CHAPTER VII
THE COMING OF COUSIN JUDITH
Next morning while they were at breakfast, the doorbell rang and Auntie answered it. A moment later a comely young woman entered the room, gazed smilingly at the circle of young faces and advanced to kiss Phœbe, as the eldest, first of all.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked. “I’m your Cousin Judith.”
“Cousin Judith Eliot!” cried Phœbe, delightedly. And then there was a rush to greet this newly found relative, all the Darings crowding around her in a mob.
“I thought you were still in Europe, Cousin Judith,” said Phil. “Have you been long in America?”
“Just four days,” she replied, throwing off her wrap and sitting down in the place Aunt Hyacinth had prepared for her. “I hurried here as soon after landing as possible.”
“But what good fortune brought you to Riverdale?” inquired Phœbe, looking with pleasure at the beautiful, refined face of the elder woman and noting the daintiness of her attire – dainty and fresh, although she was just out of a sleeping coach, after a long journey.
Cousin Judith, although almost the only relative which the Darings possessed, and familiar to them by name since their infancy, was nevertheless almost a stranger to them all. She was their mother’s cousin and, although much younger, had always been Mrs. Daring’s closest and warmest friend. For years past, however, she had resided in some small European town, studying art while she painted portraits and copies of the Madonna on porcelain. She had never married; dimly, Phœbe remembered hearing of some tragedy in Cousin Judith’s life when her fiancé had died on the eve of their approaching marriage. She was now but twenty-four; although, in the eyes of her young cousins, she appeared very mature indeed.
“I came here,” said Cousin Judith, smilingly, yet with a serious ring in her sweet-toned voice, “at the call of duty. I wanted to come to you the moment I heard of your dear father’s death, but it takes some little time to break up an establishment even as modest as mine, when it is in far-away Italy. But here I am, at last.”
“Going to stay?” asked Sue, softly.
“I think so. Is there any room for me, here?”
“Plenty, Cousin Judith!” cried five voices.
“Then, while I drink my coffee, tell me all the news about yourselves. How is Gran’pa Eliot? – he’s my uncle, you know – and who takes care of him?”
Becky began the story, but talked so excitedly that she made a sad jumble of it. Then Phil picked up the narrative, telling the simple facts that Cousin Judith might be interested in, and Phœbe concluded the recital.
“I remember Elaine Halliday,” said the new arrival, musingly. “She was Aunt Eliot’s maid when I was a young girl, and whenever I visited here I used to fight with the woman continually. She had a rather sour disposition, then.”
“It’s worse now,” declared Becky. “She’s a reg’lar Tartar; and a – a – an autocrat, and an anarchist and traitor, and – ”
“Afterward, she was housekeeper,” continued Judith. “I saw her more seldom, then, but she ran the household in an able manner while Aunt Eliot was so much of an invalid.”
“She has been a faithful servant, I’m sure,” said Phœbe, “and if she happens to be a bit cranky with us at times we ought to put up with it. I don’t know what gran’pa would do without her. She’s the only one who can understand him, and she attends to him and all his affairs – cooks the things he can eat – feeds him with a spoon, and all that.”
“Don’t you all live together, then?” asked Miss Eliot.
“No,” replied Phœbe. “We’ve been given a certain part of the house, and run our own establishment, while Miss Halliday runs her part. We are ordered not to go near gran’pa’s rooms, or pick the fruit or berries – or steal the hen’s eggs. If we behave, she will let us stay here, rent free; but if we don’t mind her, or dare to intrude on gran’pa, out we go, neck and crop.”
Judith Eliot looked thoughtful. But she avoided carrying the conversation farther in the presence of the younger children. There was little time, indeed, to talk much with any of them, as they were obliged to run off to school. It was Friday, fortunately, and to-morrow would be a holiday, when they could “visit” to their hearts’ content.
As they said good-by to their new cousin the drayman was carrying in two big trunks and some portmanteaus.
“By jooks! I’m glad she’s come,” cried Becky. “It almost seems like having mother back. Don’t you think they look alike?”
“She’s a dandy, all right,” commented Don. “I’m glad she’s going to stay.”
