The Staying Guest

Mr. Bates quietly took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, and shaking out the ample square of cambric, politely offered it to his visitor, who took it gratefully.

“It’s a beautiful October day,” he said, glancing out of the window, and desiring to introduce a commonplace subject.

“Yes,” said Ladybird; “October is one of my favorites. I think it is the prettiest-colored month of the whole year, except, perhaps, April. But I must proceed with my business; I’ll promise not to cry again: that’s over now; but you see I care so very much for my dog that I forgot myself. But my aunt, Miss Flint, doesn’t care for him just in the way I do, so she desires that I should give him away; and as it is my duty to do as she wishes me, I have brought the dog to you as a free-will offering.”

“How do you know I want him?” said Mr. Bates, a little quizzically.

“Oh, you couldn’t help wanting him! Why, in the first place, he has a wonderful pedigree: he’s a real Yorkshire; but besides all that, he’s the dearest, best, loveliest, sweetest dog in the whole world. Of course you couldn’t be supposed to feel intimately acquainted with him yet; but in a day or two you’ll name him but to praise.”

“And your Aunt Priscilla doesn’t like him? Why is that?”

“Well, sir, you see my aunt, Miss Flint, is a very handsome and dignified lady. She doesn’t admire such frivolous things as flippy-floppy little dogs, and they seem to interfere with her nerves. My aunt, Miss Flint, is of an old family and very exclusive, and has a great deal of what they call the – the infernal feminine.”

“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!”