  It must be that the exception proves the rule, for though the love of Chester Humphreys and Stella Russell was undoubtedly true, its course ran smooth. One afternoon in August, Stella, Chester, and Ladybird sat out in the orchard. “Now that you two are engaged,” said Ladybird, “if you wish, I will go away and leave you to your own self.” “Don’t bother, Ladybird,” said Chester; “understand once for all that when we wish to be left to our own ‘self,’ we will either arrange it cleverly and unostentatiously, or else ask you frankly to take your departure.” “Then that’s settled,” said Ladybird, leaning comfortably against a tree-trunk; “you are really the nicest engaged couple I ever knew.” “Have you known many?” asked Stella. “Not many,” said Ladybird, truthfully; “but I knew a few in India, and India’s the place for them.” “Child,” said Chester, suddenly, “tell us something of your life in India. It seems to me a bit mysterious.” “I don’t see any mystery about it,” said Ladybird, cheerfully. “My mama died when I was born, and I lived all my life with my old ayah. Sometimes I didn’t see my papa for two or three years at a time; but when he did come he brought me the most beautiful presents.” “Have you no picture of your mother,” said Chester, “no letters or books, or anything that was hers individually?” “No,” said Ladybird; “my papa died of that fearful fever, and everything was burned up. The gentleman who came and brought me away said that my mama was the sister of Aunt Priscilla and Aunt Dorinda; so he sent me here; but that was the first I had ever heard of them.” “Had your father never mentioned them?” asked Stella. “No; but then, papa never mentioned anything. When he was at home, he was always having company and gay parties, and he never talked to me, except to ask me if I was happy, and if I wanted any dolls, or candies, or new clothes.” “And were you happy?” said Stella. “Yes; I’m always happy. I can’t help it. I was happy there, with my native servants and my Indian entertainments; and I’m happy here, with my aunts and Primrose Hall. And I’m specially happy because I’ve made you two happy; haven’t I?” “You have, indeed!” said Chester, heartily kissing the wistful-eyed child. “I’m glad,” said Ladybird; and with her queer suddenness, she walked away. “Just suppose,” said Ladybird to Cloppy, as she strolled toward the house—“just suppose, Clops, that we hadn’t sent for Chester, and suppose—but that’s too perfectly horrid to suppose—that Stella had still been intending to marry that unpleasant Charley Hayes. For as you well know, Cloppy, Charley Hayes is not fit to tie Stella’s apron-string. Of course she doesn’t wear aprons, but I mean if she did. And now everything is beautiful: my aunts are happy as clams; Stella and Chester are happy as oysters; and you and I are happy as—as whales, aren’t we, Clops?” She flung the dog high in the air and caught him as he came down; and then running into the house, discovered a letter for herself on the hall table. With a curious glance at the foreign epistle, Ladybird took it, and holding Cloppy firmly under her arm, went up to her bedroom. “You see, Clops,” she said as she reached her haven from all interruption—“you see, Clops, we’ve got a letter now that means something. Of course I love Stella and Chester, and Aunt Priscilla and Aunt Dorinda, but furthermore, and beyond, and notwithstanding, there is something in our lives, Cloppy, that is outside of all these, and of course, my blessed dog, it would be postmarked India. And so, Cloppy, we will now sit down and read it.” Read it they did; and in the quaint, old-fashioned bedroom at Primrose Hall, Ladybird read these words:
“It is just as I thought, Cloppy,” said Ladybird, shaking the moppy dog, and looking straight into his blinky brown eyes; “it is just as I thought, and we are not Flints, after all; but goodness gracious me, Cloppy, I’d rather be a Flint than anything else in this world, and I’d rather be Lavinia Lovell than—than—than Ladybird, though I never realized it before.” A deep sob interrupted this last utterance, and Ladybird flung her face down on the little dog and cried bitterly. But after a time she calmed herself and said: “We are not to be downed, you and I, Cloppy, and so we will answer this Miss Lovell’s letter quite as it calls for.” With great dignity, Ladybird went to her little desk and wrote the following note:
