her interesting way, proved a pleasant lesson, and one which the girls always remembered.
“Now,” Miss Hart went on, “we come to the consideration of our little book, which is one of Shakespeare’s greatest and most famous plays. In the very beginning of it, as you may see, on this page, a soothsayer bids Cæsar ‘Beware the Ides of March.’ Cæsar paid little attention to him at the time, but, as we will learn from our study of the play, the Ides of March was indeed a dread day for Cæsar, for on that day he was cruelly stabbed and killed.”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, who loved tragic tales, “may we read about it now?”
“Yes; but first I will tell you a little of Julius Cæsar, himself.”
Miss Hart then gave a short description of Cæsar and his time, and then they again turned to their books.
“Before we begin to read,” she said, “note these lines in the first scene of Act II. You see, Brutus says, ‘Is not to-morrow the Ides of March?’ And he sends a boy to look in the Calendar and find out. What does the boy say when he returns?”
Quick-sighted Marjorie had already looked up this, and read the boy’s answer, “Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.”
“So you see,” went on Miss Hart, “it was the eve of the fatal day. And now turn to the first line of Act III.”
Delight read this aloud: “The Ides of March are come.”
“Yes, Cæsar said that himself, remembering the soothsayer’s warning.”
“Did he really say it, Miss Hart?”
“Well, you see, Delight, Shakespeare’s plays, though founded on historical facts, are not really history. And, then, we must remember that this play was written sixteen hundred years after the death of Cæsar, and though true, in part, to history and tradition, much of it is Shakespeare’s own fancy and imagination. As we study it we must try to appreciate his wonderful command of thought and language.”
“What is a soothsayer, Miss Hart?” asked Marjorie, who was already devouring the first pages with her eager eyes.
Then Miss Hart explained all about the soothsayers and fortune-tellers of ancient times; and how, at that time, people put faith in the prognostications of witches and astrologers, which facts were utilized by Shakespeare to lend picturesqueness and mystery to his plays. So enthralled were the two girls with the descriptions of wizardry and soothsaying, and so many questions did they ask of Miss Hart, that the morning was gone before they had time to begin the actual reading of the play.
“But I didn’t expect to read it to-day,” said Miss Hart, smiling at Marjorie’s dismay when she found it was half-past twelve. “This is our literature class, and if we devote about one day a week to it, we’ll get through the play by vacation time, and next term we’ll take up another.”
“But I can read it at home, can’t I?” asked Midget.
“Yes, if you like. But there will be much that you can’t understand. Our study of it will branch out into Roman history in general, and the manners and customs of ancient Rome, as well as the art and architecture.”
“Oh, Miss Hart,” exclaimed Marjorie, “it is such fun to come to school to you. It’s so different from regular school-work.”
“I’m glad you like it, dear, and I’m quite sure you’re learning as much and as useful knowledge as is taught in the average school.”
“I know we are,” said Midget, with conviction. “I’ve been to regular school, and I know all about it.”
With her precious Shakespeare book clasped tightly in her arm, Marjorie ran home to luncheon.
“Oh, Miss Larkin,” she exclaimed, as they all sat at table, “did you ever read Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar’?”
“Not all of it,” said Miss Larkin. “I don’t care much for his historical plays. I think they’re heavy and uninteresting.”
“Oh, do you? Why, I don’t see how anything could be more interesting than ‘Julius Cæsar.’ I’m going to read it right straight through this afternoon.”
“Me, too,” said King. “Let me read with you, Midgie, won’t you?”
“Me, too,” said Rosy Posy; “me wead wiv Middy, too.”
“Count me out,” said Kitty. “I’m going over to Dorothy’s this afternoon.”
And so, as baby Rosamond’s request was not taken seriously, King and Marjorie settled themselves comfortably on the big divan in the living-room, to enjoy their new-found treasure.
“Whew! it’s great stuff, isn’t it, Midget?” cried King, as they read rapidly on, skipping what they couldn’t understand, but getting the gist of the plot.
“Fine!” agreed Marjorie, as, with shining eyes and tumbled hair, she galloped through the printed pages. “But what a shame to stab poor old Cæsar just because it was the fifteenth of March!”
