The Staying Guest

“Yes, she has,” said Mr. Bates, with grave acquiescence. “And your other aunt, Miss Dorinda, doesn’t she like your valuable dog either?”

“Oh, Aunt Dorinda is different. She’s younger, you know; or at least she can’t seem to let go of her youth as Aunt Priscilla does. But that doesn’t matter; my aunt, Miss Flint, is head of the house, and she says the dog must go, so go it’s going to! Now the thing is, will you take him, Mr. Bates? I’m sure Mrs. Bates would like him – he’s a dear dog.”

At this Ladybird’s head went down on Cloppy’s back again, and Mr. Bates feared another deluge; but suddenly the child looked up with a bright smile. “I could come to see him sometimes, couldn’t I, Mr. Bates?”

“I haven’t said I’d take him yet. I’m a business man, you know. What is your dog good for?”

Ladybird considered.

“Well now, do you know, I never thought of that; I don’t know as he is good for anything.”

“Bless my soul, child, do you expect me to accept a dog that is good for nothing?”

“He isn’t good for nothing,” said Ladybird, indignantly; “he’s a wonderful comfort, and I guess that counts for a lot! Oh, and he is good for something, too: he can scare burglars away.”

“But no well-conducted burglar would stand greatly in awe of such a small bundle of dog as that.”

“No,” said Ladybird, earnestly; “but he would bark, you know, and rouse the family, and then they could shoo the burglar out.”

“Has he ever scared a burglar away from Primrose Hall?”

“No, because we never had any to scare; but I know he could do it, and I just wish burglars had attacked us in the watches of the night, because I know Cloppy would have barked like fury, and so saved us all from murder and pillage; and then Aunt Priscilla would have loved him and wanted to keep him.”

“Oh, you think she would?” said Mr. Bates, a queer look of mischief coming into his eyes.

“I’m sure of it,” said Ladybird.

“But burglars never could get into Primrose Hall; isn’t it securely locked up every night?”

“Aunty means to have it so,” said Ladybird; “but old Matthew is so forgetful. Why, sometimes he leaves the parlor windows unfastened, and they open right on the front piazza.”

“Oh, well, there are no burglars around here,” said Mr. Bates, reassuringly; but his whole big frame seemed to be shaking with suppressed laughter, for which Ladybird could see no just cause.

“Now, I’ll tell you what, child,” he said: “I’ll take your dog; but I must speak to Mrs. Bates about it first, and she isn’t home now. So you take that animated mop back with you and tell your respected aunt that his doom is sealed, but that he will have to stay one more night under her roof; then to-morrow you bring him back here, and I’ll guarantee he’ll be well taken care of.”

“All right; and thank you, sir,” said Ladybird, her grief at parting with the dog temporarily forgotten in the fact that the farewell was to be postponed for twenty-four hours. Then with a brief good-by, as if fearful lest Mr. Bates should change his mind, she darted out of the door and across the fields.

“It’s all right, aunty,” she cried as she flew into Primrose Hall: “the Bateses are going to take Cloppy, but he can’t go till to-morrow; they haven’t got his room ready; but that’s all right if you’ll just let him stay here one more night. And now am I a good girl, aunty? I do want to be good.”

“Yes, you’re a good girl,” said her aunt, “and you have done your duty; but don’t expect to be praised for it every minute. To do one’s duty is right and even necessary, but not praiseworthy.”

“I think I’ll go down to the orchard, Aunt Priscilla,” said Ladybird; “the trees are so sympathetic.”

That night a strange thing happened at Primrose Hall.

As he did nine times out of ten, old Matthew had left the front parlor windows unfastened. But in that quiet country neighborhood no marauder had ever profited by the old man’s carelessness.

The family went to bed as usual; the Flint ladies slept calmly in their ruffled night-caps behind their dimity curtains; the objectionable Cloppy was curled up on the foot of Ladybird’s bed; and though that sad-hearted maiden had firmly made up her mind to cry all night, she soon fell asleep and had only happy dreams.

About midnight a large man with a firm tread walked boldly, but quietly, across the dooryard to the front door of Primrose Hall.

He was presumably a burglar, but his attitudes and effects were by no means of the regulation type. Instead of skulking as the traditional burglar always does, he walked fearlessly and seemed to know exactly where he was going; while instead of a black mask his face wore a broad grin, and he chuckled noiselessly as he looked at a large hatchet which he carried in his hand.