With a sigh of successful attempt, Ladybird sealed her letter, and laid it on the hall table to be mailed. Then she went into the drawing-room, where her aunts were. “Aunt Priscilla,” she said, addressing the elder of the Flint ladies—“aunty, why do you think I am the daughter of your sister?” “Ladybird,” said Aunt Priscilla, smiling kindly at her, “what new crotchet is in your head now? You know Mr. Bond told us that you were the daughter of our sister Lavinia and Jack Lovell, to whom she was married fifteen years ago.” “Yes; but, aunty,” said Ladybird, “Jack Lovell might have had two wives; and I might be the daughter of the second wife, you know. How would that be?” “Ladybird, you’re crazy,” said Miss Priscilla. “You’re often crazy, I know, but this time you’re crazier than ever. Have you any reason to think Jack Lovell was married twice?” “I have, aunty,” said Ladybird, solemnly, and she handed to her aunt the letter which was signed Lavinia Lovell. Miss Priscilla read it through, and then saying, “Dorinda!” she handed it to her sister. Miss Dorinda Flint was slow. She carefully read the letter through three times before she handed it back to her sister, and then she said: “It does seem, Priscilla, as if Ladybird could not be Lavinia’s child. But that does not matter. In any event she is our child.” “Yes,” said Miss Priscilla, in a tone which seemed to Ladybird almost solemn. “Well, then,” said Ladybird, quivering with excitement, “what are you going to do about it? Because I’ve written to this girl, whoever she is, to come here.” “You have!” said Miss Priscilla; and Miss Dorinda said: “Well, perhaps it’s just as well. Now we can straighten this thing out at once and forever. And it always has bothered me why Ladybird should have black eyes and hair.” That afternoon, down under her own apple-tree, Ladybird told the whole story to Chester Humphreys. “I don’t know, child,” he said, “but it seems to me this Lavinia must be the Flint heiress and not you; but don’t mind that, for you belong to Stella and me, and always will so long as we three shall live.” “That’s all right,” said Ladybird, “and that’s satisfactory as far as you and Stella are concerned: but I just guess I don’t want some other girl taking my place with my aunts.” “Of course you don’t,” said young Humphreys; “but still, if she is the rightful niece, and you’re not, what are you going to do about it?” “I’ll kill her!” said Ladybird, passionately. “I’ll hang her! I’ll drown her!” “There, there,” said Chester Humphreys, soothingly; “there, there, baby, what’s the use of talking nonsense? Those threats don’t mean anything and you know it. Now if Miss Lovell is your aunt’s niece and heiress, it is she who is the legal inheritor of Primrose Hall, and you—are nothing; that is, nothing to the Flint ladies.” “Indeed I am,” said Ladybird; “I just guess you’ll find that my aunts, or whatever they are, love me for myself alone, and not because I’m the daughter of anybody.” Chester Humphreys smiled uncertainly as he said: “Well, I don’t know, Ladybird; but anyway, we’ll go now and talk to the Flint ladies, and see what they have to say.” The interview with the Misses Flint resulted in long and earnest arguments by each of the four concerned; but Miss Priscilla wound up by saying: “It may all be so; I don’t say it isn’t. There may be another child named Lavinia Lovell who is really the daughter of our sister; but this child, the one we call Ladybird, and who has lived with us for nearly a year, shall be our heir, the inheritor of our estates, and to all intents and purposes our grandniece, Lavinia Lovell.” “Hooray for you, aunty!” cried Ladybird, and flying across the room, she wrapped her arms around Miss Priscilla’s shoulders and buried her face in the old lady’s neck. “You do love me, don’t you?” “Yes, Ladybird,” said Miss Priscilla, with a dignity that seemed possibly more than the occasion called for. “Yes, we do love you, and no other shall succeed in winning our love away from the little girl who has fought for and gained it.” “Good old aunty!” cried Ladybird, pounding Miss Flint on the top of her somewhat bald head by way of approbation and encouragement. “You’re a dear, and Aunt Dorinda is another, and Chester is three, and Stella is four; and I just rather guess we four can come it over that ridiculous, absurd Lavinia Lovell, who’s going to thrust herself upon us.” “I think so, too,” said Aunt Dorinda, placidly. |
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