“Pooh! that wasn’t the only reason. And, anyway, if they hadn’t stabbed him there wouldn’t have been any play at all!”
“That’s so. Unless they had stabbed somebody else. I say, King, let’s play it ourselves.”
“’Course we will. It’s good to have a new play—I’m tired of Indians every time. Shall we play it now?”
“Yep; Kitty’ll be home at five o’clock, and it’s ’most five now. See the pictures; they all wear sheets.”
“They’re not really sheets, they’re tunics or togars, or whatever you call ’em.”
“Toggas, I guess you say.”
“Yes; just like toggery. Well, you get some sheets, and I’ll make paper soldier caps for helmets.”
“That will do for to-day; but we’ll play it better some other day, and make good helmets with gilt paper or something.”
“All right; skip for the sheets.”
Marjorie flew for the sheets, and came back from the linen closet with several. She brought also her Roman sash, which, she felt sure, would add a fine touch of local color.
Kitty had arrived in the meantime, and though she had not read the play, she was quite ready to take her part, and skimming over the book hastily, announced:
“I’ll be Brutus; I think he’s the gayest one.”
“All right,” said King; “who’ll be Cæsar?”
“Let Rosy Posy be Cæsar,” said Marjorie. “He doesn’t do anything but get killed. So that will be easy for her.”
The baby was called down from the nursery, and expressed great willingness to be killed in the great cause.
As most of the Maynards’ games included a killing of some sort, they were all used to it, and it held no horrors for them.
King was to be Antony, and Marjorie, Cassius, but they were also to assume other parts when necessity arose.
It was, of course, only an initial performance, for the Maynards, when they liked a new game, kept it up day after day, until they tired of it. Much time was spent in adjusting their togas, and though all looked well in the flowing white drapery, they agreed that Rosy Posy, bundled up in a crib sheet, and with a gilt paper crown on her curly head, was easily the noblest Roman of them all.
The first part of the play went well, the actors snatching a glance now and then at the book, to get a high-sounding phrase to declaim.
Marjorie’s favorite was, “Help! ho! They murder Cæsar!” which she called out at intervals, long before it was time for the fatal thrust.
Kitty liked the line, “The clock hath stricken three!” and used it frequently, changing the time to suit the moment.
King thundered out, “Yond Cassius hath a lean and hungry look!” which, when spoken at plump Marjorie, savored of the humorous.
However, the play went blithely on, each speaking in turn their own words or Shakespeare’s, as the impulse moved them.
“Hey, Casca,” said Kitty, “what hath chanced to-day, that Cæsar looks so sad?”
As Rosy Posy was at that moment rolling about in shouts of laughter, the remark missed its point, but nobody cared.
“Beware the Ides of March!” roared Marjorie to the giggling Cæsar, and Kitty chimed in:
“Ay; the clock hath stricken twenty minutes to six! Speak! strike! redress!”
“Does that mean to dress over again?” asked King. “’Cause we haven’t time now. We’ve just about time to kill Cæsar before dinner.”
“Come on, then,” said Marjorie; “we’ll have the killing scene now. King, bring in the umbrella-stand for Pompey’s pillar.”
“Yes,” said King, “and we’ll put a sofa-pillar down here by it for Cæsar to tumble onto, when he’s stabbed enough. Catch on, Rosy Posy? We’ll all jab at you, you know, and then you must groan like sixty, and tumble all in a heap right here.”
“Ess,” said the baby, eagerly; “me knows how. Me die booful.”
“Yes, Rosy Posy is an awful good dier,” said Kitty. “She tumbles ker-flop and just lies still.”
This was high praise, for with the Maynards’ games of shooting Indians, wild beasts, or captured victims, it was often difficult for the martyred one to lie still without laughing.
“What’ll we use for daggers?” said Kitty.
“Here are two ivory paper-knives,” said King. “They can’t hurt the baby. I don’t see any other, except this steel one, and that’s most too sharp.”
“I’ll take that one,” said Kitty. “You and Mopsy are so crazy, you might really jab her with it, but I won’t.”
This was true enough. King and Marjorie were too impetuous in their fun to be trusted with the sharp-pointed paper-knife, but gentle little Kitty never lost her head, and would carefully guard Rosy Posy from any real harm, while seemingly as cruel and belligerent as the others.