Although he walked quietly up the veranda steps, he used no especial caution in opening the front window. It slid easily up, and the burglar stepped over the sill, heedless of the fact that his muddy boots made huge tracks on the light carpet. He struck several matches in quick succession, blowing each out and throwing it on the floor; he then deliberately pocketed two or three articles of value which lay on the center-table. An old silver card-case, an antique snuff-box, and a small silver dish were appropriated; and then turning to a white marble bust of a foolish-looking lady in a big hat, which stood on a mottled-green pedestal, he calmly knocked it over, and laughed as it crashed into a thousand pieces.

This sound was quickly followed by a few short, sharp yelps from above, which developed into a loud and ferocious barking.

A smile of intense satisfaction spread over the burglar’s features; he laid his hatchet carefully in the middle of the floor, removed his old felt hat and placed it half-way between the hatchet and the window, and then went out the way he came in. On the steps he laid gently the snuff-box and card-case, and dropped the silver tray on the grass in the yard; then turning for a last glance, to make sure that the family were aroused, and seeing flickering lights in the windows, he pulled a cloth cap from his pocket, put it on his head, and went back home, still chuckling.

Inside of Primrose Hall all was confusion. Cloppy’s frantic and continued barking had awakened everybody, and though all were convinced that burglars were in the house, none dared go down-stairs to investigate.

The Flint sisters, though scared out of their wits, possessed a certain sub-consciousness that was pleased at this opportunity of donning their fire-gowns and best caps. The servants were variously frightened according to their respective dispositions; and Ladybird was quite in her element, for to her any excitement was pleasurable, no matter what might be its cause.

“Let me go down! Let me go down, aunty!” she cried, dancing about in the upper hall.

“Be quiet, child! Of course you can’t go down; there is probably a whole gang of burglars, and they’d kill you and then come up for us. Look out for Cloppy; don’t let him get down.”

“But I don’t hear any noise down there now, aunty; I think the burglars have gone: Cloppy scared them away by his barking.”

“Stay where you are, Ladybird,” said Miss Priscilla, sternly. “Matthew, go down-stairs and see what caused that commotion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Matthew; but his old knees were shaking with fear, and he made no motion to carry out his mistress’s orders.

“Come on, Matthew,” cried Ladybird, grasping his hand, “don’t be afraid; I’ll go with you,” and before Miss Flint could stop her, Ladybird was dancing down-stairs, dragging the old man with her.

The child had provided herself with a candle, and hand in hand, she and Matthew reached the parlor door and looked in.

Then Ladybird treated the listeners to one of her best blood-curdling yells.

“Oh, gracious, glorious goodness!” she cried, “here’s a hatchet! They were going to kill us! Come down, aunty; there’s nobody here but a hatchet. And your white lady is all smashed to smithereens! And here’s matches all over! And here’s one of the burglar’s hats! Oh, aunty, come down; truly there’s nobody here!”

Timidly the Misses Flint, followed by Bridget and Martha, came down and viewed with dismay the havoc in the parlor. At first Miss Priscilla was overcome with sorrow at the smashed marble; then appalled with fear at their narrow escape from the dreadful hatchet; but was most deeply stirred by indignation at the muddy footprints on the carpet.

“They’ll never come out,” she wailed; “those spots will always show!”

“Don’t be foolish, Priscilla,” said her sister; “be thankful you’re here to scrub at them, and not dead in your bed, hatcheted into eternity by a gory villain!”

“Oh, I am thankful,” moaned Miss Priscilla. “And to think we owe our lives to that blessed little dog! Ladybird, don’t you ever hint at giving him away! The Bateses can’t have him. Why, I wouldn’t be safe a minute without that dog in the house!”

And so the next day Ladybird went over to tell Mr. Bates she had changed her mind about giving him the dog.

That good man was greatly interested in the story of the burglars, but he seemed much more anxious to hear how the Flint ladies were affected by it than to learn the details of the burglary itself.

“And when the burglars heard Cloppy bark,” went on Ladybird, thrilled by the exciting mental picture, “they dropped their hatchet and ran. And the hatchet had a B cut on it.”

“It did?” said Mr. Bates, suddenly startled. “Oh, well, that stands for Burglar.”

“And he left a horrid old hat. And he must have been awful scared, for he only stole three things; but they were three of aunty’s pet treasures. And what do you think! We found them, all three, this morning, out on the piazza and lawn!”

“Then he did no real damage?” said Mr. Bates.

“Oh, yes; he smashed Aunt Priscilla’s head.”

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t mean her own head, but that big marble one, or plaster or something; it’s called ‘Cherry Ripe,’ and it was a work of art.”

