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 _beau_tiful?” 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.