“All right, then, here goes!” cried King. “Now, you march to the umbrella-stand and stand there, Baby.”
Rosamond obediently toddled on her way, dragging her white draperies, and taking her place as indicated, by the umbrella-stand.
King made the first charge, and, ignoring the text, he lunged at the luckless Cæsar with his ivory dagger, while he gave voice to dire maledictions.
Rosy Posy fell, though the weapon hadn’t touched her, and then Marjorie came on to add her make-believe stabs to the wounds already given to the valiant Cæsar. That martyred Roman lay with her eyes closed, ably representing a stabbed Emperor, and Midget poked at her with the paper-knife, without causing even a giggle on the part of the very youthful actress.
“Now, Kit—Brutus, I mean—it’s your turn. Keep still, Baby, till Kitty stabs you.”
“Ess,” said Rosy Posy, snuggling into the sofa pillows, and awaiting her final dispatchment.
“Wait a minute,” said Kitty, who was poring over the book; “it says, ‘Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?’ I must take off my shoes.”
Kitty was nothing if not literal, so hastily unbuttoning her boots, she flung them off, and a truly bootless Brutus knelt to add more stabs to the defunct Cæsar. The sight of Kitty’s black-stockinged feet sticking out from beneath the white draperies, as she knelt, was too much for King, and silently moving toward her, he tickled the soles so temptingly exposed. Kitty, though soulfully declaiming,
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
was carefully guarding the point of her steel dagger from Rosy Posy’s fat body, but when King tickled her feet, she gave an involuntary kick and fell forward. The sharp steel plunged into the baby’s forearm, and was followed by a spurt of blood and a piercing shriek from the child. Kitty, at sight of the blood, gave a short groan and fainted dead away.
King sprang to pick up Rosy Posy, fairly rolling Kitty away to do so, while Marjorie, with a scared, white face, screamed for Nannie, the nurse.
In a moment every one in the house had rushed to them.
Nannie took the shrieking child from King’s arms, while Miss Larkin and Marjorie bent over the unconscious Kitty.
Everything was bustle and confusion, but as Sarah brought warm water and a sponge, and Nannie washed the little wounded arm, they found it was only a deep, jagged scratch—bad enough, to be sure—but not a dangerous hurt.
King had already telephoned for the doctor, and in the meantime they all tried to restore Kitty to consciousness.
“She’s dead, I’m sure,” wailed Miss Larkin, wringing her hands, as she looked at the still little figure lying on the floor. They had put a pillow beneath her head, but Nannie advised them not to move her.
“Oh, no, Miss Larkin; don’t say that,” pleaded Marjorie; “I’m sure her eye-winkers are fluttering. Wake up, wake up, Kitty dear; Baby’s all right. Please wake up.”
But Kitty made no response, and Marjorie turned to throw her arms round King’s neck, who stood by, looking the picture of hopeless woe.
CHAPTER VREMORSEFUL ROMANS
“I didit,” groaned King; “it was all my fault. Kitty was so careful with that sharp dagger, and then I tickled her feet, and it made her wiggle, and she upset right on the baby. Oh, I’ve killed dear little Kitty!”
“Maybe you haven’t,” said Marjorie, hopefully. “Maybe she’ll wake up in a minute. And it wasn’t your fault anyway, King. You didn’t mean to upset her, and anybody’s got a right to tickle people’s feet.”
“No; I ought to have remembered that she had that sharp paper-cutter, and that she might tumble over. It’s all my fault.”
“It isn’t your fault,” repeated Marjorie, stoutly. “If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s old Brutus’s, for insisting on taking off his boots before he stabbed Cæsar.”
Marjorie was sobbing all the while she was talking, and as she stammered out these remarks between her choking sobs, Miss Larkin was not a little perplexed to understand her.
“Brutus? Cæsar? what do you mean?” she asked.
“Oh, we were playing Shakespeare,” began Marjorie, “and now I come to think of it, it was allmyfault for getting up the game.”
Just then, Doctor Mendel arrived, and came briskly into the living-room.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed, in his hearty way; “what’s the matter now? Have you young barbarians been breaking each other’s bones?”