“It was a civic calamity,” said Mr. Bates.

“I don’t know what civic means,” said Ladybird; “but it was an awful calamity, and Aunt Priscilla feels perfectly dreadful about it. But anyhow, Cloppy saved us all from our untimely ends, and so aunty says we’re going to keep Cloppy, and so it has all turned out right.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bates, with a smile of deep satisfaction, “it all turned out right.”

CHAPTER XI

A MATRIMONIAL BUREAU

“Ladybird and Stella Russell seem to be great cronies,” observed Miss Dorinda one afternoon as she sat knitting by the window and watched the two girls walking down the garden path.

“Yes,” said her sister; “and in some ways it is a good thing for Lavinia. She is so hoydenish and daring that I think a nice, quiet girl like Stella Russell will have a refining influence over her.”

“Ladybird isn’t unrefined, Priscilla,” said Miss Dorinda. Insinuations against her niece were the one thing which could rouse the meek and mild ire which this good lady possessed.

“No, not unrefined, since she is a Flint; but you must admit, Dorinda, that at times she is exasperating beyond all measure. Why, only this morning she cut the strings from my best bonnet, and tied them round the kittens’ necks, because, she said, she never had seen kittens with black ribbons on, and she wanted to see how funny they looked; and she said, too, that the bonnet looked better without strings.”

“Yes, she’s thoughtless and careless,” sighed Miss Dorinda, “but not wicked. I think she means all right.”

“Then she very seldom expresses her meaning,” snapped Miss Priscilla.

“Well, she’s only a child,” said Dorinda; “you can’t put old heads on young shoulders. Sometimes I think perhaps Stella’s influence isn’t altogether good for her: it may fill her head with grown-up nonsense. You know she’s so imaginative.”

“Oh, Stella isn’t flighty,” said Miss Priscilla. “She’s a fine, wholesome young woman, and I am sure Lavinia is already better for having known her.”

At that moment Ladybird came flying in. Her cheeks were red, her eyes big and bright, and she seemed in a state of wild excitement. She flung her hat one way and her cape the other, and dropped into a chair.

“My, aunties,” she exclaimed, “what do you think! Stella Russell thinks maybe – perhaps – she’s going to be engaged to be married!”

“Goodness gracious me, child!” exclaimed Miss Priscilla, “what are you talking about?”

“I told you so,” said Miss Dorinda.

“And she doesn’t want to a bit,” Ladybird went on; “it’s perfectly awful. They’re making her do it – her cruel, cruel grandparents and that silly Charley Hayes; and there isn’t anybody else. And she wouldn’t have confidanted to me only I guessed it, and she said yes; and then I made her tell me all about it. And isn’t it perfectly awful, and can’t we help her some way?”

“Lavinia Lovell,” said Miss Priscilla, “do you know what you’re talking about? And if so, can you tell it so any one can understand it?”

“That’s the way it is, aunty; and if you can’t understand it, I can’t help it. Charley Hayes wants to marry Stella, and he says she must; and Stella’s grandfather and grandmother they say she must; so everybody wants her to, except Stella herself and me. I think it’s just dreadful. He’s as silly as a loon. He doesn’t know anything, and he’s awkward and rude and countrified and awful homely, and I don’t care if he is rich.”

“Lavinia,” said Miss Priscilla, with a tone of displeasure, “you have no business with these matters at all, and I am surprised that Stella should have talked to you about this.”

“She didn’t mean to, aunty,” said Ladybird, eagerly; “honest injun, it wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t going to say a word to me about it; but I couldn’t help seeing there was some fearful thing going on in her heart, and so I made her tell me what it was; and of course after I got her started she kept going, and now I know all about it.”

“You do!” said Miss Priscilla. “And, pray, what do you propose to do about it?”

“Oh, aunty, I don’t know; but let’s help her out some way, can’t we?”

“No, we can’t,” said Miss Priscilla, shortly. “It’s none of our affair, and I forbid you, Lavinia, ever to refer to the subject again.”

“Yes, aunty, I’ll remember; but just listen a minute.”

Ladybird had gone to her aunt’s side, and she perched on the arm of her chair, and caressed the withered old face as she talked.

“You see, aunty,” she went on, “both aunties,” – for she felt instinctively that Miss Dorinda would show more sentiment in this matter than her sister, – “Charley Hayes is not half, nor quarter, nor not even the least little mite good enough for my beautiful, lovely, sweet Stella. She’s so pretty, and so wise, that she ought to marry an earl, or a duke, or a king, at least.”