“Isn’t she beautiful?” chimed in little Sue, tossing her curls ecstatically. “And only to think she’s lived in Europe! Won’t she have some nibsy stories to tell us, though?”
Meantime, Cousin Judith was sitting face to face with Aunt Hyacinth in the kitchen, and listening to the story that the old mammy was telling of the trials and tribulations her poor children had suffered.
First, there was the mother’s death. That was indeed a serious misfortune, for Mrs. Daring had looked after her young flock with tender care and taught them to adopt the manners of ladies and gentlemen. After her death there was only the old black mammy to cope with the situation. Mr. Daring proved a loving and devoted father to his motherless ones, but he was too indulgent to correct their ways and manners and the younger ones, especially, soon lapsed into the wild and untamed ways of young savages. Mr. Daring realized this, and wrote an account of his doubts and fears for their future to Judith, asking her if she would not come back to America and make her future home with them.
The young woman refused the invitation at that time. She could not leave her studies, or her work, without ruining all her plans. She wrote him to get a governess to look after the accomplishments of the children. Aunt Hyacinth would be sure to take care of their physical requirements. And, having proffered this advice, she dismissed the subject from her mind.
Last fall, when news of Mr. Daring’s death and his bankruptcy reached her, Judith had been much distressed. Duty called her to far away Riverdale, to look after Mollie Eliot’s orphaned little ones. She wrote to Lawyer Ferguson for particulars and he frankly informed her of the unfortunate condition of the young Darings. So she “broke camp,” as she said, and as soon as she could complete and deliver the miniatures which she had contracted to paint for a wealthy Englishman, the successful artist abandoned her brilliant career and departed, bag and baggage, for America.
“So they’re pretty wild, are they?” she asked Aunt Hy.
“Wild ’s hawks, Miss Judy, I’s sorrerful to remahk. Marse Phil an’ Miss Phœbe ain’t so bad, kase dey’s old ’nuff to ’member what ther pore deah ma done tell ’em. But Miss Sue uses jus’ drea’fu’ grammer, an’ she dat stubbo’n ’twould make a mule blush. Marse Don, he’s got a good heart, but he can’t ’member jus’ whar it’s locationed, an’ he plagues ever’body mos’ alarmin’. As fer dat flyaway Becky, ’tain’t jus’ no use triflin’ wid her; she kain’t be brung up proper, nohow.”
“Becky is at a difficult age, just now,” mused Judith, smiling at the eloquent old servant.
“All her ages done ben diff’cult, Miss Judy – shuah’s yo’ bohn. Miss Becky don’ seem like a Daring a’ tall. She’s mo’ like dat Topsy in Unc’ Tom’s Cab’n; ’cept’ she ain’t black.”
Then came the subject of finances, wherein Aunt Hyacinth was able to give definite and fairly lucid information. She had managed to feed her flock so far, but the future contained an alarming menace unless more money was forthcoming. When Aunt Hyacinth’s savings were gone, starvation might stare the Darings in the face. It is true both Phil and Phœbe planned to make some money, “but what’s dem helpless chill’ns know ’bout de expensiveness of livin’?” inquired the old mammy, hopelessly.
Judith looked grave, but she was not greatly surprised.
“Miss Phœbe’s ben workin’ right ’long, ev’ry minute she’s out ’n school,” reported Auntie; “but it ain’t sech work as’ll last long. An’ Marse Phil’s goin’ take a place in de bank, when he’s got his schoolin’ – ’twere all decided no more’n yist’day. But ten dollahs a week ain’t no great ’mount to fill all dem moufs. Lucky we don’ haf to pay rent.”
“I have always thought my uncle – their Grandfather Eliot – a rich man,” remarked Judith, more to herself than to old Hyacinth. “In my girlhood days he was said to be the largest property owner in the county.”
“So he were, Miss Judy. Don’ I ’member when Marse Daring fus’ brung me heah, how Misteh Jonat’n Eliot was de big rich man o’ Riverdale? But he done sold off de hull estate, piece by piece, ’til nuthin’s lef’ but dis yere ol’ house an’ de gahden.”
“But what became of all the money he received for the land?”
