The Daring Twins

“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.

CHAPTER VIII

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.