“Yes,” said Miss Dorinda, timidly, “I can’t help thinking it is all true, Priscilla.”

“It makes no difference how true it is,” said Miss Priscilla, angrily, “it is nothing to us; and I repeat, Lavinia, that I wish you to drop the subject at once and forever.”

“Yes, aunty,” said Ladybird, with every outward show of obedience; “but I’ve got the loveliest plan. You know there are places where you can advertise and get husbands.”

“What?” cried Miss Priscilla Flint, unable to believe her own ears.

“Yes, really, aunty; didn’t you know it? I’ve often wondered why you and Aunt Dorinda didn’t get some husbands that way. I didn’t know you didn’t know about it. It’s perfectly lovely. Martha told me about it; and you just send your name and the color of your eyes, and you say what kind of a husband you want, and they send them to you right away. What kind would you like, aunty?”

Miss Dorinda was speechless at these fearsome revelations; but Miss Priscilla was rarely affected that way.

“Lavinia Lovell,” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes, “hush this talk at once! I am more ashamed of you than I can say. Hush! do not speak another word.”

“No,” said Ladybird, “I won’t; but truly, Aunt Priscilla, it’s a great scheme. Martha knew a lady who got a lovely husband that way, and – ”

“Silence, Lavinia!”

“Yes, ’m. And he married her, and they lived happy ever after. Martha said so.”

“Lavinia, be quiet.”

“Yes, ’m. And so you see, aunty, if we could just get a real nice husband for Stella, instead of that horrid Charley Hayes, we’d be doing as we’d be done by, and our neighbor as ourselves.”

“Lavinia,” began Miss Priscilla again.

“Now, Priscilla,” said her sister, “there’s no use talking to her like that. She doesn’t understand. Ladybird,” Aunt Dorinda went on gently, “these institutions you speak of, and which Martha had no right to mention to you – ”

“I’ll attend to Martha,” said Miss Priscilla, with a competent snap of her eyes.

“Are not nice,” went on Miss Dorinda, “and are not even spoken of by nice people. If you love Stella, the most dreadful thing you could do would be to think of her in connection with such a place as you spoke of.”

“Is that so, Aunt Priscilla?” said Ladybird, who, though she loved Aunt Dorinda, always referred her opinions to Miss Flint for sanction.

“Yes,” said Aunt Priscilla, “of course it’s true – more than true; and you did very wrong, Lavinia, to listen to Martha’s tales.”

“Well, but, aunty, then if I can’t help Stella that way, how can I help her?”

“You cannot help her at all,” said Miss Priscilla, very sternly. “Am I to be mistress in my own house, or am I not? Cease talking, Lavinia, and go at once to your room.”

“And I can’t help Stella in any way?” said Ladybird, slowly.

“You cannot. Go!” and Miss Priscilla pointed to the door.

Ladybird gathered up her dog, which had been lying, a shapeless mass, at her feet, and without a word walked from the room.

“She’s gone up-stairs to cry, Priscilla,” said Miss Dorinda; “she always does that when she feels very bad about anything.”

“I can’t help it,” snapped Priscilla Flint; “she’s a spoiled child. We over-indulge her in her whims; and in this case she ought to be made to feel ashamed of herself.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong, Priscilla; Martha did the wrong. Ladybird thought only of helping her friend.”

“She’s old enough to know better,” said Miss Priscilla, sternly. “And now I will see Martha.”

After what was undoubtedly a very stormy interview, Miss Flint returned with the edge of her anger a little dulled.

“I suppose Lavinia wasn’t altogether to blame,” she said.

“No,” said Miss Dorinda, timidly. “Shall we go and find her, Priscilla?”

“Yes; but we must make her understand that it is wrong for her even to think of interfering in Stella’s love-affair. Lavinia’s too romantic already to be mixed up in such doings.”

“I suppose so,” said Miss Dorinda, meekly.

“Suppose so? You know it. You know as well as I do, Dorinda Flint, that Lavinia’s head is chuck-full of silly, romantic ideas, just as her mother’s was; and unless we’re careful, she’ll only get more and more so, until she’ll run away with some good-for-nothing, as her mother did before her.”

“I suppose so,” said the meek Miss Dorinda again. “But I do think, Priscilla, we ought to do something to entertain the child. We might have a children’s party for her.”

“Well – we might,” said Miss Priscilla, who had begun to relent a little. “It would be an awful lot of extra trouble; but romping play would be better for that child than sentimental twaddle.”

“I suppose so,” said Miss Dorinda.

“We could get the ice-cream from the village,” said Miss Priscilla, who had already begun to see the party in its details.