“Dunno, honey. Dat’s what Marse Wallace done fight wid him about, years ago. He say ol’ Marse Eliot done sell his land an’ squander de money, what oughter go to Miss Molly an’ her chiluns; an’ ol’ Marse Eliot done tell him min’ his own business. Miss Molly were he on’y chile, an’ she done fit wi’ de ol’ man, too; so we uns didn’t hev no truck wi’ dey uns fer a long time. When Miss Molly died, Marse Wallace try to patch up t’ings, but ol’ Marse Eliot got de stroke what mumbled him, an’ it turned out he’s pore like Job’s turkey.”
“How does he live, then?” asked Judith.
“It don’ take much to feed his gruel to him, an’ ol’ Miss Halliday’s dat pars’monius she don’ eat decent cookin’ herself. She sell de aigs ’n’ chickens, an’ de fruit an’ sich, an’ she bargains at de groc’ry fer de cheapes’ stuff dey got. So dey somehow gits along – don’ ask me how, honey.”
“Well,” said Judith, rising with a sigh, “I see that I’m needed here, in more ways than one. Where may I locate my room, Aunt Hyacinth?”
This puzzled Mammy for a time. The old mansion had been built on a queer plan. Upstairs there were four bedrooms in the front of the house and four in the rear. Of these last the two at the back end overlooked the mountains and the valleys and were the most pleasantly situated of any in the house. Mr. Eliot had therefore chosen them for his own, and now he sat in a chair all day looking out of a window over the broad stretch of land he had always loved. It was a peaceful, quiet scene. Behind the house the streets were merely green lanes, with a few scattered habitations here and there. A little to the right, but in plain sight of this second-floor window, stretched the old-fashioned country graveyard – not yet sufficiently dignified to be called a “cemetery” – and Mr. Eliot’s eyes might clearly see a white mausoleum, which he had built years before, to contain his body when he had passed from life.
Everyone had thought this an eccentric thing for Jonathan Eliot to do; some of the neighbors shuddered at the idea of a live, healthy man preparing his own tomb. But there it was, scarcely a quarter of a mile distant from his dwelling; and, as he now sat paralyzed before the broad window, perhaps his glassy eyes rested more often upon that ghostly tomb than upon the charming landscape of hill and dale, that extended far into the distance toward Exeter.
Opening from this room was a balcony with outside stairs leading to the garden. Adjoining the two large rear rooms were a couple of small chambers opening into a hallway. The hall originally ran to the front of the house, but directly in the center of the passage had been placed a stout door, separating the upper part of the house into two distinct parts, each containing four chambers. Miss Halliday, in reserving the four rear rooms, had fitted up one of the hall chambers as a kitchen and retained the other for her own sleeping apartment. Of the two more spacious rear rooms, one was old Mr. Eliot’s bedroom and the other his living room. These four rooms satisfied all the requirements of the paralytic and his nurse, and so the balance of the house was turned over, somewhat grudgingly, to the orphaned Darings.
But in this arrangement Elaine Halliday made one curious stipulation. The two hall rooms were never to be used by the Darings, for any purpose. They might occupy the front bedrooms, but under the plea that the children might disturb their invalid grandfather, the hall rooms must remain vacant.
Phœbe had accordingly taken possession of one of the front chambers, and Phil and Don shared the other. Downstairs the house had a big parlor, or drawing-room – a ghostly, primly furnished apartment that all the Darings abhorred – a large dining room with a side porch, an ample hall with a spiral staircase, pantries and kitchen and two small chambers opening out of the dining room. Becky and Sue together occupied one of these little rooms, while the other, which had a door into the kitchen and was little more than a “cubbyhole,” was Aunt Hyacinth’s own room.
Unless Judith Eliot took possession of one of the forbidden hall bedrooms upstairs, there was really no place for her in all the big house. When this was explained to her she promptly started to visit her uncle and Miss Halliday. She mounted the outside stairway from the garden and at the top was confronted by the thin-visaged guardian of the place.
“Go away!” said Miss Halliday, sternly. “Don’t you understand that no one is allowed on these premises?”
“I am Judith Eliot,” was the calm reply. “Don’t you remember me, Elaine?”
The stern face hardened still more.
