THE “ARTICLES OF ADOPTION”
Judith Eliot had been accustomed to act upon her judgment; and to act
quickly, and with decision. Aunt Hyacinth was half frightened when
the young lady returned and said that Elaine had attempted to bar her
out of the vacant rooms, but she was going to occupy one of them,
nevertheless. The black mammy was a Daring servant, having followed her
nursling Wallace when he married and set up housekeeping at Riverdale.
She had nursed, in turn, each of the Daring children and, therefore,
was devoted to them and their interests. But Auntie could never
understand the favored servant of the Eliots, and through all the years
she had known Elaine had seldom exchanged a word with the white woman.
Why a housekeeper should be called “Miss” Halliday and allowed to
assume airs of superiority was far beyond old Hyacinth’s comprehension.
But the fact impressed her with a sense of awe of Elaine which time had
never dissipated.
Since the Darings had come to this house to live the two serving women
had held aloof from one another as before, and the aggressive, dominant
attitude of Miss Halliday held Auntie in sure subjection to her will.
She never doubted that Elaine had the power to turn her precious flock
out in the cold world, if she chose, and therefore took great care not
to annoy her in any way.
It was not clear to her, at this juncture, whether she ought to applaud
or deplore Miss Judith’s defiance of the hitherto supreme power of “ol’
Miss Hall’day,” but she willingly followed the energetic young lady up
the spiral staircase to show her the vacant rooms.
The east room was sunny and bright, but poorly furnished. In one corner
stood several decrepit and damaged chairs, a few old pictures and
some bundles of matting. A door, closed and locked, communicated with
the room back of it--the room Miss Halliday herself occupied. Aunt
Hyacinth, in a whisper, called Judith’s attention to this door.
Perhaps that accounted for the desire of the old woman that Miss Eliot
take the west room, which was not nearly so pleasantly situated; but
the young lady promptly decided that the east room suited her best.
She was accustomed to doing things for herself, and with Auntie’s help
dragged the cast-off chairs and other lumber into the west room and
made a selection of the best furniture from the two.
Also, she robbed the stately parlor downstairs of a comfortable rocker
and the hall of a small stand. When the east room had been swept,
dusted and cleaned, it appeared to be quite livable, although Aunt Hy
shook her head gravely and declared that it was not nearly as good as
the front rooms. In fact, she confided to Judith that the east room
“wasn’t fit fo’ ’spectible comp’ny.”
“When Phil and Don come home to lunch,” said Judith, “I’ll get them to
help me up with the trunks and bags, and then I’ll unpack and settle.”
At noontime, however, when the children came home from school, Phœbe
vetoed the entire carefully planned arrangement. Cousin Judith mustn’t
be tucked into that cheerless east room on any account, but should have
Phœbe’s own pretty room at the front, with its balcony overlooking
the village and the river.
“I’m seldom in my room,” said the girl, “while you, Cousin Judith, will
often shut yourself up to paint or write. So, I’ll move into the east
room in a jiffy, and rid up the front room so you can take possession.”
Miss Eliot protested against this change, but Phœbe had a will
of her own and moreover, was right in her argument. Everyone
energetically assisted in transferring Phœbe’s “traps” across the
hall, and before school time arrived Cousin Judith’s baggage had all
been carried to the big front room and deposited there.
That afternoon Phœbe “settled” her new quarters in five minutes’
time, for she was not very particular about appearances and had the
true Southern disposition to leave any article wherever it happened
to be. Order was not one of her characteristics, but Phœbe always
claimed she could find anything she wanted, just as quickly as those
who put them properly away.
Cousin Judith, although an artist, had an inherent aversion to
disorder. She wanted her surroundings to look pretty at all times, and
a tasteful arrangement of her possessions meant a place for everything
and everything in its place. Phœbe was astonished when she came
home that afternoon at the transformation effected in her old room. A
hundred pretty knickknacks and articles of virtu, brought from foreign
parts, had been arranged most effectively. Some choice prints from
Paris and Dresden were on the walls; a small bust of Psyche in pure
Carrara stood on the mantel. Judith’s well-worn easel was inscribed on
every inch of its wooden surface with autographs of more or less famous
artists and litterateurs who had visited her studio.
With all this the place looked as cosy and homelike as it was
attractive, and thereafter the greatest joy of a Daring, big or little,
was to pass an hour in Cousin Judith’s room.
Phœbe’s sleep in the east hall room was as sound and peaceful
that night, as it had been before she moved from her more commodious
quarters. She glanced more than once at the connecting door, as she
undressed, but no sound came from old Miss Halliday’s room on the
other side. There was a transom over the door, but probably the glass
had long since been broken or removed, for a thin board now covered
it, tacked to the frame from Phœbe’s side. There was no ready
communication to be had between the two sides of the house, and as far
as Phœbe was concerned she was well pleased that this was so.
That Saturday was a great day for the Darings.
“We’re going to have a good long talk together,” announced Cousin
Judith at breakfast. “Just as soon as I get my room in order and
Phœbe makes your beds we will get together in the parlor and begin
to get acquainted.”