“Yes,” said her sister, eagerly; “and I could make my sunshine cake, and Martha could make cookies. It would be a very nice party.”

“And they could play games on the lawn,” said Miss Priscilla; “that wouldn’t make the house quite so topsyturvy.”

“Well, let us go and find the child and tell her about it,” said Dorinda; “I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

Meantime Ladybird, holding Cloppy fast in her arms, had gone up-stairs. Angry tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her whole thin little frame was shaking with sobs.

“It’s awful,” she whispered as she buried her face in the dog’s soft, silky hair; “it’s just awful; and I wish I could find a place where you and I could get away from everybody.”

She turned toward the great linen-closet, opened the door and went in. The piles of lavender-scented linen looked very cool and pleasant, and throwing Cloppy over her shoulder, which was one of his favorite positions, Ladybird climbed, with a monkey-like agility, up the broad shelves until she reached the top one. There she curled herself up in a little heap, pillowing her head on the dog, and the dog on a pile of sheets. Being thus comfortably settled, she indulged in one of her first-class crying spells, a thing so turbulent and volcanic that it defies all description. It was during this performance that the aunts came up-stairs in search of their agonized niece.

Ladybird had no intention of responding to their repeated call, but her tumultuous sobs easily guided the old ladies to her hiding-place.

“Come down, Lavinia,” said Miss Priscilla, sternly, as she saw her precious linen in imminent danger of being spoiled by the tears of her weeping niece; “come down at once.”

“Can’t get down, aunty,” said Ladybird, between her choking sobs; “it’s easy enough to get up, but I can’t get down; the shelves will come down if I try.”

“Then what do you propose to do?” exclaimed Miss Priscilla, exasperated beyond measure at her ridiculous relative.

“I don’t know,” said Ladybird, cheerfully, her tears quite dried by the interest of the situation in which she now found herself; “I expect I shall have to stay up here always.”

“Don’t be silly,” said her aunt. “And I don’t want my shelves broken. I will send Matthew for the step-ladder, and you must come down at once.”

Once more on the floor, with Cloppy still clasped in her arms, Ladybird looked at her aunts’ faces and sagely concluded they had come in search of her to propose a truce. Always ready to meet them half-way, she sat down in her little chair and said pleasantly:

“I’m sorry I cried; but I couldn’t help it. I always have to cry until my tears are all gone, and then I feel better.”

“Well, dearie,” began Aunt Dorinda, “we’re sorry to make you feel bad, but – ”

“But,” interrupted Miss Priscilla, “we’re older than you are, and we know what is best for you; but we do not wish you to have no pleasure, and so, if you will give up your absurd idea of helping Stella Russell, we will let you have a children’s party.”

“A very nice children’s party,” supplemented Aunt Dorinda.

“I don’t want any children’s party,” said Ladybird; “but it would comfort me to have hot waffles and syrup for supper.”

“You shall have them,” said her Aunt Priscilla.

CHAPTER XII

A SCRIPTURAL COMMAND

Every one knows the comforting qualities of hot waffles and syrup, so none will be surprised to learn that after supper Ladybird was in a frame of mind nothing short of angelic.

“My aunties,” she remarked, as she extended her thin length along the old-fashioned sofa in the sitting-room, “I think I would like to have a children’s party, if it wouldn’t make too much trouble.”

“Hospitality is a duty,” said Miss Flint, laconically. “And though it will doubtless make more or less trouble, I shall be very glad to give you a party, Lavinia, and you may invite your school-mates.”

“How many?” said Ladybird.

“Not more than twelve, including yourself; because everything is in dozens, and I don’t want to get out the extras.”

“That’s eleven besides me. Why, Aunt Priscilla, I don’t like that many children in the whole school!”

“I’m ashamed of you, Lavinia; you should feel more kindly toward all your fellow-creatures.”

“Oh, I feel kindly enough about them, and I like them well enough, but I just don’t want to make a party of them. A party ought to be a few people that you can really enjoy.”

“That’s a very selfish way to look at it,” said Miss Flint; “a party is intended to give your guests pleasure.”

“And it ought to give you pleasure,” put in Aunt Dorinda, in her gentle way, “to know that your guests are enjoying themselves. Wouldn’t that please you, Ladybird?”

“Oh, yes, I’d be awful glad to have them enjoy themselves; but I don’t see why I couldn’t be enjoying myself at the same time. Why not let the party come, and you and Aunt Priscilla give them their supper, and let Edith and Cloppy and me go down by the brook and have some fun?”