“What are you doing here, Judith Eliot?” demanded the woman.
“Why, Elaine, if you will move aside and allow me to sit down I shall be able to explain my presence. Do you expect me to stand on this landing all day? How is my uncle?”
“He can’t see you,” said old Elaine, firmly. “Go back, and I’ll come and talk to you presently.”
Judith had learned self restraint in her years of buffeting with the big world, but never had she had such cause for indignation in all her experience. The old woman’s insulting attitude and words and her assumption of authority were not to be endured. With flashing eyes Miss Eliot advanced and thrust the frail form from the doorway, entering the room before old Elaine was well aware of her purpose.
Before a broad window her uncle was propped up in his chair, staring listlessly across the valley to the mountains beyond. She approached him and said softly:
“Uncle! Here is Judith come to see you.”
There was no reply, no movement to indicate that he had even heard her. She stooped to his ear and spoke louder.
“Uncle! Uncle Eliot! I am Judith – your niece. I have come to see you, Uncle! Do you not know me?”
The withered, pallid countenance never changed. The expressionless gaze was fixed as ever. He might have been a dummy of a man except for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Judith glanced around and found Miss Halliday standing near with a sneering smile upon her face.
“He’s mighty glad to see you, isn’t he?” she asked.
The girl did not reply. It was quite evident that Gran’pa Eliot was entirely helpless; that he was all unaware of her presence. She looked at the old man attentively, thinking he was far more dead than alive. His cheeks were hollow and sunken, his skin like ancient parchment. The hands that lay extended upon his knees were withered and bony; the wisp of white hair upon his head was carefully brushed; he wore a neat dressing gown. Propped among his pillows he seemed to be as comfortable as was possible for one in his condition.
Letting her eyes roam around the room, Judith saw that it was neat and well cared for. Elaine, always an excellent housekeeper, could not be criticised for any undue laxness.
Judith turned to her.
“I did not realize he was so helpless,” she said. “Does he recognize no one at all?”
“Only one,” replied Elaine, grimly triumphant. “But strangers are sure to make him nervous. He’ll have a bad time, after your foolish intrusion. I can tell by his face that he knows something is wrong; that he’s been disturbed. He don’t know you’re here, perhaps; but he senses something different. I advise you to go before he is upset entirely – a shock of this sort might kill him.”
Judith looked at her uncle again. His dull, apathetic expression had not altered a particle, so far as she could discover. The idea of disturbing this half-dead man seemed absurd. Yet the old woman who attended him constantly might be right, after all, and certainly there was no prospect of being able to arouse him sufficiently to recognize his niece.
“Follow me, Elaine,” she commanded, with a trace of haughtiness due to the servant’s defiant attitude.
At the foot of the stairs stood an old garden bench. Judith seated herself and waited until the old woman joined her. Then she said:
“How long do you expect my uncle to live?”
Elaine started to sit down beside her.
“You may stand, if you please,” said Judith; and old Miss Halliday stood, although her eyes had a resentful look in them at thus being assigned to her true station. In the old days she had been considered a privileged servant, it is true; yet, even then, she would not have dared to seat herself in the presence of an Eliot.
“I don’t know,” she returned. “He has been like this for three years. He may live a dozen more – if I can manage to keep his body and soul together.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, there isn’t much to eat here, if you want the truth; and so it’s lucky Mr. Eliot doesn’t require much food. The wine is the hardest thing to get. It’s mighty expensive; but he must have it, Dr. Jenkins says.”
“Is the doctor attending him?”
“Not now; we can’t pay the bills. But there’s nothing a doctor can do more than I am doing myself.”
“What has become of my uncle’s money, Elaine?” she asked, regarding the woman attentively.
Elaine flushed, but shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“He was never a spendthrift, nor a gambler,” continued Judith. “On the contrary, I knew him as a wealthy man who was so penurious that he guarded every expenditure with great care.”
The woman made no reply.
“What do you suppose became of the money?” Judith pointedly inquired. “He sold off his property at fair prices. I’m sure that he didn’t speculate. Then what has become of it?”