“Oh, not the parlor, please,” protested Don. “It’s so gloomy there.”
“The pahlah will spoil all our fun,” added Sue.
“Then you must come to my own room,” decided Cousin Judith.
Becky went out on the porch while the preparations were pending and saw
the Randolph children, faultlessly attired, standing hand in hand just
across the street.
“Hello, Becky!” shouted Allerton. “Come on over.”
Doris turned to him reprovingly. Then she raised her voice to Becky and
said:
“My brother wishes to invite you to join us.”
“Can’t go you,” returned Becky, carelessly. “My Cousin Judith’s come,
an’ we’re goin’ to have some chin music.”
“May I inquire what sort of an entertainment you refer to?” asked
Doris, coming a little nearer.
“You may,” said Becky, graciously.
Doris waited, still holding her brother’s hand. To Becky it seemed
absurd that such a big boy and girl should act so much like infants.
So far, her acquaintance with the Randolphs had only interested her
because she could “guy them” unmercifully, without their discovering it.
Allerton’s patience was not equal to that of his demure sister.
“Please tell us,” he pleaded.
“If you had a good chance, Al, you’d soon blossom into a boy--quite a
decent boy,” remarked Becky, reflectively. “The trouble is, you’ll
never get a chance in that stuck-up crowd you train with. Why don’t you
run away and be a man?”
“I am scarcely old enough, I fear,” he sighed.
“Then be a bootblack, or a chimney sweep, or a robber,
or--or--_any_thing!”
“Oh, Rebecca!” wailed Doris, greatly shocked. “How sadly the lightness
of your mind is reflected in your words!”
“By cracky, you’ve got _me_ going,” returned Becky, despondently. “What
does it, Doris; religion, or Boston kindergartens?”
“You have not yet told us what ‘chin music’ means,” suggested Allerton,
with much interest. “It is a new term to us.”
“It means a confab, that’s all.”
“You must pardon our ignorance,” Doris observed, in her most proper
manner. “Our vocabulary, you know, is limited to authorized words; yet
with you the English language seems to have been amplified, and the
grammatical construction of many sentences altered. Is it an idiom
peculiar to this section of the country, or have you authority for the
use of such unusual expressions?”
Somehow, Becky felt distinctly abashed. She might laugh at the proper
speech of Doris Randolph and regard it in the light of a good joke;
but, after all, she experienced a humiliating sense of her own
crudeness and lack of refinement whenever the new neighbors engaged her
in conversation.
Of course she resented this feeling, which intruded itself, unasked.
The Darings were as good as the Randolphs, any day, she mentally
declared, knowing all the time the thought was an admission of
inferiority. Becky had had careful training once upon a time, and
her dead mother’s injunction never to forget her personal dignity,
nor give to others an opportunity to disparage it, was not wholly
forgotten by the girl. She well knew that she had cultivated the slang
of the streets and their rabble because some of her village associates
considered it amusing and had encouraged her by their laughter. So,
although the reproaches of the carefully trained Randolph children were
only implied, through their complete ignorance of such phrases, the
girl felt them nevertheless, and this made her bitter and more reckless
than ever.
Fortunately, Phœbe called to her just then and with a shout of “So
long, bully Bostoners!” she ran in to attend the gathering in Cousin
Judith’s room.
Now it chanced that Miss Eliot had overheard, through her open window,
the conversation exchanged across the street by Becky and her
neighbors, and her sweet face flushed painfully while she listened.
That a daughter of gentle, refined Molly Eliot should exhibit
coarseness and vulgarity amazed and annoyed her. More than once during
the brief day since her arrival she had winced at the rude sallies of
Becky and Don, and even little Sue had sometimes offended her sensitive
ears.
“There are many difficulties to be surmounted and plenty of hard work
ahead of me, I fear,” she thought, with a sigh of regret. “But my duty
to these waifs is plain, and I must pray for strength and wisdom to
accomplish it.”
Then she turned and showed a smiling face as the Darings trooped in, an
eager group. Many were their exclamations of pleasure as they examined
Cousin Judith’s “pretty things,” and even Becky was so thoroughly
delighted and turned her clear hazel eyes so adoringly upon her cousin
that her recent rudeness was almost condoned.
Judith began with a relation of her own history, including many
incidents of her life abroad and the hard struggle she had faced to win
recognition as an artist. Then she told them of the deep affection that
had always existed between her and “Cousin Molly,” the mother of the
absorbed audience. She had been deeply pained at Molly’s death, and
when, three years later, Molly’s children lost their father--their only
natural protector--Judith had remembered that she was their nearest
relative, next to Gran’pa Eliot, and it seemed her duty to go to them
and help them to face the world and become the noble men and women
their dear mother so fondly wished them to be.
The Darings were duly impressed and affected. Sue and Phœbe sobbed
a little, and Phil wiped his eyes more than once. Donald was not so
emotional but looked grave and thoughtful, while Becky’s face was white
and set as she realized how little credit she had thus far reflected on
the sweet, gentle mother who had been prematurely taken from them.
