Читать книгу The Daring Twins - Baum Lyman Frank, Lyman Frank Baum, Edith Van Dyne - Страница 7

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.