“I only know,” said Elaine, “that when he was took with this stroke there wasn’t a dollar to be found anywhere. He wasn’t a miser, for I’ve ransacked every corner of this house. There wasn’t anything in the bank, either, for I inquired there. I’ve looked over all of his papers – with Judge Ferguson to help me – and Mr. Eliot hadn’t any investments or stocks. His money was gone, somehow, and we don’t know where because he can’t tell.”
Judith thought it over. It was a perplexing thing, indeed.
“Why do you stay here?” she asked. “You are not obligated to devote your life to my bankrupt uncle – a helpless invalid who does not appreciate your services.”
Elaine hesitated, clasping her thin hands and looking down as if endeavoring to find proper words in which to express herself.
“I’m old, Miss Judith; too old to find work elsewhere. And I’m as poor as Mr. Eliot is. All I can expect at my age is a home, and the work is very little, now that the Darings have most of the house. Besides, I’ve been with the Eliot family so long – forty odd years – that my place seems here, now. I won’t say anything about duty, or my affection for my old master. He was a hard man with others, I know; but I always understood him better than anyone else, and he liked me. When he was taken with paralysis, just after his daughter’s death, there was no one in the world to care for him but me. Even Wallace Daring had quarreled with Mr. Eliot and insulted him. Not a single neighbor offered any assistance, or came near my stricken master. So I stayed.”
It was a fair explanation, Judith considered, and betokened more heart in the old woman than she had been credited with.
“That reminds me, Elaine,” she said, turning the subject abruptly; “I am going to live with the Darings hereafter, and take care of Cousin Molly’s children. I must have one of those vacant rooms off the hall which you have reserved.”
A look of anger and fear swept over old Elaine’s face.
“It won’t do, Miss Judith,” she said positively; “it won’t do at all. I can’t have Mr. Eliot disturbed. I allowed the Darings to live here if they’d promise to keep quiet, but – ”
“You allowed!” interrupted Judith, meaningly. “Isn’t that rather impertinent, Elaine?”
“There’s no one to run your uncle’s affairs, but me,” she retorted, unabashed. “I’ve got to protect him in his helpless condition, and I’m going to do it, too!”
“This is nonsense,” returned Judith impatiently. “Nothing that occurs in that part of the house can disturb Uncle Eliot, as you very well know. I shall occupy one of those rooms.”
“I forbid it,” said the woman, her eyes cold and hard, her jaws set and determined.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” suggested Judith quietly, “that there is such a thing as law, and that the law will take the conduct of my uncle’s affairs out of your hands, if I appeal to it? If you really wish a home in your old age, Elaine, you must give up your autocratic ideas. The Darings are the natural inheritors of this homestead, and you have no personal rights here except as a servant.”
“I’m entitled to my wages, then,” snapped Elaine. “They haven’t been paid for years.”
Judith regarded her thoughtfully. In spite of the peculiar temperament of this poor creature she was doubtless of inestimable worth to Mr. Eliot at this juncture. No one else could or would care for the helpless invalid, half so well. And there was little to advance against that argument of unpaid wages. Perhaps, after all, it might be better to compromise with Elaine Halliday.
“I am willing to admit your responsible position here,” she said, “provided you do not attempt to dictate too far. Live your life in your own way, but do not attempt to interfere with us. I am now going to establish myself in one of those hall rooms.”
She rose.
“Take the west room, then,” suggested Elaine, eagerly. “It’s bigger, and the east room is cluttered with old furniture.”
Judith walked away without reply, content with her victory but filled with many perplexing thoughts. The interview had somewhat astonished her.
Elaine watched her go, and when Judith had turned the corner of the house the old woman stamped her foot furiously.
“Drat the law!” she muttered. “Ferguson swore he’d turn me out if I didn’t let the Darings in, and now this girl threatens the law if I won’t let her have that room. Law! What mischief-makers invented the law, I’d like to know – to rob a poor woman and beat her out of her just dues? But there’s two kinds of law in this world – the laws others make, and the laws we make, ourselves. I guess the law of Elaine Halliday will win out in the long run, because my law’s my secret, and they’ve only got their own to go by.”
With this somewhat ambiguous tirade she turned and slowly mounted the stairs. Gran’pa Eliot sat exactly as he had before, staring vacantly through the window.