“What I wish,” said Judith, wistfully, “is to become a second mother
to dear Molly’s children; to do for them what I think Molly would have
done, had she lived. But I cannot acquire such a proud position, my
dears, without your full and free consent. You must talk this over
among yourselves and decide if you are willing to adopt me.”
Phœbe wrapped her arms around the speaker and kissed her cheek,
while tears trembled on her dark lashes.
“Oh, Cousin Judith!” she said; “we’re so happy, and so grateful!”
Becky knelt at Judith’s feet and buried her head in her lap. Sue came
like a dainty fairy to find a refuge in Judith’s embrace.
“I’d like another mamma--awful well!” she whispered; “and I couldn’t
find a lovelier one than you, Cousin Judith.”
“You’ve given up a good deal for us,” Phil remarked in a husky voice,
“and I’m afraid we’re not worth it, at all. But the--the youngsters
need some sort of a mother, Cousin, and Phœbe and I need some one
to advise us and help us in our times of trouble and worry. So we--we
haven’t the courage to refuse your generous offer.”
“It won’t need a vote,” asserted Don, scowling darkly to keep from
crying. “You’re elected unanimous, Little Mother; an’ that settles it.”
Judith smiled and kissed them all in turn, big and little. Then she
said, very seriously:
“This alliance, my dears, means a good deal to all of us, and must not
be undertaken lightly. We must have a fair and square agreement, on
both sides, setting forth and defining what we have undertaken.”
They were very attentive, at this.
“First,” she continued, “I want to tell you that I am going to love
each one of you, dearly, and I want you to promise you will try to love
me in return.”
“Why, we do already!” exclaimed Sue, and Judith felt that she answered
for all.
“The duty of a mother,” she explained, “is not only to love her
children, but to train them properly. She must correct their faults,
direct their amusements, attend to their deportment, laugh when they
are glad and grieve over their sorrows. And they, in turn, must be
content to be guided by her larger experience in life and willing to
obey her in everything.”
“Of course,” said Becky, nodding. “We’ll agree to all that, Cousin
Judith.”
“I long to have you grow up to be admired and respected by all you
meet, as your father and mother were. Do you realize how proud a thing
it is to be a Daring? You bear an honored name, my dears--a name that
has always stood for nobility, truth, generosity and culture. You must
guard that name, jealously, so as not only to reflect credit upon your
parentage, but to win for yourselves the approval of the world.”
The awed silence that greeted this speech was broken by Donald. Perhaps
he was really more affected than any of the others; I think his very
soul was stirred by a desire to be a credit to his name and to
himself. But he said bluntly and with a mischievous grin:
“You girls needn’t worry. You’ll change your names some day--if you’re
lucky!”
It relieved the tense situation and they all laughed, including Judith.
But she meant the lesson to be impressive and not easily forgotten, so
she hailed a suggestion from Becky, which was perhaps intended to be as
flippant as Donald’s remark.
“Let’s draw up an agreement, and all sign it,” cried the girl.
“Phœbe has a typewriter, and we won’t need any lawyer.”
“A good idea,” said Miss Eliot. “Phœbe and I will go to her room and
draw up the Articles of Adoption.”
This was done, and the others waited restlessly enough for a full
hour for them to return, although Phil took occasion to point out how
fortunate they all were to secure a friend and protector in this, their
hour of greatest need.
After all, the Articles of Adoption proved quite simple and brief,
although they had taken so long to prepare. Most of the paper was
devoted to Cousin Judith’s agreement to love and watch over the five
Darings, to correct their errors, promote their happiness and fill the
place of a real mother to them, so far as she was able. The Darings,
for their part, merely agreed to obey her as they would have done
their natural parents. But at the last was a little clause that was
destined to prove very important--more important than it then seemed.
It stipulated that if any of the signers revolted from the letter or
spirit of the agreement, or in other words broke the contract, the
culprit should submit the case to any two of the others he or she might
select; and, if they decided the offender was wrong, then he or she
must either accept proper punishment, or become divorced from these
Articles of Adoption.
The Darings signed the papers with enthusiastic glee; Phœbe first,
because she was five minutes older than her twin; then Phil and Becky,
and Don and Sue. Two copies had been made, one for Phœbe to keep and
one for Cousin Judith; and to make it appear more legal and binding,
Aunt Hyacinth was called in as a witness and made an inky impression of
her thumb on both documents by way of signature.
By this time dinner was ready, for the Darings ate their heartiest meal
in the middle of the day, in good Southern fashion.
While they dined, Cousin Judith said she would devote the afternoon to
long private talks with each of her adopted children. She wanted them
to tell her all about themselves, their hopes and trials and longings,
and then she would be able to help them, individually, to better
advantage.
Sue was closeted with the Little Mother first, because she was the
youngest and most impatient. She emerged from Cousin Judith’s room
bright-eyed and smiling, and then Don went in. One by one they had
heart to heart talks with their newly adopted counsellor, the sessions
of Phil and Phœbe being much the longest because they were older and
had more to explain. When the conferences finally ended, Judith had
gleaned much valuable information concerning the Daring household, and
was prepared to assume her new duties with proper intelligence.