  Stella came early, and Ladybird was tempted to confide in her, and perhaps ask her to enlighten Aunt Priscilla. But the child’s sense of the dramatic was too strong for this, and notwithstanding her own precarious position, she preferred to wait and let the whole remarkable situation burst unheralded upon her unsuspecting aunts. And it proved to be worth while; for the expression on Miss Priscilla Flint’s patrician countenance as she saw a motley crowd coming in at her front gate was never forgotten either by Ladybird or Stella. The guests had been bidden to come at three o’clock, and as they obeyed with scrupulous promptness, the greater part of the party arrived all at once. As they came up the path, Ladybird grasped the situation with both hands, and turning to her Aunt Priscilla, said: “This is my party, aunty, that is coming in, and I hope they will like you. I did as you told me: I invited those who would enjoy it most, and I also followed the Bible command, ‘If you must make a feast, make it for the poor, and the halt, and the maimed, and the blind’; and if you can find anybody poorer or maimeder or halter than these people, I don’t know where they are. I am now going to open the front door and admit my guests, and I expect them to receive the welcome of Primrose Hall; and for goodness’ sake, aunty, brace up!” The last admonition was by no means unnecessary, for Miss Flint certainly looked as if she were about to fall in a faint. “Did you know of this?” she demanded, turning to Stella, who stood by, uncertain whether to laugh or sympathize. “No,” said the girl; “I knew nothing of it, and I don’t understand it yet; but I think, Miss Flint, you will be glad afterward, if you rise to the occasion and show to these friends of Ladybird’s, whoever they may be, the hospitality for which Primrose Hall is so justly famous.” Now Primrose Hall was not famous for its hospitality; indeed, the reverse was nearer the truth. But Stella’s remark touched the old lady’s pride, and she answered: “Hospitality is all very well, but it does not mean inviting a parcel of paupers to come in and make themselves at home in one’s house.” “No,” said Stella, soothingly; “but since Ladybird has asked these people, and apparently from good and honest motives, is it not your duty to uphold your niece, at least before strangers?” “No, it is not!” said Miss Priscilla, angrily. “My niece can bear the consequences of her own rash act. I’m going to order those people out of my house at once! Where is Dorinda? Does she know of this outrage?” Just then Miss Dorinda appeared from the dining-room. She was flushed, but smiling, and her face wore a satisfied expression which betokened that all was well in the commissariat department. Her smile faded as she caught sight of Miss Priscilla’s face; but before that irate lady could say a word, Ladybird came in from the front hall, marshaling her guests in a decorous line to be presented. The widow Taylor came first, and she held a twin on either arm. The Taylor children were about a year old and of strenuous disposition. Ladybird’s eyes were dancing with excitement, but with a demure politeness that had in it a charming touch of gentle courtesy she introduced Mrs. Taylor to her aunts. “Ladybird marshaling her guests” “Ladybird marshaling her guests” The widow was of the affably helpless type, and encumbered as she was with fidgety impedimenta, found herself unable to offer the hand of fellowship. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, earnestly looking the Misses Flint in their stony faces; “and if you’ll just hold these children a minute, I’ll shake hands, and then I’ll take my bonnet off, for this long veil is dreadfully in the way, and the babies do pull at it so!” While Mrs. Taylor talked she distributed her offspring impartially between her two hostesses, and as the visitor’s movements were far quicker than the Flint ladies’ wits, Miss Priscilla and Miss Dorinda each found herself with a fat, roly-poly baby securely seated in the angle of her thin, stiff old left arm. It may have been that some latent chord was touched in the hearts of the good ladies, or it may have been that their muscles were actually paralyzed with amazement, but at any rate they did not let the babies drop to the floor, as Ladybird confidently expected they would. Having shaken hands politely, Mrs. Taylor proceeded to take off her bonnet, talking all the while in a casually conversational manner. “Nice and neat, isn’t it?” she said, viewing with satisfaction the tiny bonnet which only served as a starting-point for the long black crape veil and a resting-place for the full white crape ruche. “I don’t often get a chance to wear it; but I’m so fond of it; it’s my greatest consolation since Mr. Taylor died. I call it my cloud with the silver lining.” Stella took the precious bonnet from Mrs. Taylor’s hands, promising to put it safely away, and by that time Ladybird was presenting the elder Mr. Harris. Though the old soldier was disabled and poor, he was a courtly gentleman of the old school and greeted the ladies with a quiet comprehension of his own dignity and theirs. Moreover, Richard Harris had been a friend of the Flint ladies in their youth, and though circumstances had pushed them far apart, a few slender threads of memory still held. Ignoring their squirming left-armfuls, Major Harris shook hands with the Primrose ladies, and then, with the aid of his crutches, limped away. It seemed a pathetic coincidence that his grandson Dick, who followed him, should also