Then, as he saw Kitty, white and still, upon the floor, he stooped down silently, and bent over the little girl.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, as, after a moment, he looked up and saw the scared and anxious faces watching him; “she’ll be all right, soon; have you any smelling salts?”
Marjorie’s thoughts flew uncertainly toward the saltcellars in the dining-room, but Miss Larkin answered, “Yes, I have,” and running up to her own room, she returned with a vial of Crown Salts.
“That’s the ticket!” said the doctor, and carefully holding the dark-green bottle beneath Kitty’s nose, he watched her face closely, for he was more afraid of the after-consequences than of her present state.
And, sure enough, as the closed lids fluttered open, and the color came slowly back to the white cheeks, Kitty gave a convulsive shudder, caught sight of Rosy Posy’s bandaged arm, and fell into a hysterical crying-fit.
“Take the baby out of the room,” commanded the doctor; “and now, Kitty, girl, listen to me. Your little sister is not seriously hurt, but I want to go to her and properly bandage her arm. I can’t leave you until you stop this crying—or, at least, partly stop it. So, as long as you keep it up, you are keeping me away from little Rosamond who needs me more than you do.”
This was severe talk, but it had the effect, as the doctor intended, of bracing Kitty up to the emergency.
Doctor Mendel knew the little Maynards pretty well. He had attended them through all their childish illnesses, and he knew Kitty’s practical, common-sense nature. Had it been Marjorie he was dealing with, he would have chosen another line of argument.
“All right, Doctor,” said Kitty, still shaking nervously, but trying hard to stop. “And, anyway, you go to Rosy; there are enough people here to take care of me.”
And indeed there seemed to be. Nannie and Sarah had gone off with the baby, but King, Marjorie, and Miss Larkin surrounded the sobbing Kitty, while Ellen and Thomas looked in from the hall doorway, and even James, the coachman, hovered in the background. Kitty’s wan smile as she spoke, brought cheer to the watchers, and Doctor Mendel said quietly: “All right, Kitty. I’ll take you at your word. I’ll go and attend to Rosamond, if you’ll promise to try your best not to cry any more. If I hear you screaming again, I shall come right back to you, and that would be the worst harm you could do to Rosy Posy.”
“I promise, Doctor,” said Kitty, so solemnly that the good old man felt a suspicion of moisture in his own eyes, and Miss Larkin sat bolt up-right, with big tears falling into her brown silk lap.
Doctor Mendel went to the nursery, and unwrapping the little arm that Nurse Nannie had bandaged, carefully examined the wound, which, though only a jagged cut, was a deep one, and had narrowly escaped being a serious affair.
It was necessary to cleanse it thoroughly, and this process was accompanied by piercing shrieks from the suffering child.
These, of course, were unavoidable, for five-year-old Rosy Posy could not be reasoned with like ten-year-old Kitty. So the doctor had to let the child scream, while Nannie held the tiny arm firm for his ministrations. Sarah tried to divert the baby with picture-books and dolls, but all in vain; the heart-rending cries could be heard all over the house.
And here is where Kitty’s fine, sensible nature showed itself strongly.
As she heard Rosy Posy’s shrieks of pain, it very nearly made her scream in sympathy. But she bravely put her fingers in her ears, and said, with a most pathetic look:
“Don’t let me hear her, Mopsy. If I do, I’ll cry, and then the doctor will leave her and come down here, and then she’ll die—oh, Marjorie!”
Kitty buried her head in her sister’s lap, and Marjorie, silently crying herself, held her hands helpfully over Kitty’s ears.
Miss Larkin fluttered around like a bewildered hen. She knew she was at the Maynard house for the purpose of taking care of the children in their parents’ absence, and here was an emergency—the very first one—and she hadn’t the slightest idea of how she could possibly make herself helpful in any way. The doctor and the servants were doing all that could be done for the baby, and Marjorie was comforting Kitty, which was all that could be done for that little girl. Then Miss Larkin’s eye fell on Kingdon, who, with hands in his pockets, stood looking out of the window. He was evidently trying hard not to cry, and apparently he, like Miss Larkin, could think of no way to be of any help. Rising, she made her way softly to the boy, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, said:
“Doctor Mendel’s fine, isn’t he? He’ll soon have the baby all right, I’m sure. Suppose you and I pick up those sheets, and put the room to rights a little; Sarah is busy in the nursery.”
How often occupation is a help in time of trouble!
Giving Miss Larkin a grateful glance, King turned to look at the room.
The sheets which had waved so gaily as Roman togas, now lay in dejected-looking heaps, the little one, alas! stained by the accident to the baby Cæsar.
Miss Larkin hastily picked up that one, and soon she and King had all the Roman toggery picked up and carried away. They put the furniture back in place, restored “Pompey’s Pillar” to its accustomed use as an umbrella-holder, and put all the daggers away in a desk drawer, that they might not unnerve anybody by their sad reminders.
Marjorie, with her loving little ways, had succeeded in quieting Kitty, and as the baby’s cries could no longer be heard, things began to look brighter all round.
“Well, well, this is something like!” declared Doctor Mendel, as he returned from the nursery. “You’re a trump, Kitty. I know how hard it was for you to brace up to the occasion, but you did it, and you deserve great credit. Now, listen to me, my girl. In the first place, Rosamond is all right. I shall come to see her every day for awhile, to make sure that she keeps all right, but the hurt to her arm is simply a flesh wound, and will heal with only a very slight scar, if any.”
“Oh, Doctor!” cried Kitty, shuddering, “will her arm be scarred?”
“Probably not. She is so young, it will doubtless heal without a trace. But even should there be a tiny white mark it will amount to nothing. And, children, listen to this. I attach no blame either to King or Kitty. For children always have tickled each other’s toes, and probably always will. The whole affair was an accident, of course. But—I blame all three of you, individually and collectively, for playing with that sharp dagger.”
“But Kit is always so careful,” broke in Marjorie.
“I know it, and what good did it do? Carefulness cannot always guard against accidents. So promise me that you will never again play any game that includes the use of any dangerous instrument: dagger, knife, scissors, chisel, anything, in fact, that might do physical harm in case of accident.”
“Of course we promise,” said Marjorie, tearfully. “And we don’t have topromise. For wecouldn’tplay with such things after to-day. But, Doctor Mendel, it was all my fault, ’cause I got up the whole game.”
“Don’t say another word about whose fault it was,” interrupted the blunt doctor. “You all agree, I suppose, that it wasn’t Rosamond’s fault?”
Three astonished and indignant glances answered this question.
“Well, then, I hold that you three older children are equally to blame for playing with what is really a dangerous weapon. Each of you is old enough to know that you ought not to have done so—therefore you are all blameworthy to exactly the same degree. Am I clear?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Kitty, sighing. “Itseemsas if I was the worst. But if you put it that way, I s’pose we all ought to have known better.”
“Of course we ought,” said King. “And I’ll never tickle the soles of Kit’s feet again, dagger or no dagger.”
“I’m glad of that!” said Kitty, fervently, “for, oh, King, Idohate it!”
“All right, old girl. You can play bootless Brutus whenever you like, and I won’t tickle you a speck. But your black feet looked so funny coming out from under your white togga.”
“White what?” said Doctor Mendel, curiously.
“Her togga. We were all being Romans, you know.”
“Oh, I see. Well, you must pronounce that with a long o, my boy; it’s toga.”
“All right, sir; toga, then. But I don’t believe we’ll ever play ‘Julius Cæsar’ again.”
“Not with Rosy Posy, anyhow,” said Kitty, decidedly.
“But she made a lovely Cæsar,” said Midget, reminiscently.
“She must have!” said the doctor, chuckling. “A five-year-old baby girl seems just right for the part!”
Even Kitty laughed at this.
“Well,” she said, “she may not have looked just as Cæsar really did, but she looked awful cunning and sweet.”
“Here she is!” cried King, and Nurse Nannie came in with the smiling baby in her arms.
In a clean frock, and her lovely hair freshly tied up with a blue ribbon, the little one was quite her usual self. Only the pathetic-looking bandage around the tiny bare arm gave any evidence of the late disaster.
Doctor Mendel carefully watched Kitty as her eyes fell on the bandage. She turned a fiery red, and then went perfectly pale. She choked a little, but by a determined effort of will, she held on to herself, and controlled her agitation.