be on crutches, especially as his lameness lacked the patriotic glory of his grandfather’s. Dick Harris was frankly delighted with the whole occasion, and did not hesitate to say so. He shook hands vigorously with the Misses Flint, and his face beamed as he expressed his gratitude for their invitation. “But you ladies oughtn’t to be holdin’ them heavy kids,” he said. “I wish I could take ’em, but I can’t. Here, Jim Blake and Tom Tuckerman, you take these infants away from the ladies, so’s they can shake hands decent.” Apparently the lame boy’s word was law, for the two boys he had called, though looking a little embarrassed, darted up and secured the twins with an awkward but efficacious clutch. Miss Leech and Sam Scott were then presented together. Ladybird didn’t do this for the logical reason that two half-witted people ought to count as one, but because she was impatient to get the introductions over with and begin the party. Miss Leech wandered a little, confused the ladies’ names, and asked Miss Priscilla if she had paid off her mortgage yet. Sam Scott wandered a great deal, and grasping Miss Priscilla’s hand, shook it up and down continuously, while he babbled, “Beautiful day, beautiful day, beautiful, beautiful day, beautiful day, beautiful—” He was still expressing his opinion of the weather when Stella led him away and seated him in a corner with a picture-book to look at. By this time Miss Priscilla had reached that state of mind which can only be described as the obstupefaction of the tumultuous. Her brain was benumbed by rapid and successive emotions, and as the climax of each had proved absurdly inadequate to the situation, Miss Priscilla was perforce in a condition of helpless docility, and Ladybird recognized this, and was not slow to take advantage of it. Realizing that her aunt had interests, or at least memory, in common with Major Harris, she contrived to establish the two on a comfortable old sofa, where, despite the differences of the present, they were soon lost in the past. Then Ladybird, with her natural talent for generalship, but with a tact and ability really beyond her years, arranged her other guests to the happy satisfaction of each. Miss Dorinda found herself entertaining, or rather being entertained by, Mrs. Taylor, and each of these ladies held one of the romping twins, and actually seemed to enjoy it. Miss Leech required no entertaining save to be allowed to wander about at will, touching with timid, delicate fingers the ornaments or curios about the room, and making happy, though inarticulate, comments upon them. Then Ladybird and Stella devoted themselves to the amusement of the rest of the guests, who were all children and easily pleased by playing games or listening to Stella while she sang funny songs to her banjo accompaniment. During one of these songs, Ladybird slipped out to the kitchen in search of Martha and Bridget, who were as yet unacquainted with the character of the Primrose Hall guests. “I expect they’ll raise Cain,” she said to herself; “but I feel like Alexander to-day, and I’d just as soon conquer a few more worlds as not. “Martha,” she began in a conciliatory tone, though determination lurked beneath her eyelashes, “the people who have come to my party are not the ones I expected to invite at first. They’re—they’re different.” “Yes, miss,” said Martha, impassively. “And two of them are lame, Martha, and two of them are babies, and two of them are not quite right in their heads.” “Luny, miss?” “Well, yes; I think you might call it that,” said Ladybird, gravely considering the case. Then after a pause she added, “And Martha, we’ll have to fix high chairs for the babies; put cushions in the chairs, you know, or dictionaries, or something.” “Did your aunts invite these people, miss?” said Martha, suspecting, more from Ladybird’s manner than her words, that there was something toward. “I invited them,” said Ladybird, with one of her sudden, but often useful, accessions of dignity, “and my aunts are at present entertaining them. You’ll see about the high chairs, won’t you Martha?” In reality, Ladybird’s strong friend and ally, Martha, was always vanquished by the child’s dazzling smile, and she answered heartily, “Indeed I will, miss; you’ll find everything in the dining-room all right.” Reassured, Ladybird went back to the parlor, to find her party still going on beautifully. Stella’s graceful tact and ready ingenuity were the best assistance Ladybird could have had, and the child gave a sigh of relief as she thought to herself she had certainly succeeded in inviting the ones who would enjoy it the most. At five o’clock supper was served. Although the technical details of the table proved a trying ordeal to most of the guests (indeed, only the half-witted ones were wholly at ease), yet the delicious viands, and the kind-hearted dispensers of them, went far toward establishing a general harmony. The guests took their leave punctually at six o’clock, as they had been invited to do, and Miss Priscilla’s parting words to each evinced a mental attitude entirely satisfactory to Ladybird. “Though I wish, Lavinia,” she said much later, after they had discussed the affair in its every particular—“I do wish that when you are about to cut up these fearfully unexpected performances of yours you would warn us beforehand.” “I will, aunty,” said Ladybird, with a most lamb-like docility of manner, “if you’ll promise to agree to them as amiably beforehand as you do afterward.” |
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