“Brave little girl!” said Doctor Mendel, patting her shoulder. “You’re doing nobly, Kitty, and I have no fears for you now. Remember, if you want to help the baby bear her misfortune, you must do it by unselfishly being bright and cheery, and helping to amuse her, and not by sorrowful regrets that can do no one any good.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kitty, meekly, but with a note of strong determination in her voice. “But I wish Mother was home. Shall I write her about it all, Doctor?”
Doctor Mendel was such an old and tried friend of the Maynard family, that the children consulted him on any subject, with full confidence in his sympathy and wisdom.
“Well, I don’t know, Kitty. I hate to have you go all over the matter in a letter, when really it is now a thing of the past. And yet I suppose you wouldn’t sleep quietly in your little bed, if you didn’t tell Mother about it at once. Well—how’s this plan? Suppose I write and tell her about it, and then she’ll write to you, and then you can keep it up as long as you choose after that.”
“Oh, that will be fine, Doctor!” cried Kitty, her heart full of thankfulness for his kindness. She had dreaded to write the awful story, and yet she wanted her mother to know about it, and this plan was a relief to her burdened little heart.
And Doctor Mendel’s fine insight told him all this. He knew that emotional, sensitive little Kitty would live over the scene as she wrote about it, and her remorse and self-censure would work cruelly upon her already overwrought nerves. So he determined to write himself, and tell the story in its true light, knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Maynard pretty thoroughly understood their own children, and would at once appreciate the situation. Then the doctor went away, and without his cheery presence, the children’s spirits lagged again.
Then it was that Miss Larkin came to the rescue.
“Now, children,” she said, and though her bright gaiety of manner always seemed a little forced and unreal, they listened politely to what she was about to say.
“Now, dear children,” she repeated, “after a dreadful scene, such as we’ve just passed through, I don’t think there’s anything so cheering and comforting as an extra good dinner.”
“Hooray!” cried King, who had expected a lecture or, at best, a talk of a consolatory nature; “I say, Larky, you’re a brick!”
He stopped, suddenly overcome with discomfiture at having all unintentionally used the nickname that he had promised never to say again.
But, to his great surprise, Miss Larkin laughed gaily. “Good for you, King!” she said; “I used to have a chum who called me ‘Larky,’ but I haven’t heard the name for years. I’d like it if you’d use it often.”
“But—but,” stammered King, “I promised Mother I wouldn’t. She said it was disrespectful.”
Miss Larkin laughed again. “So it would be if you meant it disrespectfully. But if you and I can be chums, and I ask you to use it, then I know Mother would have no objections.”
“I know it, too,” said Marjorie; “can’t we all be chums—Larky?”
She said the name so sweetly, and after a momentary hesitation, that Miss Larkin promptly kissed her.
“Yes,” she declared. “We’ll all be chums together, and you shall all call me Larky, and I’ll call you by your nicknames. Now, for this cheering dinner of ours. It is belated anyway, but I think by a judicious use of the telephone we can add enough to it to make it a special feast. Kitty, what would you like better than anything else?”
“Ice cream,” said Kitty, so promptly, that one would almost think she had been expecting the question.
“You’ll get it,” said Miss Larkin, with a decided wag of her head. “Now, Mopsy, what will you choose?”
“Little iced cakes,” said Marjorie; “green ones, and yellow ones, and pink and white and choclit ones.”
“King next,” went on the questioner. “Of course, you must choose something that can be bought, not made.”
“Nuts and raisins,” said King, after a moment’s thought.
Then Rosy Posy announced her desire for “fig-crackers,” and the menu was made up.
Miss Larkin bustled away to the telephone, and after a colloquy with the caterer, arranged to have the order sent up at once.
As the dainties desired were all of the nature of dessert, there was no need to delay dinner, and when Sarah announced it, the children realized that they were decidedly hungrier than usual—which was saying a great deal!
By virtue of her position as heroine of the day, Rosy Posy was allowed to sit up to dinner, and though she fell asleep at the table, with a “fig-cracker” in her hand, she was carried away to bed without interrupting the festivities.
And festivities they were. For a sort of reaction from the late tragic events, and the fact that ice cream always made a “party,” so enlivened their drooping spirits that the little Maynards were their own gay selves once more, and “Larky” proved that upon occasion she could be as merry as her nickname sounded.